by Jo Kessel
“I think your breasts are beautiful,” Jonah murmured, moving his lips up to her mouth.
“Now I know you’re lying,” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“No I’m not. They’re beautiful because they’re part of you.”
Anthony hadn’t done much to make her breasts feel anything more than a milk float since Miriam was born, but now her breasts felt alive again. Jonah unleashed his grip on her wrists, pulled back the duvet and moulded his hands over her breasts as his mouth journeyed south, snaking a path towards her naval and continuing downwards. He hesitated at the rim of her panties and then released his hold on her breasts so that he could slowly, tantalisingly, centimetre by aching centimetre, remove them altogether, tossing them in the direction of the discarded bra, leaving Claire feeling completely exposed. When his mouth found her clitoris she cried out loud.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered.
“Not yet, baby, not yet.”
He planted each of his palms at the top of her inner thighs, anchoring her legs apart as he licked and teased at her bud. She moaned louder and louder as the pleasure built, knowing she should try to restrain herself lest Miriam should hear, but unable to stop. And then, at its exquisite peak, she exploded in a series of glorious shudders. When her body had completely stilled Jonah released his hold on her legs, removed his jeans and boxers in one slick move and laid the weight of his frame on top of Claire, watching her eyes close in ecstasy as he entered her, thrusting deeply and sensually slowly.
“I love you,” he whispered, his lips hovering a millimetre above hers.
“I love you too.”
CHAPTER SIX
JONAH
Jonah lay on the bed, wide awake, knowing he’d hold onto this memory of Claire in his arms like this, forever. She’d been so exhausted after they’d made love that she’d fallen asleep almost immediately, lying on his chest with her lips pressed against his. Nobody had ever slept on him in such intimate proximity and he couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else but Claire. With all the other women in his life, what he’d craved most was space. He’d not been short of female company since they’d broken up and, with each new relationship, there’d been a hope that he’d finally be able to move on but nobody had ever matched up. They’d not even come close. Not even the mother of Martha. With her she’d accidentally gotten pregnant and he’d wanted to do the right thing and give this child a chance. So they’d married and given it their best shot which, in the event, hadn’t been anywhere nearly good enough. Sometimes he marvelled at how well Martha had turned out, despite their ineptitude at parenting.
He’d always known that Claire was the one. He’d fallen for her the minute she’d stepped onto his tennis court on the Greek island of Kos. She’d been inappropriately dressed in a sexy black halter-neck bikini top and a tie-die navy sarong which she’d hitched up high by rolling it over a few times at the waist. Her only suitable piece of attire had been the sneakers on her feet but, he’d had to admit, she wasn’t a bad tennis player for an amateur Brit. He’d had fun making her run around, watching her sarong split open, revealing her gorgeous creamy legs as she lunged for shots, determined not to be beaten. Claire always considered herself non-competitive but he would disagree. She didn’t like to lose and the few points she’d legitimately won against him during the years they’d been together always made her do some hilarious victory dance which was so endearing it made him want to pick her up and twirl her around.
It was her mass of red ringlets which had always captivated him and as Claire finally rolled onto her side to settle her head under his arm, her hair fanned out like a peacock’s tail over the pillow. Firecracker. That’s what he used to call her. He wound one of her copper curls tightly around his finger. He still didn’t dare believe that he was here with her again after so many years, their limbs interlocked, her sweet-smelling skin heating his. Her scent hadn’t changed over time. She must still be using the same exotic lemon verbena moisturising cream that always so turned him on.
He’d dreamed of this moment. No, he’d longed for this moment, but had given up. She’d changed her numbers and moved house. It was clear that she had no desire to be found and eventually he reminded himself of that famous adage: if you truly love someone, set them free. So he’d respected her wishes and finally accepted that, much as he wished it were otherwise, it wasn’t meant to be. He’d been sure that she would find someone else and he didn’t want to destroy any new life she may have built for herself. But that hadn’t stopped him from wanting it. He’d played at Wimbledon for at least the next five years after they’d broken up and, every time he’d been in London, a little part of him had hoped she might seek him out. She never had though.
By the time he’d got this job as a commentator, so many more years had passed that he no longer even dared to hope. He’d let it go. And when he’d crossed paths with Georgia in the corridor, he wondered if it was some cruel mirage. He’d done a double take and seen that she too had recognised him, but she’d lowered her eyes and was trying to ignore him, chatting to a colleague as they walked past. No way was he going to let this opportunity disappear. So he’d chased back after her, tapping his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, knowing it would sound ridiculous if he was wrong. “Are you Claire Jackson’s friend?” He wanted to punch the air when she’d told him that Claire was divorced. Hope had seeped back into his veins. Maybe this time it was meant to be.
Georgia had scrabbled in her bag for something to write on and the creased, scrappy piece of serviette she’d finally etched Claire’s email address onto had heated his pocket all day. Should he write? What should he write? What if she rejected him? The fact that this might really be his last shot made the normally cool, collected Jonah Kennedy angst a little. He’d sat at the keyboard for ages, working out what to say, writing a line then deleting it, worried he’d come across as either too flip or too desperate. He knew deep down why Claire had really left all those years ago and she’d be wrong if she believed he never thought about it. He often wondered, if he could do it all again, would he have done it differently? Being honest, he wasn’t sure. He thought they’d done what they both believed was right at the time. Whatever, there was no point tormenting himself over it. The past was the past. That couldn’t be changed. What made more sense was to concentrate on the future.
It had taken more than twenty-four hours for her to reply. Twenty-four hours of unadulterated agony. After he’d read her reply, he really had punched the air, in relief. They’d lost thirteen years and he’d not wanted to squander a second longer.
Their evening at Nobu already felt like aeons ago, but it was only yesterday. It was only yesterday that it felt as if his world had changed. Their kiss yesterday had, perhaps, been the most important of his life. It was a kiss full of hope, full of promise, full of possibility. It was a kiss that made him giddy. It had taken all his self-restraint to not invite Claire back to his room right there and then. He’d yearned for more, much more, and hadn’t wanted to let her go. But more importantly, he’d not wanted to scare her off. Whilst in his head it was all perfectly clear - they belonged together and he was going to do everything in his power to make that happen - he’d sensed wariness in her. He feared she might not yet be ready. Better to play it safe than to rush her into something she might regret. So he’d let her decide when and where they should next meet and now here they were. She’d shown him her bedroom first, in which there’d been a divine imperial-sized sleigh bed, but they’d decided on the spare room instead, just in case Miriam should go looking for her mother in the middle of the night. In a way Jonah was pleased. True, the bed was small, more an oversized single than a double, but he didn’t want space. No, he wanted to keep spooning Claire up close and to never let her go.
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The next morning Jonah thought he must still be dreaming. He was woken by sunlight streaming under the curtains as well as the apparition of Cl
aire standing at the foot of the bed, watching him, wearing nothing but the skimpiest pair of baby pink cotton shorts and a matching tight-fitting vest. No bra underneath. He stared appreciatively at her beautiful breasts. Yes, they might be smaller than before, but they were still gorgeously voluptuous, urging to be touched. Why she’d been embarrassed about them he had no idea. Perhaps it had had something to do with her ex-husband Anthony. Jonah hadn’t liked Anthony. He was used to sizing up his opponents, trying to spot their Achilles heals. There was something about Anthony he didn’t quite trust. Perhaps the simple truth was that there would never be any room in his heart for the person whom he would always consider had stolen Claire from him. Claire. Firecracker Claire stood before him like a tantalising angel. In one hand she was holding on the flat of her palm the biggest mug he’d ever seen, hot steam curling from it up towards the ceiling. In the other hand she was clutching some black material.
“Good morning,” she smiled shyly.
Jonah shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun as he watched Claire close the door behind her and sashay towards the tousled empty sheet next to him. She placed the mug carefully down on the wooden bedside table before planting her bottom next to his chest and leaning over to kiss him. Her full, plump lips were deliciously warm.
“Mm,” he moaned, leaning up to hook his arms around her neck and pull her towards him. She tasted of sugar. He grabbed her by the hips, repositioning her so she was lying flush on top of him, placing his hands at the base of her butt, tickling her skin underneath the frilly hem of her skimpy shorts.
“Be careful not to start something you can’t finish,” she smirked, planting a hand on the pillow on either side of his head for balance. “Miriam’s downstairs and I don’t want her getting suspicious.”
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding towards the contents loosely clasped in her left hand.
“That,” Claire kissed him hard before pulling away, “is your freshly laundered underwear. I’ve been up since six o’clock. Miriam was singing in her bedroom and I decided to go to her before she came to find me here with you. I’ve already done two wash loads and made breakfast. We’re waiting for you to join us.”
Thankfully Claire’s panic about what would happen if Miriam came to find her in the middle of the night clearly hadn’t happened and Jonah was happy to play this however Claire deemed fit. Children complicated matters and everything needed to be handled with sensitivity. It was too soon for Miriam to think he was anything more than a friend and he didn’t want to place Claire in a compromised position. He smacked her ass playfully.
“Thank you for doing my laundry, pretty washerwoman.”
“Is that how you see me?” she feigned mock objection.
“Yes, but let me tell you, you are the prettiest washerwoman I have ever seen. Do washerwomen always wear such indecently hot clothes to do the washing? Go cover yourself up or I’m in danger of having an all-day-long hard-on. And that would not look good in front of your daughter.”
“You need to control yourself,” Claire teased, removing one of her hands from the pillow to feel the full length of his hardness through the thin cotton sheet separating them.
“What time is it?” he said, capturing and removing her hand before she could do any more damage.
Her brow furrowed anxiously.
“It’s a quarter to ten,” she started, worriedly. “I wasn’t meant to wake you, was I? It’s Saturday, and I just didn -
“Don’t worry,” he reassured her. “I’ve a day off. It’s fine. And wow, that’s the best lie-in I’ve had in ages. I think jet lag must have finally caught up with me.”
Jonah could feel Claire starting to wriggle off him. He gripped her hips to momentarily still her.
“Last night was amazing, washerwoman,” he said, punctuating this thought by kissing her lightly.
“Yes,” she said, tapping his nose, before covering his face with his clean Calvin Klein boxers. “It really was.”
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Jonah could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever allowed nerves to truly worm into his bones and psyche. Once had been when Claire had delivered her ‘I think we should take a break’ speech. Another time had been when his wife had given birth to Martha, who had been born blue. Thankfully the doctors successfully resuscitated her and she’d been fine. Two matches had professionally unnerved him more than any of the others - the quarter final against Federer in Melbourne was one and the second was a game against Agassi in the US Open. It had been his first appearance on the main show court at Flushing Meadow and the occasion had got to him as, eventually, had Andre’s masterful playing. But all these moments had been life-changing and monumental. They all made much more sense than him feeling nervous right here, right now, as he sat down to eat breakfast with Miriam and Claire. He didn’t want to screw anything up. He wanted, more than anything, for Miriam to like him. He wanted to get it right, whatever right meant.
A veritable feast had been laid out on the table: warm croissants, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and a bowl full of melon balls.
“Just to let you know, we don’t normally eat like this,” said Claire as she filled Miriam’s glass with orange juice from a striped blue and white china jug. “It’s a special weekend treat.”
“I made the melon,” boasted Miriam.
“Then that’s what I’m having,” said Jonah, spooning a generous helping of melon balls onto his plate before refilling fresh coffee into the now empty, enormous mug which Claire had brought him in bed.
“What’s Sports Direct?” he asked, reading the blue and red logo on the cup.
“It’s Mummy’s favourite shop,” giggled Miriam.
“It is,” Claire confirmed. “It’s a massive chain of stores which sells the cheapest sports merchandise on the face of the planet. And this mug once came free with one of our many purchases.”
“I bet it’s the biggest mug in the whole world,” said Miriam.
“I think you are quite possibly right,” smiled Jonah, taking a sip from the alpha mug before tucking into his fruit. “Mm,” he intoned in a sing-song melody, “and these melon balls are seriously good.”
Miriam eyed him as he shovelled a second, heaped spoon of melon into his mouth. Her intense scrutiny managed to elicit the impossible, to both unnerve and relax him simultaneously. Martha would have been no different and that thought made his mouth curl upwards as he matched her gaze head on.
“Do you have any children?” asked Miriam, staring him out.
“I do, a little girl who’s exactly your age.”
“I’m nearly nine.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“July the fourth.”
“Ooh, that’s a very special day in the country I come from.”
“Is it a bank holiday?”
“Yes, it is sort of. It’s American Independence Day, and everyone celebrates with a big party.”
Miriam tore a chunk off a croissant before carrying on with her inquisition.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“She’s called Martha.”
There were many other things Jonah wanted to add. Like ‘you’d really like her’ and ‘I’ve got a spare room in my apartment just waiting for you to come visit’, but he held his tongue. Claire was side onto him, but he could instinctively feel that this whole exchange between him and Miriam was being keenly scrutinised by her too.
“When’s her birthday?”
“She’s just over a month younger than you. She’s nine in August.”
“Cool,” said Miriam, stuffing the torn piece of croissant into her mouth, bringing a temporary pause to her cross-examination. It gave Jonah a chance to turn to Claire, who was wearing a warm smile. She nodded imperceptibly, a tiny gesture which perhaps nobody else would even have spotted, but Jonah knew that it was her reassuring him that all was going well. He was desperate to reach out to take her hand, but restrained himself, opting instead to fork a coupl
e of rashers of streaky bacon onto his plate. He’d always enjoyed Claire’s cooking but one of the things she did best was the full, traditional English breakfast – sausages with baked beans, grilled mushrooms and bacon. Nobody could crisp their bacon quite like hers. He’d just popped some into his mouth, enjoying the way it crackled on his tongue and oozed with smoky flavour, when Miriam recommenced her questioning.
“Did you used to be Mummy’s boyfriend?”
Jonah nearly choked on the bacon. How should he answer that?
“Miriam,” Claire interrupted.
“It’s ok,” Miriam continued unabashed, “I already know you were, because Mummy’s already told me.”
Jonah found himself stumped for words. He wished he’d read a manual on the right or wrong thing to say to someone who wasn’t your child but was the child of someone you were in love with. And if such a manual didn’t exist, then someone should goddamn write one!
“Are you still her boyfriend?” Miriam persisted.