by Davina Stone
She took a big breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Okay Judith, one thing at a time. Leave the eggplant to cool. Go dry your hair. Then come back and finish off the meze platter. There’s still fifty-five minutes until he arrives. You’ve got this.
She had to smile. She’d talked herself through things ever since she was a child. Her very first day of school, her inoculations, all the times when she’d sat alone eating her lunch in a corner of the playground. Pretending she had her very own fairy godmother sitting on her shoulder.
Yeah, she might be sensible on the outside, but deep inside, secretly, she did believe in fairy tales with happily ever afters.
Back in the bathroom she blow-dried her hair into soft waves and thought about how she seemed to be the one initiating most of the kisses. Like Sleeping Beauty in reverse. But if Polly was right, then… maybe… oh, the poor darling. They were really on a par, weren’t they?
Because sex had barely been on the agenda with Mark for the past couple of years.
Rusty. Totally out of practice. Her lady bits put into cold storage, but clearly, all it took was a couple of kisses with Carts and everything was suddenly wide awake and ready for action. Slicking mousse into her hair, she grinned as a glob of fluff caught in the front. It reminded her of that scene in—what was the movie? Where the hair gel wasn’t gel at all…
She brushed her hair harder.
It was almost exactly fifty-five minutes to the second when the doorbell rang. Like a MasterChef contestant, she arranged the finished platter on the table. It all looked so beautiful, the babaganoush whipped and smooth and scattered with parsley from her little garden, next to a vivid purple beetroot dip and flatbreads. And the lamb tagine she’d prepared and popped in the slow cooker before she left for work, now giving off rich aromas of tomatoes and rosemary.
She took off her apron and smoothed down the second dress she’d bought on her shopping binge. This one was pale blue, dotted with daisy sprigs with tiny fabric-covered buttons all the way up the front. Only the top five actually undid, the rest were for show. If it got to the unbuttoning stage, she’d… Judith. Stop, just stop. Scooting down the hall, she sucked in her cheeks to hold back a telltale grin, but nothing would stop the excitement fizzing like champagne bubbles in her stomach as she flung open the front door.
And then… there he was.
Tall, dark and gorgeous, handing her a gigantic bunch of red roses. Real roses! “For you,” he said.
Mark had only ever stretched to carnations. Once. Under duress, when she’d complained five years into their relationship that he’d never bought her flowers.
She wasn’t going to actually count, but she reckoned there were a dozen.
She felt the caress of his dark eyes on her face as she stuffed her nose into the bunch of roses.
“Wow, thank you.” The smile she’d been trying to contain streamed out in all directions. “These are beautiful.”
The return flash of his teeth sent the blood rushing to her head.
Then he ducked his head and entered.
Carts sat back with a big sigh. “You know that line about the way to a guy’s heart is through his stomach… well… if it wasn’t such a cliché—”
“I’ll accept the cliché if there’s a genuine compliment attached.”
He met her eyes, drowned a little, resurfaced. “That is the best meal I’ve had in years.”
“Thank you.” She dimpled. “Is there a corner left for dessert?”
“Ah, there’s always a dessert corner. Don’t you find that kind of strange? You can be full up to your earlobes, but there’s always that bit of space left for something sweet.”
“Yeah, the sweet spot.” Their eyes snagged again, held for a beat longer. Make no mistake, she kept hitting his sweet spot. All evening, watching her at the stove, smoothly juggling all the components of preparing and serving a meal. And okay, yes, he’d let himself indulge in some romantic fantasies; Judith with a kid against her hip, stirring a pot on the stove—he pulled himself up short—amend that image, he’d be stirring the pot and she’d be sitting nursing the baby… except he’d freakin’ have to learn to cook first. Or maybe he’d be feeding the baby, but then, Judith might be breastfeeding so it would depend on the age of their baby. And shite, babies meant overcoming a few hurdles first. His palms went clammy.
He wasn’t even thinking of staying over.
No pressure, no pressure, no pressure.
Since yesterday he’d unwound about the whole sex thing. He’d lain in bed in the dark, and practised Fern’s techniques. When he’d relived the kissing episode and his groin had predictably lit up like a Christmas tree, he’d breathed and visualised a deep red glow at the base of his spine. He’d let the heat radiate through his pelvis, but only so much, stopping it before the glow turned into a full-blown flame.
Finally, he’d drifted off to sleep.
Naturally, he’d woken up with a stonking morning glory, but that was beyond his control, so he’d accepted it, with kindness. He couldn’t be responsible for controlling his dick in his sleep, after all.
He’d fixed things in the shower, not in a frenzied, desperate way, but breathing evenly, eyes closed as he leaned against the tiles, feeling every drop of warm water on his skin and imagining Judith’s fingers exploring his body until the waves crashed through him, leaving his knees weak, but his mind clear.
All day at work he’d felt remarkably calm and centred.
“Where did you learn to cook so well?” he asked now.
“I started young.”
“Your mum taught you?”
“I kind of taught myself.” Her lips tightened for a second. “Mum had bad postnatal depression after Pippa was born.”
He hadn’t expected that. “Cripes. How old were you?”
“I was seven and Luke was three. Mum was in hospital for a while with Pip on a mother-baby unit. I used to feel so proud when I helped get Luke’s tea ready. Nothing major, just peanut butter sandwiches at first. Dad would cut up the carrot and celery, and I’d arrange them like a smiley face on the plate with his sandwiches.”
“That must have been tough on you.”
“Not really, I loved doing it. I guess cooking became my way of showing I care.” Her face lit up. “Dad gave me this cookery book as a birthday present, a kids’ one, with easy recipes. I’ve still got it; for you know… if I have kids one day.” She rushed on, “Anyway, I made most of the recipes out of it. Jam drops, macaroni cheese, chocolate brownies…” She picked at the edge of a table mat, her face pensive, and he badly wanted to reach over and take her hand.
“How long did you get your brother’s tea for?”
“Oh, a couple of months maybe. I don’t exactly remember because I still helped out when Mum came home. She spent a lot of time in her dressing gown. And I would rock Pippa to sleep and play with her to stop her crying. Mum couldn’t stand the crying.” She looked up and huffed out a laugh. “Honestly, I don’t think I ever felt like a kid. I was so worried about everyone.” She got up and picked up his plate. “Hardly surprising I ended up in a helping profession.”
“I get that.” Carts stood up too. “I only went into accounting because I was good at maths. Wish I’d been more artistic, like you, but there you are, I’m just a boring number cruncher.”
She turned to him as he handed her some dishes.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. I’d love to understand maths better. But you’re so much more than a number cruncher.”
“Really. In what way?”
“You’re highly intuitive.”
Carts scoffed, went back to the table and started clearing the condiments. “I don’t think many people would agree with you.”
“Well, they’re wrong. I can tell by the way you talk about your sister, and your friends. How you were last night with Pippa and Shaz.”
Flustered, he muttered, “I—I care. That’s all.”
“That’s everything.”
Insi
de he glowed, but he couldn’t manage to say a plain and simple thank you, so he grabbed hold of the segue as he put the salt and pepper shakers on the bench. “Talking of Pippa… have you spoken to her since last night?”
“I’ve tried to call her all day. She texted just before I left work saying she’s been super busy and she hopes I liked Shaz and that I understood, to which I replied of course I do, one hundred and ten per cent. I did start to write I was sorry for not being there for her, but after what you said, I stopped myself. I’ve thought about it and you’re right, Pip probably wasn’t ready to share before now.” She came back to the table and filled up their wine glasses. He watched her fingers curl around the bottle, and remembered how wonderful her hand had felt holding his. “Our family have never talked about it… sex and all that related stuff.”
He took the glass from her and sat down. “Mine are the same. Mum still acts like Avery is ten years old. And my dad’s only comfortable talking sex if it involves two-celled animals dividing. I have an intimate knowledge of the reproductive cycle of the amoeba, thanks to Dad.”
“That sounds exciting.” Judith took a seat opposite him. “I think my parents expected school would take care of it.” She giggled. “But our sex ed was useless. Mrs Bendigo, who the boys all called Mrs Bendover, ran a couple of sessions. I remember watching a movie with close-ups of a sperm fertilising an egg, and some horrible pictures of venereal diseases. She left handouts at the front of the class about how saying no to sex was the only safe sex.”
He snorted. “Oh Christ, yeah, don’t remind me. We had a guy called John Prior, with a terrible high-pitched laugh who got everyone stretching condoms over bananas. They were all around the school grounds for days afterwards.” Carts had found one hung on his locker with a note saying, “You won’t need this, stick dick.” No way was he going to tell Judith that.
“Eweey, that’s enough to put you off dessert. Talking of which, I almost forgot.” She jumped up, went to the fridge and brought out two crystal glass bowls. “Chocolate orange mousse—wait.” Her head dived into the fridge again, and when she turned around she brandished a can of whipped cream. “This was the only cream they had left at the IGA.”
At which they both burst out laughing.
Sure, it was childish, Carts thought as they made crazy swirls on top of their chocolate mousse and wiped tears of laughter out of their eyes, but there was something cathartic about discussing his childhood with Judith in a way he’d never talked about it before.
The ambient background music stopped and suddenly the sound of their spoons scraping their dishes was inordinately loud. Judith got up and went over to her phone. “What would you like to listen to?”
Why not admit it. “I’m a huge fan of eighties music. I collect vintage LPs.”
“Wow, really? There’s something so romantic about records isn’t there?”
“Yeah, that magic circle of black vinyl. You hold it in your hands, dust it down, place it on the turntable. It’s a ritual. And then you sit back, and the music sounds so much better. It’s a whole body/mind thing.”
Judith glanced up from checking out Spotify. “What’s your favourite band from the eighties?”
“Don’t make me choose. The early eighties was a revolutionary time, punk rock, the New Romantics, bands like Ultravox—have you heard ‘Vienna’?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, man, have you a treat in store. You have to sit in a dark room, smoking Gauloises cigarettes—I don’t smoke, but if I did I’d be puffing away at a Gauloises—and look deep and brooding.”
She laughed. “I can see it now. I really love the boppy eighties songs and the look—all that fluffy hair and shimmery blue eyeshadow. Oooh, remember Madonna’s pointy tits?” She tapped her chin, her cheeks pinking up. “‘Like a Virgin’. And there’s another I loved… ‘Manic Monday’, who wrote that one?”
“The Bangles. They were such an underrated band. Their album, Different Light was an absolute classic.”
“You know so much about music. Do you play an instrument like Avery?”
“Nah, but I mime well. I do a fantastic guitar solo of Mark Knopfler. It’s my party piece.”
“I didn’t see you perform it at your thirtieth.”
He coughed into his fist. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to make an idiot of myself in front of someone special.”
“It would really impress someone in this room if you did a rendition now.”
Bashful, he bit his lip.
“Oh come on,” she teased. “I’ve always found Mark Knopfler kind of sexy to be honest.”
So of course, that was Carts’ cue to do his rendition of Mark Knopfler, hair flopping over his eyes as he mimed the words to “Money for Nothing” on an imaginary guitar in perfect synch to the music. He stopped halfway through a chord, flicked his fringe out of his eyes and said, “You know Sting was in this, don’t you?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, listen, I’ll play it again.” He replayed it and they both listened intently. “Hear that? At the start, the high notes—that’s Sting.”
“Oh yes, I can hear him now.” She looked wistful. “My all-time favourite song of Sting’s is ‘Fields of Gold’. Was that written in the eighties?”
“No, it was released in 1993.”
She giggled, “I can’t believe you know that.”
“Accountant brain, good with numbers,” he muttered with a sheepish grin.
“Do you like it?”
“Do I what! I tear up every time I hear it. I don’t know why but it always hits me right—” he pressed a curled fist to his chest, “in here.”
He cast her a quick glance but saw nothing but admiration in her eyes. A woman, finally, who didn’t judge him when he admitted he cried. Though he might have to know her better before he fessed up to shedding tears the first time he watched ET.
“Let’s play it.” Her eyes shone and he knew he’d go to the end of the earth to keep that light alive in her eyes.
They found it on Spotify, their heads close together and their breaths mingling, and then somehow, he was not quite sure how exactly, they were standing facing each other in the middle of the room, and it seemed the easiest thing for his arm to slide around her waist, and her head to rest on his shoulder.
As Sting’s voice crooned over the speakers, the beauty of the lyrics choked him up.
A feather-light kiss landed on his neck. Then another.
Heat rolled through him like a summer storm.
Down below, the beast stirred.
She raised her head and for a long moment their gazes fused before Carts lowered his head and sought her lips. And it occurred to him that he could fight this, or he could give in. He gave in, and in seconds their kisses had turned passionate.
They landed with a thud and a laugh on the sofa, their legs and arms awkwardly tangled and after a moment, when he’d accidentally jabbed her in the chin with his elbow, Judith suggested they might be more comfortable on the floor. So, he grabbed a few cushions and put them under her head and lay down next to her.
He watched, mesmerised, as she undid the buttons of her dress one by one. “They only go this far,” she murmured, pointing to just below her breastbone. Then she took his hand and slid it inside her dress.
It had been so long since Carts had touched a woman’s breasts, and even longer since he’d actually felt they wanted him to, but there was no mistaking Judith’s reaction as she arched into him with a moan and pushed her pebbled nipple into his touch.
The beast was now fully awake and threatening to burst out of its cage.
A wave of panic spread into his scalp as the throb in his groin intensified.
And then he remembered something Fern had said during her Tantra session.
Focus on your partner’s pleasure.
If he gave everything to Judith in this moment, thought of nothing but the joy of giving her pleasure, then… maybe, he could control his body’s crazy reactions.
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Maybe he could tame the beast.
With a ragged sigh, he bent his head to her breast and sucked her nipple into his mouth. She let out a soft mewl of pleasure.
Summoning the energy from his base chakra, vertebrae by vertebrae, Carts raised it to his heart chakra. Slowing the pace even further, he circled her nipple with his tongue.
Another moan and her hands tangled in his hair.
Yes. He could—he could do this.
He just had to focus all his energy on making sweet love to Judith.
“This is all for you,” he whispered. “Just tell me what you want.”
Chapter 12
Judith’s head fell back against the cushions as sensations washed through her in delicious waves.
She wanted to get closer, to push her thigh between his and crazily rip off both their clothes simultaneously, but she seemed transfixed by his mouth teasing her nipple. As for words, all that came out was a sigh of “ah—ohhh” as an insistent throb started up in a place much lower down. The more Carts sucked and licked her nipple the more her power of speech deserted her. She tried to communicate with her body, pressing herself against him, but it seemed every time she did he pulled away a fraction.
A tiny seed of doubt penetrated her euphoria.
But then he said in a low, husky tone, “Tell me what you want,” and that cracked her wide open.
“Down—lower—please,” she gasped.
He glanced up from the swell of her exposed breast, his eyes glinting behind a devilish lock of hair. “How much lower?”
“Um—a bit.”
“Show me.” He slid his hand down the front of her dress until he got to the fake buttons, which made her moan with frustration. She flapped her hand wildly in the direction of her legs.
“I could always take a different approach,” he suggested huskily. “Like come from below, maybe.”
“I think—yes, maybe that would be best.”
“I’ll do anything you want.” Throatier, with emphasis. “I mean, anything.”
Oh heavens. He was offering her a feast of pleasure. Could she? Ask for the one thing Mark had never been that into, the only thing that could guarantee her release. And oh, she wanted that.