“Where’d you get that?” I motion to the comb.
“Always carry one in my pocket.”
“I’ll be needing it.” I try to tug my fingers through my hair but it’s an absolute rat’s nest.
I’ve been shagged to within an inch of my life, but also at some point last night, we found the minibar and had a late-night bath, too. My hair got wet but I didn’t wash it through properly and now it’s in this state.
Standing in front of the mirror, I complain. “What a mess.”
I get to work washing my face, peeling off what remains of my make-up from yesterday.
When I pop my head up after washing my face, he hands me a towel and I pat my skin dry.
He stands behind me wearing just his jeans and a smirk.
“You don’t need me to tell you how you look.”
“I look fucked.” I’m grinning as I say it.
“No. You look beautiful, actually,” he says, “even more so than last night, and that’s saying something.”
He wraps his arms around my naked breasts and buries his nose in my neck. When he looks into my eyes through the mirror, I catch sight of us together and fall instantly in love with our reflection. It feels so right that he’s holding me and it looks like we were made for one another.
He tries to get the comb through my hair but quickly finds he’ll be embarking on a pointless exercise. In fact, I have to yank the comb out.
“The comb will come off worse,” I warn.
“Chuck your clothes on and we’ll get you home where you can beautify as I fry meat.”
“Yes, sir.” I like the sound of a man frying meat for me.
“IS IT INSENSITIVE of me to say that I’ve never been happier?”
He looks up at me, surprised. I’ve even stopped him chewing through his fried breakfast. I have a gigantic mug of tea in my hands, cuddling it like a hot water bottle. The tea has my attention for now, but I will soon be tearing into my sausage and eggs, the same as he was devouring his until just a moment ago.
“Insensitive to whom?”
“Gage, I suppose. My kids. I don’t know, I feel like I’m breaking all the rules of widowhood, or something.”
“He’s not here anymore to hurt,” Sam insists, tucking back into his breakfast/brunch. “Besides, if it helps, I feel exactly the same way.”
I begin cutting into my sausage. “I even feel so happy, I have the urge to write. How crazy is that?”
He puts down his knife and fork and holds his mug aloft, proposing a toast. “Here’s to that.”
He can’t stop grinning even after he’s demolished his breakfast and is filling the dishwasher instead.
Then we face the dreaded goodbye. I have to pick up my kids soon and he needs to get home to iron his clothes for the week ahead and do some grocery shopping.
In the hallway, he stands all gloriously tall and unshowered and masculine beyond words. He fills the space in a dominating, imposing way, but that only comforts me.
He’s holding me close, just staring at me, waiting for me to do or say something.
“If it was just me, I’d move in with you in a heartbeat, but the point is, I’m not asking you to take on two kids. Not yet anyway. I just want us to enjoy one another, for as long as we can.”
He groans and throws his head back, the muscles in his throat tense and strained. I kiss his exposed jugular and wrap my arms around his waist.
“I love you.”
“I’ll call you tonight,” he says, with his hand on the doorknob. “And every night this week, in fact. Because we’re official, right?”
I nod, almost imperceptibly, but I nod and he sees it, his eyes dancing with delight.
“I want you to meet my friends,” he says.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he guffaws, “I know! I have friends.”
“Okay, when?”
“Friday night.”
I bite my lip. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Maybe on the Saturday, we could take the kids to the beach, or something?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “Really?”
“I’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah.” Actually, I would. I really, really would.
He leaves the house, but not before blowing me a kiss.
Chapter Thirty-One
I MANAGED TO CONVINCE MY mother to have the kids tonight instead of Saturday, which is our norm and has been now for the past year, ever since I started working for Hetty. I would usually work at the shop until 3.30 and then spend the rest of the day catching up on either sleep, washing or drinking tea. Gage used be out training on Saturdays, then he’d head straight out with his mates for their regular Saturday drinking session. I would spend the evening soaking in the bath or watching TV on my own. He’d get home drunk, try to shag me, then successfully pass out. Anyway, with this change to the schedule, Mum is forgoing her night out at knitting club, but it’ll just be this once, I promised her that. I know she loves her knitting club and it seems to be all she has, what with Dad always in his shed. At least at knitting club, she has people to talk to.
Sam is always on time and he’s proving his consistency tonight, too. He knocks on the door at 7.30 and I head down the hallway to let him in.
God, how I’ve missed him this week. Each night spent in my bed alone has been a night of wakefulness and nervous excitement for the night that I get to see him again – tonight! I’ve never been so glad it’s Friday.
I throw open the door and there he is, all smiles and height and happiness.
He closes the door behind him and pulls me into his arms. Kissing him is as easy as breathing, and yet the pulsations he evokes in me just with kisses… they give me a buzz even pure oxygen never could.
“I missed you so much,” I say, panting.
“Me too.”
Our kissing soon includes wandering hands and grinding against one another. Sam pulls away and insists, “We’ve got a table booked for eight.”
“Yeah, of course, yeah.” I almost walk away to grab my bag. Why, though? Why should we be tied down by propriety and neglect our needs, urges… our desires? I’ve waited all week to see him.
“Wait,” I ask, as he’s about to turn and open the front door, so we can evacuate this hot mess of passion.
He stares at me as I walk towards the front door, locking it. He’s even more shocked when I drag him by the belt loop on his jeans and shove him back against the wall. I lift up on tiptoes and bite into his bottom lip, dragging my teeth through his flesh. He’s unable to process what’s happening. Either that, or he likes it, because he’s mute and just staring at me, in shock.
I press my hand to his crotch and he’s hard, all right. He’s stone hard.
He’s gritting his teeth as I lower to my knees and undo his zipper, pulling him free of his underwear and jeans.
“Still think we should leave, huh?” I challenge, licking the precum from his tip.
He shakes his head very slowly, side to side, while I lick him from root to tip, savouring the taste and scent of him. His balls are heavy in my hand and he places his palm flat against the wall behind him, as if to brace himself.
Sinking my mouth over him, he barely whispers, “Liza,” and starts trying to pull away. He doesn’t want to be late. He hates being late.
I suck harder and lick his balls. He draws breath and groans so loudly, I can feel the vibrations against the tip of my nose as it strokes against his lower abdomen while I’m bobbing up and down on his magnificent, hard cock.
I rise to my feet and stand in front of him. Pressing my body to his, I whisper, “Mine.”
He’s shaking as I roll my fingers up and down his length, provoking him further. While I’m keeping him occupied, I push down the side zip of my faux leather skirt and it just falls to my feet. I kick it away and take his hand, pressing it against my knickers.
Sam is then on me faster than lightning, pushing me up against the wall, lifting me until I�
��m crushed by his weight and can’t escape.
I pull my knickers to the side and he holds himself to my entrance before ramming into me.
“YES!!!!” I scream, digging my heels into his buttocks as he penetrates me, filling me deeply and so satisfyingly, I can hardly breathe.
“This is what you want from me?” he growls, taking my hands and lifting them above my shoulders, pressing me back into the wall with his weight – my legs binding us together in this position.
“All the time. I can’t live without you.”
“God, Liza. It’s unbearable.”
I catch the merest flicker of tenderness in his eyes, as though he could cry if he wasn’t buried so deep in my body, but that fleeting moment of wistfulness passes and he grabs my arse in both hands, then fucks me hard against the wall, his kisses untamed and ferocious.
The noise is like nothing I’ve heard before – my body being battered, my screams not my own, his grunts animalistic and greedy and raw – and I experience it as if it’s not real. Because it’s not. It’s better than real. It’s fantasy. It’s what we’ve both been dreaming about for so long, but now it’s realised – now it’s happening.
“Uuuuhhhh, uhhhhh,” I grunt, barely holding on as I contract savagely around him, my core shaking, no longer able to hold any of my own weight. He has to hold all of me as I come fiercely, my thighs trembling wildly.
Sam pulls out of me and starts masturbating like a beast. I get on my knees and he rests his cock against my bottom lip as he strokes himself, his palm flat against the wall again.
His cream enters my mouth and I swallow it down, basking in the glory of what I can do to him. I enjoy licking and kissing his cock, taking every dribble, then he stumbles backwards towards the staircase and takes a seat for a moment, catching his breath.
His manhood retreats back into his underwear and he zips himself up again, caged once more, unavailable and off limits. I hate that. I want to lie in his arms naked, our bodies fully available to one another all night long. I don’t want to go out for gastro pub food and drinks. I just want him.
“Why are you so pissed off?” He’s wearing a face like thunder.
“You defied me,” he says, “and now when we arrive, everyone will know what we’ve just been up to.”
“So, what?”
“I’m sick of being seen as a fuckboy. I want to be more. I want them to see that I actually love a woman for once.”
I can’t help but frown deeply. “I don’t care what people think. I only care what you think.”
He chews his lip, stewing on his own words, perhaps mine too. “You need to check your make-up. We’ll have to go in the car now. I’ll wait outside.”
He leaves the house and the moment he’s gone, I want to cry. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Perhaps I haven’t done anything wrong. Maybe he’s upset with himself. Whatever, I feel hurt and emotional. I just so badly wanted to be with him. That’s all I want. All day, every day. Just him.
I charge upstairs, hurting and furious. I can’t get it right. I’m going to fail all over again, aren’t I? Another boyfriend or husband… whatever. I just know that I can’t keep a man. I can’t. I’m a failure, complete and utter failure. There’s something wrong with me. Utterly, utterly wrong.
I pull my skirt back on in the bedroom, then rearrange my cream silk blouse. I sit in front of my dressing table mirror and smooth back a few loose bits of hair. I wear it mostly down these days or in a messy plait or bun. Tonight, it’s down and even though we just shagged hard, it’s okay because my hair is meant to look ruffled.
I do see what he means about my make-up, though. I remove my smudged lipstick entirely and reapply my lippy, blotting a tiny amount of foundation where it got smeared. Just to be certain, I brush a tiny little bit of bronzer across my cheeks and I look the same as I did before, even if a little rosy-cheeked.
I check the time and it’s already eight. I rush down the stairs and grab my bag, set the alarm and lock up. We were going to walk from my house to the pub, but it’s half an hour’s walk. We shall have to drive now and he won’t be able to enjoy a drink.
I slide into the passenger side, and as I’m putting on my belt, I suggest, “I could drive if you like? I don’t mind not drinking.”
“No, it’s fine.” He starts the engine, waiting for me to finish putting my belt on. “By the way, I’m sorry for my tone. It was not nice of me to speak to you like that. I’m just feeling a bit… vulnerable, I think.”
“Me too.”
He turns to look me in the eye, reaching across to hold my chin between his finger and thumb.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“I’m not.” I giggle, swiping my tongue over my bottom lip.
He leans across and kisses my cheek, breathing me in. “Good job it’s in your stomach, where nobody can smell it.”
“You can fill my stomach anytime, baby.”
“God,” he yells, groaning again. He throws himself back into his chair dramatically, smoothing his hands through his hair. “I can’t catch a break. I’ll have to visit the hospital for enforced deflation if we’re not careful.”
He laughs as he drives away, still trying to tame what’s in his trousers.
MIRACULOUSLY, WE MANAGE to find a space right outside the bar we’re meeting his friends in. The windows are steamed up and as I seem to recall, this is one of Jules and Warrick’s favourite haunts. I just hope we don’t bump into them tonight. I don’t need a double whammy of people questioning my life.
Sam proudly drapes his arm around me as we make our way inside. His eyes search the room and then someone stands up from a table – a woman – flailing her arms around.
“There they are.”
We head for the woman. She’s with five other people. God, there’s six of them. Six friends to prove myself to. Christ.
As we near, I see they’re all around our age; maybe a couple are a little older, but they more or less look twenty-five or twenty-six.
“Everyone, this is Liza,” Sam announces, before the intros and short bios are rolled out.
The flailing woman is called Zelda and she’s with a bloke who she’s now sitting close to, arms entwined. The bloke, Gary isn’t very pretty looking, but he seems nice. They’re both physiotherapists and met at work.
There’s another woman called Grace. She’s got her wine glass perpetually held against her lips, her mouth pursed like she’s sucking it through an invisible straw. Grace appears to be single. I’m told she’s best left to her own devices.
Then there are Sam’s three male friends, all sat together in a bunch, entirely ensconced in their own chatter.
“This is Si, Alan and Hugo. Beware of all three.”
I’m no sooner sat down than Grace is holding out the wine to Sam and he’s pouring a glass for me. Sam settles for water and tells to everyone, “Medication… don’t ask.” Nice little lie… and the added, “don’t ask,” because nobody likes talking about medical things over dinner.
Zelda shoves a menu at Sam and I stare at it over his shoulder. “We’re all ready to order when you are,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. If I was a betting woman, I’d bet she carries a torch for Sam and would drop her other guy over there in a heartbeat if it came to it. Something tells me she’s the matriarch of the group and that Gary is proof of her status as desirable, but not the lover she would have if it was up to her. Zelda has mesmeric silver eyes, like a wolf’s, but she has a little edge to her, clearly.
“So, what do you do then, Liza?” Zelda asks, unsurprisingly.
I glance at Sam for help. How do I answer? I suppose… honestly.
“I’m between positions right now. I spent this past week writing, though.”
“Ooh, Hugo’s a writer,” Zelda screeches, as if she’s found me a better match, so that she can finally get her claws into Sam. This is why Hetty and me have been so tight-knit and kept to ourselves over the years – because no matter what, she’d never fancy
the same bloke as me, and vice versa. We’ve got completely different taste. Also, we’re not bitches. Many women are, unfortunately.
“What do you write, Hugo?” I ask.
With ruddy cheeks and eyes rimmed with exquisitely long black eyelashes, Hugo flashes me a grin and responds with a hint of shyness, “I write poetry. What about you?”
“Well, it’s very early days… very early… but I’ve been writing a play.”
Everyone sort of gasps, except Grace, who still has plans for that wine she keeps sucking into her mouth like she’s sucking through a pipette.
“Why a play?” Hugo asks, appearing genuinely interested.
“I tried writing a novel once. Didn’t work out. I was quite successful with short stories, but my ideas seem to need more space to breathe these days, just not at novel length, though. I suppose, I studied a lot of plays when I was at uni. Then I did a course… you know? One of those remote ones… about scriptwriting. I don’t know, I find I enjoy it. I have to see the image in my mind, you see. Novelists are all about the feelings and the scene setting and the deeper analytical meaning of everything. I enjoy the visual and I also much prefer writing dialogue as opposed to prose. Don’t know why, just do.”
“I have an idea. You could write about me,” Grace pipes up. “About how I’m slowly losing my mind. How I want to devour six bottles of this stuff right now, but I’m desperate to actually have a weekend, as opposed to spending it in bed.”
“She’s a bit dramatic. She’s a barrister,” Sam explains.
“Oh, sorry,” I tell her.
“It’s okay… or it will be once I die,” she says, going back to her wine.
The waiter comes over and takes our orders for dinner. I decide upon a game pie and mash, while Sam picks a huge burger with all the trimmings. I don’t hear what everyone else orders. I don’t actually care about any of these other people – and more cause for concern is that I don’t know why Sam cares, either.
Once the waiter has gone, I ask the table generally, “So, how do you all know Sam?”
Guilt Page 23