He lets out a breathy laugh. ‘No. You were fucking amazing. The most responsive woman I’ve ever sl… fucked. There, I’ve said it now. Are you happy?’
Yeah. I’m delirious. Now, of all times, he admits it was more than just a good time. Great. Now I’m warm and wet. I squirm, the seam of my trousers rubbing against me. But his words are a timely reminder. Fucked. It was just sex. Not some great sexual epiphany that might morph into feeling. Just chemistry, pure and simple.
‘Go to sleep, Tom,’ I snap, irritated as much with myself as him.
Chapter Eleven LYDIA
A loud scream jolts me awake. It’s pitch-black in the shelter and I lie there for a moment, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. Have I imagined it? I listen intently. Then I hear it again. An unearthly scream. Someone is being murdered. But that’s crazy, we’re in the middle of nowhere. The scream comes again. I freeze. Next to me, Tom sleeps on. Oh God, I have to go and investigate, like all those dumb girls in the horror films, but I can’t just lie here even though I’m actually really warm and cosy. I wriggle free of the sleeping bag, the groundsheet rustling beneath me. I glance towards Tom even though I can’t actually see him. From the even breathing I can tell he’s still asleep. My torch is by my rucksack and I grab it as I ease my way to the end of the shelter, horribly conscious of the creak and crunch of plastic with each move.
The scream comes again and I freeze.
Tom’s torch snaps on as he sits up. The thin beam of light cuts through the darkness but I can’t see his face. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Is he in the SAS or something? He’s immediately awake and alert.
‘There’s someone out there. I think they’re in dang—’ Another horrible shrill cry splits the air and I cringe but Tom … Tom starts to fucking laugh. A snigger at first but then it seems he can’t help himself and it turns into an uproarious belly laugh.
My stomach shrivels as I feel that familiar sense of humiliation, the feeling that I’m not in the know. I’m outside and not privy to things that other people take for granted.
‘What?’ I snap, grateful that the dim light hides the hot flush of embarrassment racing up across my chest and up my neck.
‘It’s … it’s a…’ He can’t get the words out because he’s too fucking busy clutching his stomach, bent double at the waist. He just gets a grip and then starts laughing again.
I’m not sure what to do. Braining him with the torch seems the most enticing option right now but I button my mouth, determined not to make any more of a fool of myself, and shuffle back into position and lie down, pulling the sleeping bag back into place with a sharp tug. I turn my back on him. I’m in the school playground again, and everyone’s laughing because I’m totally unaware that my new ‘Mike’ school bag is a knock-off.
Tom’s wheezing has stopped now. ‘Lydia?’ There’s puzzlement in his voice.
I ignore him, squeezing my eyes shut and burrowing into the sleeping bag.
‘Lydia. Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
There’s a silence but he doesn’t lie down. He taps me on the shoulder. ‘Lydia?’
I swallow a sniff but I’m not as successful as I’d hoped. If I could, without giving myself away, I’d curl into a ball right now, as defensive as a hedgehog trying to protect itself. Instead, I lie stiff and tense.
Tom’s hand settles on my shoulder, his fingers cupping the bone around my thick jumper, and his voice softens. ‘Lydia. I’m sorry.’ He pauses and I swallow, oddly touched by his apology. ‘It’s a fox. I’m used to them, there are loads where I grew up, but if you’re not used to the sound, it does sound pretty bloody awful.’
A fox! A bloody fox. Now I really do feel stupid.
‘It does sound like someone being murdered. Why the hell didn’t you wake me? Were you really going to go out there and face down some knife-wielding maniac?’
I shrug, not quite able to bring myself to speak. What has happened to all my carefully constructed defences? I’ve been in charge of my emotions and rebuilt my life. I’ve faked it to make it and, if I say so myself, I’ve done a pretty good job. What is it about Tom fucking Dereborn that makes me feel so vulnerable all of a sudden?
‘I’m sorry. Can’t decide if I’m impressed that you were brave enough to go out there and confront a potential murder or horrified that you’d put yourself in danger.’
‘I wasn’t in danger though, was I?’ I retort, trying to save face.
‘You didn’t know that,’ he counters, perfectly reasonably. ‘You could have woken me, you know.’
‘I didn’t like to,’ I mutter.
‘You know we’re in this together. You can ask for help.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. Like that’s ever going to happen.
He laughs softly in the dark.
‘What?’ Suspicion shades my voice.
‘You’ve got no intention of ever asking me for help, do you? You’re far too self-contained. That’s what struck me that first night I met you.’
I’m so surprised by his words that I relax and roll onto my back.
Why is it that the only proper conversations Tom and I have are in the dark?
‘You were so cool and uninterested over dinner…’ He pauses. ‘And all I wanted to know was what your face would be like when you came.’
My involuntary gasp pierces the air. His words are hardly tender, but they melt me. It’s his brutal honesty that gets to me. That night he wanted me, and he didn’t hold back from showing or telling me.
‘And now you know,’ I murmur, trying to ignore the hot, wet spurt of desire between my legs. I’m turned on, damp and a little bit squirmy. Can he hear my hips pressing into the plastic ground sheet, my mound chafing at the seam of my jeans?
‘Shame it’s so dark now,’ he says.
‘Mmmm.’ My voice is strangled.
‘I’d like to make you come again,’ he says, his breath hot against my ear.
