He could get me sacked for this. Okay, he kissed me yesterday, but Dr Nassri won’t care about that. Private nurses get paid more: we’re expected to smile and put up with patients being a little frisky from time to time. A Corsican gangster, having a nose job at the Clinic, had been famous for his wandering hands, and all Dr Nassri had told the nurses when they complained was to move faster.
But showing up at a patient’s apartment in the middle of the night... initiating contact, rather than just letting him kiss me – that’s completely out of bounds. One call from Jon and I’ll be kicked out on my big bum faster than you can say Happy Christmas.
Unless... unless...
Unless he puts your hand over his, big and warm and surprisingly rough with calluses, and slides your fingers underneath the border of his thermal shirt, against his skin. Over his heart, which you can feel beating, fast and hard. And then lets you move your fingers further, tangling them in the hair on his chest, which you’ve also been longing to do ever since you first saw him...
His hand over hers gave Aniela the confidence to look up. His mashed-up face didn’t bother her at all. She was so used to seeing patients in various states of recovery that his bruises, his splinted nose, were just another part of her job. What she saw, as she gazed at him, was that his eyes were very earnest, and very clear, and maybe even – which sounded mad even to think, with the strength she was feeling beneath the palm of her hand, the musculature and poise of his body – maybe even a little frightened.
Without hesitation, she reached up with her other hand, tilted his head towards her and kissed him.
It was just as immediate as it had been the day before, just as sweet. And just as tentative. Aniela had another crazy thought, which in itself was crazy; she had gone for years being nothing but sensible and practical and working all hours that God sent, saving almost everything she made. And now, ever since setting eyes on Jon Jordan’s extraordinary body and damaged face, it felt as if she was doing nothing but having the most insane ideas.
But she couldn’t help it. She was remembering a film she’d seen months ago, an old film, on late at night, which she’d only watched because she was so dazed from an eighteen-hour shift that her library book on Napoleon’s unsuccessful campaign in Russia had failed to settle her down for sleep. The film had been called Starman, and it was beautiful and sad, about an alien who came to earth and became a gorgeous, blue-eyed man, the dream of the lonely heroine; the kind of man who could have any woman he wanted, but was so new in the handsome body he’d taken on that he hadn’t had any women at all.
Because Jon Jordan might have been given a whole new personality along with his new face, or at least had his memory of any contact with a woman wiped clean. He kissed her with the sweet eagerness of a teenage boy with a girl he really liked, and the caution not to give offence, not to have her withdraw her favours because he had gone too far, presumed too much, pressured her too fast. There was a space between them, Aniela sensed intuitively, that was hers to fill.
And she realised, with the same flash of intuition, why he had pushed her away before. It hadn’t been rejection of her; it had been his own fear of doing the wrong thing, embarrassment at the brief clumsy moment when his teeth grazed hers.
She pushed him very slightly, backing him into the apartment, giving him a cue that he immediately picked up upon; his arm locked around her, holding her closer as they moved inside. He kicked the door shut with a swift efficient movement. Her head tilted back further, and she dragged her hand from his chest and slid it round his shoulders, pulling his head down even more, kissing him with everything she had, showing him vividly, wordlessly, how much she was enjoying it, how much she wanted his tongue to slide into her mouth, his arms to wrap tighter and tighter around her, his erection, hard as the muscles of his chest, as the leg pressing insistently between hers, tilting into her, making her dizzy with excitement and the sheer heady rush of being wanted so much.
Aniela pulled her head back, a sudden thought striking her even in the middle of the best kiss she’d ever had in her life.
‘We have to be careful,’ she said, trying for some reason to sound professional and serious instead of a lust-crazed stalker.
‘Of course,’ Jon said instantly. ‘But I don’t know if I have anything—’
‘No! Of your face!’ she said, giggling in a way that made her sound like a silly teenager. ‘You mustn’t strain your face – you’ve had major surgery, you mustn’t do anything too strenuous—’
‘Aniela—’ Jon’s hands framed her face, holding it, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. Again, it was the oddest thing not to be able to see on his face how he was feeling, and he seemed to sense this; he shook his head impatiently, as if in frustration.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he managed. ‘I’m not really good with women. I haven’t had much – I haven’t been—’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘If this is your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind about being here, that you want to stop, please, for the love of God, just be honest with me! I don’t think I can take much more of this – you must know how I’m – the reaction I’m having to you—’
He cleared his throat, arching his lower body away from her.
‘No – I really did mean your face,’ she said, half-laughing, half-desperate with the urgency of her need. ‘I want to fuck you, I promise. I want to fuck you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.’
He froze. She couldn’t tell why, but she didn’t care; she just wanted to convince him to keep going. Determinedly, Aniela slid her hands down his back, just above his buttocks, pulling him close again, a moan rasping from her as she felt his hard cock once more against her inner thigh. Beneath her palms, the small of his back was damp through the thermal top, and his body jerked in response as she pulled the top up, stroked his bare skin, traced the declivity of his spine down to the cleft of his buttocks, felt his own hands grip her own bottom, lifting and grinding his cock against her even harder, his strength immense, effortless; he was lifting her off her feet, something no lover had ever done in her life. Incredulously, solid, bigboned Aniela felt her feet leave the ground, and she squealed in surprise, clinging to his neck for dear life, sure that he would stagger and slip under her weight.
But there wasn’t the slightest hesitation in the strong arms that were holding her up, the thighs that were braced for counterbalance. She felt him swivel, turn their bodies so that her back was to the wall, and then, even more amazingly, he shifted, one hand now taking her entire weight as her legs wrapped round his waist, the other hand sliding between her legs, clumsily but surely unbuttoning the lower part of her dress, reaching up, and closing, awkwardly, firmly, around her crotch.
The world stopped. She buried her head on his shoulder, clinging to him even tighter, the sheer heat of his palm between her legs overwhelming; she realised she was rocking against him, moaning into the damp smooth skin of his neck, as he rubbed her like Aladdin did his lamp, not with any skill or experience yet but finding his way, listening to the sounds she was making, concentrating hard, using the heel of his hand till she was completely beyond words, and then, wanting more, wanting to touch bare skin, rising up to pull inexpertly at the waistband of her tights.
She couldn’t bear him touching her at her waist, especially with her leaning forward like this, the bulges and rolls of solid flesh even more apparent. Reaching down, she managed to grab his arm, to push it down again, to whisper in his ear:
‘Rip them – just rip them—’
He never needs telling anything twice, she realised, as his fingers twisted into the crotch of her cheap, 40-denier, off-white uniform-approved tights, pulled and tore it open; he snagged the lace trim of her pants, hesitated for a moment, and then, as she thrust her hips at him in mute approval, beyond words again, he ripped the cotton too, the strong muscles of his forearm flexing easily, making light work of tearing the fabric.
‘Can I—’ He pulled back hi
s head, looking down at her, and she couldn’t look up at him, was too far gone already, could only moan a ‘Yes’ into his shoulder, dragging the thermal top aside so she could kiss his skin, lick him, taste the salt of his sweat, brace herself, shuddering, for the feeling of his hot hand between her legs again.
‘You’re so wet,’ he said in wonder. Two fingers slid inside her, and his gasp was louder than hers. ‘So wet—’ he groaned, ‘so wet and hot—’
Aniela was sandwiched between him and the wall, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, spread wide, spread wider as he fumbled at his boxers and stepped into her even more tightly, his cock springing up through the slit he’d unbuttoned, up and into her, making her scream into his shoulder and then bite down in sheer primitive excitement as he slammed his full length into her. He was right, she was dripping wet, her body open, completely and utterly ready for him. Both his hands cupped her buttocks, bracing them, lifting her even a little more as his thighs rose and fell, like pistons driving. She thought, as she clung to him, as she felt her pelvis shudder under the impact of his strokes, of the Starman image again, but now, ridiculously, she was imagining another alien, the Terminator, all tensile steel and titanium, strong enough to lift anything, to fuck her so hard she thought she was going to faint, and she sank her teeth again into the sweating skin of his shoulder, kissed the salt trail, reminded herself that he was flesh and blood, her hands sliding down his arms and wrapping around the hard, round apple bulges of his biceps, feeling the flexing strength with each stroke.
He yelled something she was too far gone to hear, one last, even more frenzied thrust slamming her head back against the wall; the next thing she knew, something hot was trickling down her inner thigh, and Jon was collapsing against her, squashing her against the wall, his face mushed into her, her legs spread so wide now that her groin was hurting. Her heart was pounding so fast she couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything, for several breaths; but finally, when he didn’t move, her cheek was being crushed against the paintwork and her hip flexors were screaming in agony, she managed to push gently at his shoulders, easing him back.
‘Sorry—’ he muttered, instantly responding. He lowered her to the ground; she winced as her legs unwrapped from his waist, keeping her arms around his neck as she regained her balance.
‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘Was it too much? It was too much, wasn’t it? I’m sorry – shit, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? Oh shit, I got some on you – I’m so sorry, Aniela – come to the bathroom—’
The door to the guest toilet was opposite them in the hallway. Dazed, her head still spinning, holding onto him to keep steady, she let him lead her in, grab tissues from the silver box on the top of the toilet, dampen them in warm water and wipe down her leg. He dried it with a hand towel, very carefully, and then stood back and looked at her. She could see her own reflection in the big glass mirror over the sink; there were plenty of mirrors in the Limehouse Reach apartments. Rich people seemed to like to look at themselves a lot.
I actually look almost pretty, she realised with disbelief. There was a bright red flush on her cheeks, and her eyes were an equally bright blue, shining and clear; some of her hair had come loose from its bun, and was hanging down over her face, blonde and straight, softening its round shape. Her lips were red, too, red as her cheeks, a colour she had never thought to paint them. I look like a Dutch doll.
I look like a woman a man might actually find attractive.
‘I hurt you, didn’t I?’ Jon sounded frenzied now. ‘I’m so sorry! I got carried away, I treated you like a prostitute – can you forgive me?’
In the mirror, Aniela saw her lips move, saw them break into a smile, and then into a laugh. She looked down at herself: half the buttons on her dress had come unbuttoned, and it was hanging off her. Her tights were ripped and crumpled around her ankles. Her pants hadn’t come off completely, but they felt very loose: Jon must have fatally stretched the elastic. She laughed again, taking in the sight of herself, the absolute disorder into which she had been reduced after a mere few minutes. She did look ravaged.
‘That,’ she said, ‘was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. And I didn’t even come.’
‘It was?’ Jon shook his head in disbelief. ‘Wait, you didn’t come? Fuck!’ He slammed one fist into the palm of the other hand, taking a couple of steps, pacing to the rim of the toilet and then back again. ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! But really?’ He stopped in front of her, looking at her face with what seemed an intent stare. ‘The best sex you ever had in your life?’
‘Jon,’ Aniela said softly. ‘Stop saying sorry.’
‘Okay,’ he said immediately. ‘Sorry. I mean—’
She held out a hand to him.
‘I need to lie down,’ she said. ‘My legs are still very wobbly. Let’s go to bed.’
Jon took her hand; then bending down, he picked her up, swinging her into his arms and carrying her out of the bathroom.
‘You make me feel like I don’t weigh anything at all,’ Aniela sighed happily, resting her head on his shoulder again.
‘Well, you weigh more than a hundred-pound kitbag,’ Jon said seriously. ‘But you’re much easier to carry.’
She giggled. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you? You’re thanking me? I didn’t even make you come!’ Jon shook his head incredulously as he strode through the living room and into the main bedroom, laying her down on the bed. Her shoes had long since come off; she relaxed gratefully onto the soft, yielding mattress and duvet.
‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she said, stretching out.
‘You like the mattress?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘I thought you might,’ he said, sounding satisfied.
She didn’t understand, but then there was so much with Jon that she didn’t understand that she supposed she’d just have to pick her battles. He was still standing by the edge of the bed, staring down at her, his face unreadable. She patted the duvet next to her.
‘Do you want me to show you how to make me come?’ she asked.
The mystery of where he’d come from, why he didn’t know how to kiss or, seemingly, how to give a woman an orgasm, could be set aside for now. Her legs might still be like jelly from the impact of him fucking her so hard, but she wasn’t remotely tired, and she wanted him close; not just to make her come, but to lie beside her, on top of her. She wanted to feel his weight pressing her into the mattress, to settle his hips into hers, to have sex all over again, no matter how sore her groin was; they’d go slow this time. He’d fucked her like an express train, and now it was her turn to drive. To stop at all the stations, she thought, smiling with anticipation.
He was already settling onto the bed beside her, looking down at her for clues. She took his hand and ran it over her breasts in the cotton uniform; he was swift to respond, stroking her, unbuttoning the last couple of buttons that were still holding her dress together, pulling it open. Aniela wished, very much, that she was wearing anything but the nasty old Playtex bra that she’d bought from the local market, Cross My Heart in a battered box that had knocked around the back of plenty of lorries, a picture of a woman with 1980s teased hair on the front. Sitting up, she unhooked the bra swiftly, throwing it on the floor, not even waiting for him, just wanting it off, for him not to see how unflattering it was. If she had only known, she would have gone to Marks and Spencer, or La Senza, some nice high street shop, bought a matching set, trimmed with pretty lace, maybe a bra with underwire and a little padding to give her some more up top than nature had.
But his hands are holding me, stroking me, tracing circles around my nipples, just as if I were the prettiest thing in the world, as if I were wearing a silk negligee like a film star...
Jon’s hands slid behind her, up to her hair, pulling out all the big grips that Aniela used to keep it tidy, carefully unwinding the rubber band that held her bun in place, easing it out with minimal tangling. Seriously, intently, he drew her
long blonde hair forward, a straight skein down over one shoulder, reaching to the curve of her breast, and stroked her hair and her skin together, her pale pink nipple; then he did the same on the other side. It was as if he were learning her, every slope of her body, and somehow his concentration on her was easier precisely because his face was so bruised it was impossible to read its expression.
Aniela would have been embarrassed by open appreciation, a stare of lust or admiration. But the post-surgery swollen mask that his face currently wore made her able to bear his long slow scrutiny. He drew the white dress off her shoulders, pulling it off her, and traced his hands slowly down her arms, to her waist, and then her stomach, which she was sucking in for dear life. But he didn’t seem to move faster over its convex curve, to mind that hers stuck out while his was a ridged, hard washboard.
Jon’s hands went to the waistband of her underpants, and started to pull them down. She lifted her hips eagerly, and heard his indrawn breath as he saw her soft fair pubic hair; he grazed it with his thumbs as he went, as he drew off her pants, and with them what was left of her tights, dropping them to the floor.
And then he stopped. He stopped, looking down at her naked body, and instinctively, Aniela knew that he was panicking because he didn’t know what to do next. His cock was pressing against his boxers again, nearly making it through the slit; but it was her turn now, and she held her hand out to him again, pulling him to lie down next to her, then pressing his fingers between her legs.
‘You’re still so wet,’ he murmured almost shyly.
She huffed a little laugh.
‘It doesn’t go away,’ she said. ‘Or it won’t, not when you’re here.’
Bending her fingers round his index and middle ones, she guided them just inside her, hearing him gasp, and then pulled them out, following the ridge of her pubic bone, just to where she wanted him to concentrate on, bucking the moment he touched her swollen clitoris.
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