by Louise Bay
“Have you ever lived with anyone?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn’t. It felt too probing, too intimate. And I didn’t want the same question back.
She turned to look at me, her hand hovering over the tap as she filled a saucepan with water. “I live with my sister.” She paused. “And of course, my parents, back in the day.”
“How long have you lived with your sister?”
“Ten years or so,” she replied, shutting off the tap and putting the saucepan on the hob.
My creaky brain whirred and did the maths. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. But I look twenty-one, right?” She winked at me and turned back to the hob.
I wasn’t sure whether or not there was much difference in what a twenty-one-year-old and a twenty-five-year-old looked like, but if it made her feel better . . . “Not a day older. You moved out at fifteen?” I asked.
She had her back to me and seemed to still at the question.
“Yeah. I mean,” she said, her voice softer. “We were just a few trailers down. My parents were fighting a lot. And . . . it was just easier to move out.”
She kept mentioning trailers. I was pretty sure she meant something other than the thing you towed behind a car to transport camping gear or rubbish. I’d heard of a condo, but I didn’t get US real estate. It was true what they said; we were two nations separated by a common language.
“Do you like marionberries? I’m going to make a pie.”
Marionberries? Christ, I hoped she was a good cook. I wasn’t the best liar—I became an awkward fifteen-year-old and might as well have a neon sign above my head with an arrow pointing down that flashed liar liar, and I really didn’t want to upset her. “I have no idea. What are they?”
“You have no idea?” She skated across to my fridge and threw the door open. I was half expecting her to pull out a selection of sea slugs but instead she held up a bag of blackberries.
“Oh, blackberries,” I said, relieved that it was something I actually liked. “Jesus, I wish you Americans would learn English.”
“You like them?” she asked, her eyes shiny and wide as if she were showing a child the ocean for the first time.
“Sure. Only a monster doesn’t like blackberries.”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Maybe. My sister and I used to pick them wild when we were kids.”
“Me too,” I said. Bridget and I used to go down to a wild patch outside her parents’ village. “Funny,” I said. Those long lazy summers together had felt impossibly long and impossibly hot. I thought they would last our entire lives.
“Funny?” she asked.
“Not ha ha funny,” I replied. “Just . . . you know, we live on different sides of the planet and have that in common.”
“I bet you didn’t grow up in a trailer though,” she said. “I’m not sure we have so much in common.”
“I have to confess, I don’t know what you mean by ‘trailer.’ Do I need to consult my Anglo-American dictionary?”
“You’re too funny.” She pulled out her phone from a pocket in jeans that hugged her rather perfect bottom. “There,” she said, showing me a picture of her and a girl, their arms around each other.
“You look lovely. Is that your sister?”
“Yes, Autumn. But behind us. That’s a trailer.” She pointed at the static caravan behind her and her sister.
“Oh, I see. Like a holiday park or something?”
“I guess,” she said. “Except we’re not on vacation. It’s a cheap way to live. Maybe you don’t have them in England. My parents have never been able to keep a job longer than three weeks at a time, so cheap was what we needed if I was going to pay rent on two places.” Her tone was very matter-of-fact. She clearly wasn’t looking for sympathy but she’d obviously not grown up with much. Coming to London must have taken a lot—not just money, but vision. Drive.
“You still live there?” I asked. Living so far away, in a different country, and in many ways, a different world, it was difficult to picture her in her natural environment. And I found myself wanting to know who she was—before London, back in America—who she was right at the core of herself.
Her mouth twitched a little, almost as if she was considering what answer to give. She shrugged. “Doesn’t make me a bad person.” Her voice faded as she turned away and headed back to the fridge.
I hadn’t meant for her to feel judged. I pushed my stool back and followed her. Why would she think that’s what I meant? I stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. “I think something got lost in translation. I wasn’t suggesting it was a bad thing.”
She froze. “I’m not after your money, if that’s what you think.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? I have about fifty quid in my wallet and you’re welcome to it. But it hadn’t crossed my mind that you were after it.” It was as if we were having two entirely separate conversations. She was clearly worked up about something. “Did I say something wrong? I’ve offended you but I don’t know how.”
She relaxed into my arms and tipped her head back onto my chest. “I don’t know what’s got me so worked up—defensive and acting crazy. I’ve never dated a guy with money—no, that’s not it . . . I’ve just never met someone like you. I like you and I’m not used to feeling this way. It’s making me edgy.” She twisted out of my arms and began scraping the potatoes she’d just taken from the fridge.
I wanted to make her feel better. “You’re edgy because you like me?”
“Okay, Mr. Gigantic Ego—”
“Hey,” I said, leaning against the counter as she focused on the vegetables. “We broke through the surface, remember. I’m asking so I understand, not so I can poke fun at you.” I paused. I hadn’t had a conversation like this with a woman for a long time—about feelings and emotions. And it wasn’t because the women in my life hadn’t tried. One by one they had come at my ice with a pickaxe and one by one, I’d managed to hold my defenses in place. Eventually they’d given up or I’d shifted away from them in every sense. But here I was with Hollie, handing her the axe and hoping we might melt in each other’s sunshine.
“Everything is different here in London. Probably because I’m so far away from home in so many ways. This isn’t a normal situation. You’re not normally the kind of guy I date . . . I don’t know how to explain it. I’m used to dating men who I’m not that into.” She abandoned the potato on the work surface and came over to the island.
“So why do you date them? Are you bored?”
She tossed the blackberries into a normal looking sieve and held them under the tap before transferring them to a bowl. “On paper we look like we should fit, you know? Similar backgrounds and families. But it’s like where I am physically and where I am in my head are two different places. So, we match in terms of geography but mentally . . .” She shook her head. “I’m not making any sense. But you and me, we’re the opposite. You’re this super successful guy, you live in London, you certainly didn’t grow up in a trailer park. But in here—” She knocked the potato on her head. “In here, it’s like, not that we’re in the same place but . . . you’re where I want to get to.”
She pulled out a rolling pin from a drawer as I tried to digest what she was saying. What she was talking about was connection. Fit.
And I understood because I felt the same.
“I’m not confessing my undying love, don’t worry,” she said, maybe to fill the silence I’d left.
“I didn’t think you were. I have a suggestion.” I wanted to make her feel more comfortable—less edgy. “I think we should just spend some time deliberately trying not to analyze what’s going on. Just enjoy it.”
She nodded her head. “You’re right. I need to relax.”
I wasn’t sure what I was saying but it seemed right. I didn’t want to worry about what she was feeling for me or what I was feeling for her. I liked her—that was enough. I wanted to hang out with her. I wanted to taste her cooking. A
nd at some point—like every minute I was with her—I wanted to get her naked.
“You know what’s good to empty your mind?” I asked.
She gave me a sideways glance. “Kissing?”
I slid my arms around her waist and buried myself into her neck. “Yup. Very relaxing.”
She let go of the rolling pin and swiveled to face me. “Show me.”
“Wait,” I said, as she grabbed my arse. “Did you just surreptitiously dry your hands on my bottom and pretend you were feeling me up?”
She tried to bite back a smile. “You know all my secrets.”
I didn’t, but I wanted to. I dipped my head and pressed a kiss to her lips, tension easing from my muscles as I did. I hadn’t been lying, at least from my perspective—kissing Hollie was like meditation. And it was addictive.
Her breathy sighs made me want to get closer to her, and I pressed my hand into her back, drawing us together.
“Do you have anything in the oven? Anything likely to burn that I’m going to get the blame for?” I asked.
She shook her head, her eyes sleepy with desire. “Nope. Wanna meet the band?”
I chuckled and lifted her up and over my shoulder. “I just hope there’s a French horn player. A brass band is nothing without a French horn.”
I strode out of the kitchen and down the hall to my bedroom, where I tipped her onto my bed.
“Wow. This bedroom is ridiculous.”
I glanced over my shoulder before grabbing Hollie’s hips and pulling her to the edge of the bed.
“It’s got an entire living room in it. Two sofas and—Our entire trailer isn’t as big as just this one room.”
I pulled her top from her jeans and dragged it over her head. I inhaled as I took in her smooth, creamy skin. I wanted to rip her bra off but knew I had to be patient.
“Are you the richest man in England?” she asked as if it were a serious question.
“Don’t be crazy,” I said, unfastening her jeans. She wiggled, helping me as I peeled them off her. I took a step back as she lay on my bed in her underwear. “But I feel like the luckiest.”
She groaned. “Cheese alert!”
“Is it cheesy if it’s true?” I asked. I crawled over her and stole a kiss.
“Absolutely,” she replied, her fingers undoing the buttons on my shirt. “Especially if it’s pre-sex. It sounds like you’re persuading me to get naked. And I don’t need persuading. Not by you.”
“Oh yes,” I replied, kneeling as I stripped off my open shirt. “The band.” I hooked my thumbs into her underwear and pulled them down. “Now, where are they?”
“They are quite small. You might have to look really hard.”
I chuckled. I don’t think even Tristan made me laugh as often as Hollie did. I kneeled on the floor, my thumbs pressed against her hips, my eyes level with her pussy. “Nope, can’t see a thing. I hope you weren’t lying, Hollie. I’ll be very disappointed if I don’t get a warm welcome.”
She moaned and her hips shifted. “Closer. You have to look very close,” she whispered.
I don’t know who I was torturing more—her or me. I wanted to taste her more than I wanted most things, but knowing she wanted me? Knowing she was wet just at the thought of my tongue on her was doing things to my cock that felt illegal but oh-so-good.
“Still nothing,” I said, the edges of my lips almost touching hers, my breath warming her skin.
She moved her legs a fraction, rubbing the inside of her thigh against my jaw. She moaned. I was toast. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I pressed my tongue over her clit and almost dissolved at the warm slide of her.
Her fingers in my hair urged me on, and all I wanted to do was make her happy, make her come, show her that what we were doing wasn’t banging, whether or not I was her boss. I circled over and over, one way and then the other, feeling her clit unfurl beneath me. I pressed hard and began to flick up and down, reaching up for her hands, linking her fingers with mine. She fought me a little—no doubt unwilling to relinquish control. But I wanted to touch her, make her come—I just wanted her to lie back and enjoy it. From what I could read between the lines of how she described her life back in Oregon, she was all too used to taking responsibility and looking after people, all while feeling like an outsider. I wanted her to see how she could relax with me, how she belonged under my tongue.
She’d confessed to me that I made her edgy. Well I was going to smooth all her edges away.
Her fingers tightened in mine and her hips lifted. “Dexter,” she cried out, almost in disbelief. She made to shift away from me, to escape her pleasure, but I pressed my elbows down onto her thighs, keeping her in place. As I pushed my tongue through her folds, she began to pulse—her entire body juddered as she cried out. I stilled my tongue and watched as her orgasm coursed through her, her eyes opening to mine as she reached the peak and floated down back to me.
“You’re gorgeous,” I said, skirting my thumbs up her palms and then releasing her hands.
She shook her head as she tried to push to her elbows. “You’re . . . I mean. Wow. I’m in trouble.”
I chuckled and crawled over her and she swept her thumbs over my cheekbones and pulled me to her, kissing herself from my lips and then reaching down to undo my jeans. With fast fingers and a weird maneuver with her feet, my jeans and boxers were pushed to my ankles and I shook them off as she unclasped her bra.
“So, I met the band,” I said, lying on top of her as I pushed her hair off her face.
She giggled and squeezed her eyes shut. “How were they?”
“You taste fucking amazing,” I replied. “And watching you come is . . .”
She covered her eyes with her hand and I pulled it down.
“Look at me.”
Slowly she opened her eyes.
“Watching you come is like seeing a cut stone for the first time.” God, what was it with this woman and how corny she had me sounding? But I couldn’t explain it any other way—she was at her most beautiful when she climaxed.
“And it got me rock fucking hard,” I said, moving against her.
“I feel that.” She brought her legs up and I rested against her mound, the throb that had started in my dick spreading down my legs, up my torso. She began to rock under me, just tiny movements, that connected my dick and her clit.
“Are you dry humping me?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t say dry,” she replied.
I groaned just at the thought of driving into her wetness.
“You have a condom?” she asked.
I grabbed the one I’d left on the bedside table before I got undressed and covered my cock in record time. “You ready?”
She took a deep breath as if she were preparing herself for my dick inside her—as if she was slightly concerned it would be too much. Too big. Too hard. It felt like someone had cut the tie on my self-control—I couldn’t wait a moment longer.
I kneeled up, instinctively wanting to take in her reaction when I plunged into her. It wasn’t enough just to fuck her or taste her pussy—I wanted to possess this woman. I positioned her legs over my shoulders and for just a second before I pushed in, I paused, teasing—her or me, I wasn’t sure.
“Please,” she whimpered.
Had this girl burrowed into my subconscious and figured out the exact thing that would press my buttons, send me over the edge, and cause me to lose myself in the moment? Apparently, Hollie Lumen was my kryptonite.
I tensed my body, bracing myself for sensation, and thrust in as deep as I could go. A guttural roar ripped through my throat at being connected to this woman. The feeling was primal, as if what we were doing was necessary for our survival—like if we didn’t fuck, something would be desperately wrong in the world.
She shifted her hips and I turned to press a kiss against the delicate, soft skin of her leg and slid my hand down to press gently on her lower belly before pulling out softly and ramming back in.
Her hand covered mine. “T
hat feels . . .”
I thrust in again and felt the ripples under my palm before she finished her sentence.
“Dexter, I’m going to come again. Wait—”
But I wasn’t going to wait. I couldn’t. Didn’t want to. I wanted to fuck. I wanted her to come and I wanted to do it all night.
I thrust and thrust and my jaw tensed so powerfully I thought it would shatter as her orgasm squeezed me oh-so-tightly. But I didn’t stop—wasn’t going to give her time to recover, make me laugh, make me want her more. No. I was just going to concentrate on fucking her. She was going to see that she should never have joked that she didn’t want to have dinner with me, never questioned whether or not we should date, or whether she should take the job. I was going to convince her that questioning anything to do with us was entirely ridiculous.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her words pushed out in a breathy fog.
“I’m fucking you. We’re fucking.” Sweat sheeted my skin and my lungs filled and emptied as if I was approaching the finishing line on a marathon. But I didn’t care. All I could focus on was this woman beneath me who had me so wound up.
I pulled out and moved her leg from one side to the other so she was on her side and then I pushed in again. The blood sang in my veins as it pumped around my body, pulsing in my wrists, neck and cock. I positioned her leg further up so I could get deeper. I wanted to crawl into her and become one person.
Her hand clamped around the arm that was holding her leg in place and she looked at me, her gaze full of vulnerability and desperation. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.” Her head tipped back and her entire body began to convulse. From this angle, as she clamped around my cock, I couldn’t hold back any longer, didn’t want to. We should have this moment together.
I cried out, ramming myself into her one final time before collapsing behind her.
I wanted to stay like this forever.
Spent.
Floating.
Exhausted but so fucking happy.
Her body sprawled half on mine, and the rise and fall of her rib cage had me mesmerized.
Had sex ever been so all-consuming? So intense?