‘Hi,’ I respond. His fingers trace small circles just above my hipbone now.
He kisses me on the edge of my mouth. ‘Did you enjoy the film?’
‘What film?’ I ask.
He rolls me over to face him, his hand skimming down my back before resting just above my bottom.
‘We might have to watch it again then,’ he says, and I know he’s not talking about the film at all.
Just then my stomach gives an inelegant growl and he rolls over and kisses me just above my belly button, his stubble rasping across my skin, and I squirm, the contrast between his soft lips and the harsh graze of his chin sending pleasure and pain through me. His mouth travels down and I lie back as his hands grip my hips, holding me firm.
‘I remember this,’ he says and looks up at me as one hand dips between my legs. His fingers rub over my clit; it’s slick and wet and all my nerve endings fire up again with needy enthusiasm. He spreads my legs wider. I can feel my inner thigh muscles complaining as they stretch to their full capacity, as I’m bared open.
He moves down and kisses my inner thighs, working up one and then down the other, still keeping my legs stretched wide. Each time the kisses get higher but he never quite gets there. I can feel the cold air and the steady tug of lust. His hands grip my hips harder as they involuntarily buck.
He grins up at me. ‘Tell me what you want.’
I swallow. We’ve played this game before. I know he’ll only be satisfied when I’m filthy, when I’m open and honest with him, telling him what I really want, but in the meantime, there’s pleasure in the game.
‘What do you want, Lydia?’
His use of my name this time makes me a little shy, but there’s a need driving me. I’m desperate to feel his mouth on me.
He nudges my hips. ‘Tell me.’
‘I want you to … touch me there.’
‘Lydia,’ he chastises me and stares up at me. ‘I need specifics.’
‘I want your tongue,’ I say in a quick pant.
He tuts. ‘You can do better than that.’ He blows warm air on my exposed clit and my hips twitch. I sigh and swallow. It’s harder this time. More intimate. Last time it was just sex. This time … for me it’s a whole lot more.
‘Lydia.’ His voice is stern.
‘I want you to lick me inside and suck me,’ I say in a quick rush, scarcely able to believe I’ve said the words. It was so much easier when we were two strangers. This is so much more intimate and … scary. Because it matters. I want him so much and I’m terrified of that hot, bright need but at the same time longing to feel his mouth on me.
‘I need the words, Lydie,’ he says, leaning down to blow again. The heat contrasts with the cold air and I feel myself getting wet and desperate. I can’t move and it’s pure torture.
He blows again.
‘Fuck, Tom,’ I shout out, pushed beyond my limit. ‘I want you to lick my pussy and suck my clit.’
And immediately his mouth is on me and it’s every bit as wonderful as I remember and exactly what I’ve fantasised about ever since.
My moans fill the quiet air as his tongue circles and strokes. His hold on my hips eases and I feel the hot flood as I come, gasping and shuddering. He scoots up to hold me as I sob into his shoulder as sensation drenches me.
I’m still treasuring the hot flares of pleasure firing through my lower body while Tom strokes my shoulder. ‘Satisfied now?’ I ask him, trying to re-establish control.
‘Yes.’ And then he adds, whispering in my ear, ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, you sod.’
‘You love it really. And I love it when you finally give in, when that prim little mouth of yours talks dirty.’
He’s right and it’s strangely liberating. With Tom, scary as it is, I really can let go and let out a side of me that I never even knew existed before.
He flicks on the bedside light and grins at me. ‘You’ve come over to the dark side.’
I nudge him with my arm and laugh.
‘Now you’ve worn me out,’ he says. ‘I need food. I fancy a Nutella sandwich with tomato and herb pasta.’
‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Because that’s all we have.’
We dine in the kitchen and the food tastes almost quite good. Mind you, there is nothing better than Nutella. It is one of my indulgences. I once tasted it at a friend’s house as a child and I vowed that when I was a grown-up, I would always have some in my cupboard. Something that I have stuck to religiously. It’s still one of my favourite things.
Tom squints at the calendar opposite. The picture of the big blue lorry on the front of it is not exactly in keeping with the tasteful design of the cottage and the rest of the pictures on the walls.
‘Oh God, I’m going to get so much grief for not sending my mother a card or phoning her for her birthday.’
‘Surely when you explain, she’ll understand,’ I say as one who knows how inconsequential birthdays are in the grand scheme of things. I’d stopped placing any reliance on them by the time I was twelve.
‘Not sure my father will.’ Tom seems genuinely gloomy and glares down at his dinner as if that might offer some magical solution.
‘I’ll be thirty tomorrow,’ I say, more to change the subject than anything else.
