by Vina Jackson
I wanted to feel him.
He was on his haunches, bent over me. I wriggled my foot beneath him, brushing against his cock through his jeans. He was hard, and large. I shifted, trying to turn myself around so that I could unbuckle his trousers and take him into my mouth.
He lifted his head. Clamped his hands even tighter around my thighs.
‘Don’t move.’
I lay still, at least as still as I could, as he continued his explorations.
‘I want you inside me,’ I told him.
Had I brought any condoms? I tried to remember whether I still had some in my purse, still zipped into the pocket from the trip to Recife with Raoul. Would Noah have any nearby? I felt a piercing, and totally illogical, I knew, burst of jealousy, imagining him with another woman, and then an even more irrational burst of arousal at the image of him fucking someone else. It wasn’t a fantasy that I was by any means certain I wanted to occur in real life, but right then the idea of it made my pulse quicken and my skin heat. I could feel a red-hot flush travelling from my chest up to my face, which had no doubt turned a blotched shade of pink.
‘I don’t care,’ he said.
‘Please,’ I breathed.
‘I like it when you beg. But the answer is still no. I want to taste you. And feel you come in my mouth.’
He drove his tongue through the valley of my slit, circled my nub, used the flat of his teeth to apply just the right degree of pressure to my folds. A low hum of pleasure emitted from his throat. Noah was groaning.
We were interrupted by the shrill ring of his room’s phone. He ignored it. An automatic message played, and then the sound of the concierge. ‘Mr Ballard, your taxi has arrived. Your driver is waiting at reception.’
Noah was immovable.
I tugged his hair.
‘Noah, your flight.’
He slipped two fingers inside me.
‘Ohhh, fuck . . .’
I drove my hips onto his hand.
He collected my juices.
Inserted a lubricated finger up my arse.
‘Oh, fuck,’ I cried out. ‘I’m coming, Noah, I’m coming . . .’ It felt right to call his name, to hear the word pass my lips.
Noah shuddered, his desire obvious in every taut muscle in his body as he continued to grip my legs and hold me in place. I bucked and writhed against him and he kept lapping, and lapping.
‘Jesus Christ.’
I clutched the pillows, certain that I might tear through the silky fabric of the cases with my nails.
I came again. A smaller climax, the second time.
The spasms in my limbs gradually subsided. I lay there, spent. Utterly relaxed.
He lifted himself up, balancing his body over mine, and kissed me. His lips and tongue tasted of me, a sweet sea-salt tang.
‘Summer Zahova,’ he murmured, ‘I think I love you.’
‘I think I love you,’ I replied.
I wasn’t sure if we were joking.
‘But I have to go,’ he continued.
‘Christ, yes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Your cab . . .’
He wiped his face on the corner of the robe. Smiled at me broadly. Then flew off the bed and grabbed his case that was sitting open on the floor, already packed. He pulled out a white-collared dress shirt and threw it over to me. ‘So you have something dry to wear home,’ he said. ‘Room check-out is at two, so you can stay until then. Have a shower if you want to.’
He zipped his baggage shut and snapped the lock. A laptop bag was resting by the door, he slung it over his shoulder, then felt around in the side pocket and pulled out his passport, checking it was there.
I followed him to the door.
‘You have my number in London?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Call me. When you’re ready.’
He lifted my chin. Kissed me again.
And left.
9
Skin on Skin
Summer had been back in London for a fortnight before she finally decided to meet Noah again. She’d arrived at Heathrow in the early hours of a bleak, shadowy morning and called Lauralynn as she was waiting for her luggage to emerge on the carousel. Somehow Lauralynn had seemed anything but surprised to hear from her and greeted her with undisguised affection, immediately insisting that she take a cab to Belsize Park forthwith. Viggo was away recording in the south of France, where Lauralynn was due to join him in under forty-eight hours, but Summer was welcome to remain in their house for as long as she wished. Summer’s own flat had been rented out while she was away travelling and the tenants had a three-month notice period so the choice was either finding a hotel or staying with acquaintances. She’d suggested the former but Lauralynn stood her ground, and it had actually been something of a relief to Summer who felt terribly uneasy at the prospect of residing yet again in a lonely hotel room, with all the consequences it might entail, knowing her character and past inclinations.
The spare bedroom on the top floor of the house became hers again. It hadn’t changed much, bed piled high with cushions in every colour of the rainbow, high windows looking out over a panorama of red-tiled roofs and the taller branches of the sycamore trees outside fluttering in the directionless currents of the breeze.
Lauralynn was all ears, eager for news and more from Summer’s sojourn in South America and was as ever anything but judgemental, listening with rapt attention and an indulgent look of amusement on her face. If anyone knew the quirks of Summer’s nature by now it was Lauralynn, but she had never been one to take advantage of this knowledge, was a true friend and, when the occasion was right, an accomplished accomplice. The effects of the red-eye flight had soon taken a hold of Summer’s body and energy and she had retreated upstairs for an early first night back in London. Lauralynn’s embrace had been warm, almost motherly, and there was no hint of a suggestion that Summer come to her bed, as had sometimes happened on previous occasions.
‘I have to start packing soon anyway,’ Lauralynn had said. ‘There are quite a few things Viggo has asked me to fetch, in addition to my own, and I’m going to have to do some foraging in his drawers to locate them all.’
Summer had carried herself up the stairs and, once in the bedroom, realised she had left her suitcase down by the front door. She stripped naked and, too lazy to take a shower and clean away the journey between continents, crawled under the duvet and was asleep in a wink.
Left to her own devices all too rapidly after Lauralynn was picked up by a minicab and driven to Heathrow for her flight to Nice, Summer had decided to renew her sometimes complicated relationship with London before making contact with anyone else, even Susan and Noah. To seek peace in the exploration of a city that was as contradictory as she was, by turns barbaric and civilised, both elements sometimes operating together on the same street corner.
She walked down the hill, past Chalk Farm and the circular mass of the Roundhouse to Camden Town where the weekend markets were in full flow, weaving through the crowds, navigating her way between the dozens of languages she could hear spoken, spotting a familiar New Zealand accent there and then a word or two of Portuguese until all the passing sounds merged into a swarm of buzzing voices, a soothing swirl of memories past. The smells of food from the Lock reached towards her and drew her in that direction past the hundreds of stalls selling heavy metal and sundry tasteless T-shirts, clothes she wouldn’t be seen dead in, leather goods, bric-a-brac, amber and handcrafted jewellery and would-be antiques. As she emerged into the open area by the canal, she was amazed by how the place had changed since she had been here last, the food tents having spread and invaded the whole quayside, conflicting smells and scents lullabying her senses and causing her mouth to water out of control. And realise she was quite hungry. What to eat: Spanish, Creole, crêpes, rosti, Mexican, Eastern European kabanos, from steaming vats of African stews or boards laden with cheeses, fruit, dark Ethiopian stew or beef, turkey, chicken, pork, vegetarian or even kangaroo-meat burgers? Had her stomach been
the right size, she would have gladly sampled everything.
Unable to even finish all the small portions of food she had then treated herself to and binned the abundant leftovers by the tube station where hordes rushed from the maw of the Undergound, she strolled south and reached Regent’s Park and wandered beyond the Zoo and found herself in wide-open green spaces where families were picnicking and children in all sizes ran amok, rushing along the grass, hanging from the squared-off playground-area climbing frames, racing on scooters down the paths. She wasn’t normally a great fan of small kids, but for the first time her heart warmed to their hustle and bustle and supreme indifference to the world’s realities.
Then the chill in the air registered with her. Such a contrast with Rio. She had goose bumps spreading across her skin. Had not dressed properly, just a thin summer blouse, denim skirt, ballet flats and not even a pair of tights. She turned back towards Haverstock Hill, and Viggo and Lauralynn’s house.
The following day, still intent on continuing her awakened love affair with London, she walked the Thames embankment on the south side, following the muddy river from Waterloo to the Globe, beyond the concrete palaces of art past the Oxo Tower, the brutalistic bulk of Tate Modern and the parade of bridges that punctuated the journey, watching the barges and tourist embarkations drag themselves along the water, the eternal London skyline from the arch of Charing Cross Station to St Paul’s carved against the grey sky on the other bank. Then she turned inland and reached the warrens of Southwark, and yet again the food choices of Borough Market where the fruit, meat, olive oil and cheese stalls were just about to pack up for the day and the crowds were thinning. On this occasion she had dressed more warmly, a padded parka and leggings partly shielding her from the autumn chill.
St Katharine Docks, where she had first met Dominik, a twist in her stomach.
Hoxton Square and its assembly of bars, once a starting point for drunken madness and the inevitable meaningless pick-ups she had so often indulged in.
The small market by the Cut near Waterloo.
The Isle of Dogs where she had spent time with Antony.
Portobello Road, Whitechapel in the tracks of Jack the Ripper, Wilton’s music hall where she had always dreamed of playing in the days when she and the violin had still been an item, the fragrant curry corridor of Brick Lane.
The hidden enclave of Bleeding Heart Yard.
She had walked endlessly, without destination or intention until her calves had hurt, drinking the city back in, soaking herself in its smells and unmistakable atmosphere, until it felt she truly belonged here again.
The one place she carefully avoided was Hampstead Heath.
Finally, one morning, Summer knew she was ready.
She rang Noah.
‘I’m back in London.’
‘Great.’
‘Let’s meet.’
Noah had been hoping against hope ever since his return from Rio. Would she or would she not be in touch again?
He’d thrown himself into his work in a transparent attempt to banish Summer from his mind, but the task had proven impossible. The reality of her held him captive, now knowing the reality of how she looked in motion and no longer just a fixed image in a photograph, the way she sometimes avoided his eyes, the way she felt, smelled and tasted, walked and spoke, both open and closed, available and distant. It was a deadly combination and affected him badly.
She was more than he had expected.
At the same time, she was not what he had expected.
She was just . . . Summer.
They met for drinks at the Groucho. He felt shy in her presence, like a schoolboy on his first date. She appeared uncertain, as if a stranger in a strange land, a newcomer to London and the characteristic hustle and bustle of Soho, still in the process of reacquainting herself with the rhythms of the city’s life after her prolonged South American sojourn.
‘Anywhere special you’d like to eat?’ Noah asked her.
‘Somewhere simple.’
The cab dropped them on the edges of Clerkenwell.
‘Are we here to talk business?’ Summer enquired.
‘If you wish.’
‘You don’t sound as keen as you did in Rio . . .’
‘I am.’
He wanted to tell her that he would prefer they forget business and she let him taste her again, wallow in her juices right then and there at the table and damn what the other diners thought, but something stopped him. Fear? An unwillingness to appear overly keen and drive her away? A wall had appeared between them again, as if that morning in his hotel room had never happened. He waited for her to speak, to give him some clue to her feelings.
‘I must be honest. I don’t think I’m quite ready to pick up my violin yet.’
‘That’s fine by me. I want you to take your time. Only reach a decision when you’re absolutely ready.’
‘Good.’
There was a ghost of gentleness in his smile. He looked down at his menu and chose the Shrimp Burger and thick-cut fries. Summer opted for an unusual salad with a mix of ingredients that Noah felt did not go together, from feta cheese to pomegranate seeds, charred bacon pieces and pine nuts. They stuck to mineral water.
‘So what are we going to talk about?’ Summer said.
Noah held her gaze.
‘You.’
Later, the bill settled and the restaurant almost empty, all the office workers with their laptops now returned to their nearby lairs, the conversation still felt unfinished. They had talked about Rio, her past concert tours, the studios where she had recorded her albums, Paris, New Orleans, Amsterdam, Berlin, the places they both knew well, occasional coincidences that littered their parallel trajectories, New Zealand, even Viggo and Lauralynn.
The remaining staff were willing them to leave.
‘Are you returning to your office?’ she asked him.
‘I’m not sure. What are your plans?’
‘I have none.’
There were no taxis cruising the area and they had to make a detour towards the Barbican Centre and Goswell Road where it might prove easier to catch some transport.
An alley. Northburgh Street.
Cobblestones and grey brick walls. Old warehouses converted into lofts and offices harbouring hi-tech start-ups with windows through which passers-by could peer and peruse open-plan spaces with white desks and naked walls scattered with cork boards and screens.
So neat and unlike the Recife back alleyway where she had first set eyes on Noah.
‘Wait.’
The tone in Noah’s voice was sharp and peremptory. He wanted to both dominate and please her, but still hadn’t found his footing, the practical expression of her tastes and his desires.
Summer slowed down and came to a halt. She was right in the middle of the narrow road. She turned to Noah.
Even though he was of medium height, he seemed taller in the failing light of the afternoon.
She found herself staring up at him.
He leaned over and kissed her, holding her tight against him. She did not resist.
As she tasted his lips again at last, Summer wondered what had taken him so long. The fear of combining business and pleasure? Or just fear?
They say the first time is never the best.
This time they both knew they were doing the right thing.
Instantly, Noah had her against the wall of his entrance hall, the door barely closed behind them, breathless from frantically kissing and caressing her while they haltingly walked the short length from the sidewalk to his flat, ascended the few steps to his front door, exploring each other’s bodies like a pair of inexperienced teenagers. They were both panting, on edge. Switched on. Neither could have cared less who saw them.
He slammed the door shut behind them and pushed her hard against the blank wall. His hand still beneath her tight pencil skirt, pulling roughly on the elastic waistband of her lace thong, brutally dragging it down until it was held pooled between her ankles, bare
ly maintained in place by the barrier of her shoes. Her sex now unprotected, hot and yearning, his hand swept across her smooth cunt, every fleeting contact against the silk of her skin exhilarating. As was her unabashed greed, the way that she lustfully surrendered to him.
His lips again rushed to kiss hers, his breath staccato, his heart pumping wildly in his chest, a shapeless knot forming in his stomach as he realised she really was now in his arms, no longer an obsession, an enigma, a distant fever dream. Their time together in Rio hadn’t seemed real, the circumstances so removed from ordinary life. This felt hyper-real, as if they had been allowed to turn back the clock and experience their first time together over again.
With his free hand Noah quickly pulled her skirt up to her waist, baring her bottom half. She hadn’t been wearing stockings or tights. He pressed against her, pinning her to the unwavering wall.
‘Unzip me,’ he said.
Summer, though lost in the kiss, heard his summons and inserted her hand between the closeness of their bodies and searched for the zip.
His penis was hard as rock already. She pulled it from his clothing and led it to her opening where it jutted against her mons, just a finger’s breadth away from sliding straight into her, unprotected. She had wrapped her hands around his neck and was trailing her nails through his hair, gripping his locks between her fingers. Her lips brushed his throat, the line of his jaw; she pressed her cheek against his.
His cock edged closer to her opening and the rise and fall of her chest quickened. Her exhalations becoming more frantic with each millimetre that he bridged until they were almost joined. Her pupils dilated, every inhalation a gasp.
The strength of her desire multiplied Noah’s until his cock felt larger and harder than it had ever been before. He was overwhelmed by a brief moment of panic; he was not strong enough to withstand this. The hunger radiating from her. Her palpable need for him, so strong that she had relinquished all authority over her own body and almost collapsed in his arms.