Even though the sofa is enormous, Tom comes to sit next to me and tucks the blanket around us both.
The white lettering, which even I know is iconic, rolls up across the screen and Tom settles back into his seat with a happy sigh.
‘You’re so lucky,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Why?’
‘Because this is the first time you’re seeing it. It will stay with you for ever. I still remember the first time I went with my uncle. We went to a Bafta screening.’
This enthusiasm and happiness – it’s a new side of Tom. He seems utterly content for a change and it makes me relax.
We watch the film and I’m relieved that he’s not one of those annoying people who has to give a running commentary advising me, ‘There’s a good bit coming up,’ ‘This scene is really important’ or ‘Remember this bit.’ I’m also relieved that I’m thoroughly enjoying it. I’m not quite sure I get why people are so nerdy about it, but it’s full of action and, as I’ve said before, who doesn’t love young Harrison Ford. Tom is happily absorbed in the story – or so I’ve assumed – until about three quarters of the way through when I become aware of him.
I nudge him in the ribs without turning round. ‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Watching me.’ Now I do turn and look at him to find his face is very serious. He’s studying me intently.
‘What if I like watching you?’ The question hums with a thread of tension. I flush, suddenly very aware of him.
I return my concentration to the screen but it’s not so easy now. I’m conscious of Tom beside me and I know he’s still studying my face.
‘Will you stop it?’ I say without turning.
‘Why?’ he asks softly, and he reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. But then his hand slides down, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my neck.
I turn and look at him, our eyes lock and neither of us blink. We stare at each other, the sound of the film receding. His Adam’s apple dips in his throat. I’m holding my breath because I don’t want this moment to break, for reality to intrude.
My heart thuds so hard in my chest I can feel it pounding beneath my ribs and there’s a warmth between my legs that if I’m honest has been on a low simmer ever since we showered together earlier. Or maybe since that first night in the tent when he made me come.
He cups my face with his hand. I’m a goner. Everything inside me turns to molten chocolate and I sigh. A sigh of consent. A sigh of hell, yes, you can do anything you like to me, with me, for me. The truth bursts inside. I want him. I never stopped wanting him. I want him with a ferocity I didn’t think I was capable of.
‘I never stopped thinking about you, you know,’ he says, his voice raspy with desire.
‘You ruined me for anyone else,’ I say.
‘Good.’ His smile is wicked as he lowers his mouth onto mine.
His kiss is better than I remember, or maybe I just know what’s coming this time and I’m revved in anticipation like a 2000cc motorbike. He coaxes my mouth open with firm, no-nonsense intent but I’m straight back at him. Giving as much as he’s taking. His tongue touches mine, intimate and possessive. He’s confident but so am I and I match him, pressing my lips against his, teasing his tongue in a dance for supremacy. This is what I remember. We both know what we want.
We shift so that we are lying side by side on the sofa and we pull away to look at each other.
‘You’re so fucking sexy, Lydia, do you know that?’ he says dragging a finger down my neck between my breasts. ‘Demure and confident at the same time. It’s one hell of a turn-on. That dress you wore that night at the dinner. Prim at the front and sexy as fuck at the back.’
The black silk number is my all-time favourite dress. It always makes me feel like a million dollars with its high neck, three-quarter-length sleeves, flowing skirt and the dramatic slash all the way down the back. It should, it cost a fortune, but when I’m wearing it I’m confident that I fit in, that no one is going to find out I’m faking it.
‘Even in this,’ he says, circling the neckline of his T-shirt, ‘I still want to get you naked.’
‘Why don’t you?’ I ask, stroking his throat, my finger catching at the rough stubble.
‘Because we’ve got all night,’ he says and kisses me again, his hands sliding up under the T-shirt, skirting the undersides of my breasts. His touch lingers and teases. He’s the king of slow and careful.
‘What do you want me to do, Lydia?’ His voice purrs in my ear as he continues the cat and mouse perusal of my skin, shying away from what he knows I want. It’s torture but I’m not giving in.
‘Do you really want to know?’ I ask, squirming slightly against that light insinuating touch and ignoring the twinge in my shoulder.
‘Yes,’ he says, his voice firm, a little rough.
I give him a sultry smile.
‘I want you to tell me what you want.’
A smile of approval tugs at his lips. ‘You play dirty.’
‘Always.’ I run a hand across his firm, flat belly just above the waistband. ‘You gonna tell me what you really want me to do?’ I love the power this gives me over him.
His eyes are glittering as he sits up.
‘Tell me,’ I demand with a teasing, knowing smile.
‘I want you to go down on me. I want to watch that mouth of yours on me, while you take all of me.’ He pauses and then he says, ‘Please, Lydia.’
Oh fuck. That breathless plea excites me so much, it almost makes me come there and then.
I kiss him this time, my tongue circling his lips and then sucking his in, as a prelude to what is about to come. He stifles a groan. I sit up and straddle his thighs, trapping them between mine. I strip off my T-shirt. He leans forward to kiss my breasts and I let him before I pull back shaking my head, my hair falling loose down my front.
‘Uh huh. That’s not on the agenda.’
