His hands grasped my breasts and his fingertips squeezed small pulses of ecstasy from my nipples. My ragged gasps matched his own and I called his name as I felt myself ascend once again to the highest peak of bliss, hovering for an endless moment on the brink of orgasm, then letting myself fall into a pleasure so intense that it felt as if I was flying.
It was earth-shattering and gorgeous and utterly satisfying. I moaned, closing my eyes as the contractions of delight seemed to melt my insides and dissolve every fibre of my being.
Holding me firmly by my hips, he slowed his rhythm again, moving sensually in time with the waves of my orgasm, prolonging my fulfilment, intensifying the contractions as my muscles gripped his cock and I actually sobbed with ecstasy.
‘Jesus, Emma … I can’t … I can’t hold back any longer.’
Swiftly, he pulled out and I collapsed on top of him. I tasted the sweat on his jaw, then felt his hands grasping my buttocks and his hips bucking powerfully under me as he came.
The next time I woke up, sunlight was streaming in through the curtains. I turned my head to look at Simon, wanting to see him asleep, but as I did he opened his eyes, saw me, smiled.
I smiled back and for a few moments we just lay there, beaming at each other idiotically. I don’t think either of us was sure what to say – I know I certainly wasn’t – but Simon found a safe subject.
‘Coffee?’
‘That’d be great,’ I said, relieved.
Twenty minutes later I was showered and dressed and sitting at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. He poured my coffee from the jug in his filter machine, stirred in sugar and passed it over to me.
‘When do you need to be back home?’
I had no clients that day. I wasn’t even planning on going to see Mark, since I would be seeing him tomorrow at the Caines’ family hoopla. I had nothing to do except spend the day at home, thinking of Simon.
But I couldn’t let him know that I would be spending the day alone, still less that I was besotted with him. So I opened my mouth, ready and prepared to tell him that I had something on that afternoon, and of course what came out was the truth. ‘Whenever. I’m not busy today.’
Mortified at what I’d implied, I actually felt my face start to burn, although the pleased smile he gave me went some way to alleviating my shame.
‘Good. So what would you like to do?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’d love to do. Cook us some food and pack a picnic, and go for a long walk together. In a park, maybe.’
‘Excellent idea. We can go to Delta Park. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready.’
While Simon was showering, I checked the fridge to see what he had available. A quick perusal of the contents told me that he was a Woolworths shopper and a fairly healthy eater. I found a couple of fillets and some wholewheat rolls together with a few pre-prepared meals in the freezer. Salad ingredients in the vegetable drawer. Free-range eggs on one of the shelves. A couple of bottles of sauvignon Blanc and some sparkling water. And butter, not margarine. Looking in the kitchen cupboard I found spices, herbs, a tin of chickpeas, and other essentials like pasta and couscous.
I walked back into his bedroom and rummaged through my bag in search of a clip to keep the hair out of my eyes while I cooked. I could still hear the sound of the shower running. While he was in the bathroom, I found myself tempted to peek into his cupboards and see what was there. What was his life like behind the scenes? Would I see work clothes, casual wear, linen and luggage? Or would I open the door to a jumbled array of women’s underwear, vibrators, bondage magazines and fetish gear?
Where did Simon hide the secrets of his sexuality, assuming he hid them at all?
In the end my curiosity won and I opened the nearest cupboard, only to find myself confronted by shelves and hangers full of brightly coloured, neatly folded cycling tops, rain jackets, T-shirts and jeans.
Then my attention was caught by a cardboard box at the back on the far right-hand side. Was that where his alter-ego lived? Peering closer I saw it was sealed up with brown packaging tape. And, with a tightening of my stomach, I saw that the name ‘Paula’ was written in neat capital letters on the top.
Paula. The woman he’d fallen in love with while working in Dubai, the one who’d betrayed his trust, although I still didn’t know why. So she’d visited him here in Johannesburg. She’d slept in his bed. She’d played his games.
I wondered what Paula would have chosen to do on a day like today. I had a feeling that a woman of the calibre that would attract Simon Nel’s romantic attention would be both beautiful and cultured – broadminded, of course, would also be a given. Probably, she would have opted for a far more sophisticated outing. A visit to an art gallery followed by Champagne tasting, perhaps. And here I was, packing a picnic and taking him for a trek around a park.
Then, with a serpent of jealousy uncoiling inside me, I wondered what her stuff was doing here. Had he kept it out of hope she’d reconsider, or as a way to remember her? Had the conversation gone something like, ‘Let me send it back to you.’ ‘No, no, I really don’t need it. Give it away.’ But he hadn’t.
I realised that the shower had stopped and I shut the cupboard door and hurried back into the kitchen, firmly suppressing the thoughts I’d had and remembering that, given the terms of our relationship, I was neither entitled nor empowered to be jealous.
‘So what are we going to have for our picnic?’ Simon asked, striding into the kitchen. His damp hair flopped over his forehead and his dark blue eyes were sparkling.
‘Roasted tomato and puff pastry tartlets, Greek salad, falafel, crumbed fillet strips, hummus and tzatziki, and double chocolate brownies,’ I told him. ‘We need to buy pastry, French bread, cucumber, garlic, olives and some dark chocolate.’
‘Wow!’Simon exclaimed. ‘I had no idea you were a gourmet cook. That sounds wonderful.’
Half an hour later we were shopping for picnic stuff, and as we scoured the shelves for the right kind of olives and discussed the merits of different types of chocolate, I was struck by how harmonious this process was. Had there ever been a shopping trip with Mark where we hadn’t ended up disagreeing about something? If we hadn’t been quarrelling over what to buy, we’d been arguing about how much we should spend. Why had it always happened that way, even before we’d got married? I didn’t know now.
I’d never wanted to fight with Mark, but I’d ended up having to stand up for myself or be steamrollered. I’d hated conflict, so why had I committed myself to a conflicted relationship?
I insisted on paying, and when we got back to Simon’s place, I did what I’d been itching to do ever since I’d first seen his kitchen, which was to prepare a sumptuous picnic using his amazing, state-of-the-art stove.
Simon stood behind me while I sprinkled salt and sugar on the juicy halves of the plum tomatoes, readying them for the oven. He ran his hands around my shoulders and lightly caressed my breasts, and I caught my breath, leaning against him.
‘We’re not going to get out of the kitchen at this rate,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’
I lifted my hand towards his mouth, my fingers coated with translucent crystals, and felt his lips close around them as he licked the salt and sugar from my skin. The sensation tightened a cord of desire deep inside me, and for a burning moment I wanted nothing more than to turn, wrap my arms around his shoulders, hitch my hips onto the kitchen counter and let him take me as I dug my nails into his back and my teeth into his neck, crushing my lips against his as I felt him thrust inside me again …
‘Enough now,’ I said, more harshly than I had intended, using my mistress’s voice even though it didn’t come out quite right. ‘You’re taking liberties with the cook.’
‘A punishable offence?’ He gave a breathless laugh and for a moment my brain reeled at the honesty of his delightful depravation, this wayward man who revelled in my discipline, who wore his scars like badges, and who in spi
te of this – or perhaps because of it – was the most perceptive and ardent lover I had ever known.
Suitably chastised, he moved away from me, but after a short pause to collect his wits, he hovered without touching me, being helpful and passing things and making comments like ‘This is smelling divine’ and ‘You really love cooking, don’t you?’.
As for me, I was in heaven. It had been more than a year since I’d used a proper stove. More than a year since I’d cooked using anything except a wok. It was a profoundly joyful process to smear the puff pastry squares with the rich, sweet, roasted tomato reduction I’d made and put them in the oven – in the oven – to bake. To be able to simultaneously deep-fry the falafel balls while braising the crumbed fillet to browned and tender perfection. To have a kitchen filling with the combined aromas that spoke of food, passion and love.
By half-past twelve everything was packed up and we set off for Delta Park. It was a perfect early-autumn day. The sky was deep blue and cloudless. The air was dry and the temperature mild. The intense heat of summer was ebbing, and it was pleasant to be outside even in the middle of the day. The grass was starting to dry, and the leaves were turning red, copper and gold.
Idyllic as the day was, I found I couldn’t fully appreciate its magic. I was too distracted by the sense of deep regret that had settled over me. The relationship I desired so much with Simon would never happen – he’d told me as much – and after our night together I now felt I was about to lose what had become the most important part of my life. I stared out of the window and waited for the feeling to pass, but it didn’t, and it was still there when I looked back at him.
If only, I thought … if only.
The truth was, though, that my life would never have been any different.
If Mark had never existed, I’d still have ended up looking for somebody like him, because that was what I’d thought I needed. I’d turned my back on the men I’d known in my wilder days, believing they were wrong for me. I’d become ashamed of my past. In fact, I’d been in denial about it.
If it hadn’t been for Mark’s accident and my need to make money …well, I would never have met Simon at all.
I gave a little sigh as the grim irony of the situation sank in.
And then we were pulling into the car park area, and it was time to think of happier things. Time to tighten the laces on my walking shoes and grab my hat from the back seat and set off in the dappled shade with him, our hands swinging together and clasping so that anybody who saw us must have thought we were a couple. A loving couple enjoying an outing on a glorious day.
We went for an hour’s brisk walk along the grassy paths and around the lakes conversing rather breathlessly about everything from cycling to horse riding, from where we had gone to school to where we had travelled in the world.
By the time we were headed back towards the car I was getting warm and my legs were tired. I was a fast walker and so it seemed was he,
because we’d set the pace for each other all the way.
Now, with the finish line in sight, I let go of his hand.
‘Race you to the car,’ I shouted, already running my fastest. Sometimes, the only way to win is to cheat. I heard him call out behind me in a surprised voice, and then the pounding of his feet as he tried, too late, to catch up. My legs were burning with the effort and I was gasping for air, and if the car had been any further away he would have caught me for sure. But my head start and the short distance meant that I reached it a split second before him, lightly touching my hand to the bonnet in victory and then staggering to a stop, giggling and panting, as he pulled up beside me.
‘Emma … I’m going to have … to punish you for that,’ he joked.
‘No, I’m going to punish you. For being too slow.’ I responded between gulps of air. Then we were both laughing and he wrapped his arms around me and held me close and smoothed my hair back from my damp forehead and although I longed to read the expression in his eyes I was too scared he might see what was in mine, so instead I pressed my face into his neck.
‘You know, you are so unlike what I expected,’ he said.
Now I glanced up at him in concern. ‘What did you think I’d be like?’ I hadn’t known he’d had any expectations in that regard. Just as well or I’d have worried even more than I already had about not living up to them.
‘Well, I guess from your advertisement I had a preconceived idea you’d be … I don’t know. Harder. Yes, harder is the best word. Not someone I could ever imagine …’ He cut himself off and I wondered what he’d been going to say. ‘Not someone I could ever imagine enjoying a gourmet picnic with on a beautiful autumn day,’ he finished with a wry smile. ‘So let’s get the food, shall we?’
So we took the basket and the cooler and the blanket and pillows out of the car, with me still trying to decide exactly what he had meant.
Did harder in this context mean tougher and more uncompromising? Or did it mean coarser, brasher, more common, the way you might expect someone working in the sex industry to be?
I had no idea, so pushing the questions out of my head I walked back into the park with Simon to look for the perfect picnic spot.
We stayed in the park until early evening. I’d made enough food for at least six people. After we’d eaten lunch and eaten some more and drunk the wine and Simon had made complimentary remarks about my cooking, we lay down, made ourselves comfortable on the cushions, and I drifted off into sleep with him stroking my hair.
When I woke, Simon was packing the picnic away and it was time to go. The end of a perfect day and, I feared, an unrepeatable one.
We walked back to the car through the deepening shadows, and as we were driving out of the gates I said, ‘Simon, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course you can. But if the question involves restraint devices of any kind, give me fair warning, ok? I don’t want to swerve into oncoming traffic.’
It was easier to ask it when he was looking straight ahead, in any case.
‘I just wondered …’ I began, and I hoped he couldn’t hear that my voice was unsteady with nervousness, because I definitely could. I really wasn’t good with personal questions at the best of times, and I now realised that this one was proving to be incredibly hard because I felt so invested in the answer. I was no longer simply curious. I needed to know what had gone wrong between him and the previous girlfriend who he’d loved and who had loved him.
If I hadn’t got myself so emotionally involved in all of this, it would be easier to ask and I wouldn’t care about the answer. Now, I cared deeply – but I did not want him to know that.
Hell, once I’d finished overanalysing all of this, it would be far easier to ask him if he wanted to wear the wicked device I’d seen online, the one with seven padlocks.
Summoning up my courage, I continued.
‘You mentioned that your last relationship ended because of a breach of trust.’
I just about stammered over the word ‘relationship’. I was useless. There was honestly no hope for me. He’d better keep his eyes on the road because I was sure my face and neck had turned an unattractive puce.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘I just wondered – I couldn’t help wondering – I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but – what was the breach of trust?’
Now I dared to glance at him, but he didn’t look at me. He kept his gaze fixed on the road in front of him.
‘Paula didn’t tell me she was married,’ he said.
Chapter 31
As we headed back to Sandton, Simon elaborated on his words. He described the expat scene in Dubai and the way things were over there, how he’d fallen hard for Paula believing her to be as single as she’d told him she was, and how nearly a year later he had found out about her husband back in London, which, of course, had caused the inevitable heartbreaking bust-up. How he’d been angry for months, and in the end realised that the anger was only eating him up inside, so he’
d forgiven her and moved on.
I listened to his words, but it was as if I heard them through the static created by the storm of my own frantic thoughts, and I could offer no response.
She’d broken his trust by lying to him.
And I? I had lied too. I’d concealed truths from him and told him outright falsehoods about my circumstances. I was married, too. I was no better than Paula. Simon had offered me his trust and I’d already breached it.
Fuck.
How the hell could I explain? Where would I even begin?
I couldn’t explain. Removing even one brick from the defensive wall of my untruths would bring the whole structure tumbling down.
Now he was glancing at me questioningly.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked.
I groped for something appropriate to say, but in the end just shook my head.
He looked over at me again and I knew he’d guessed that I was keeping something back.
I needed some distance, and urgently. I needed to think this whole thing through and find a way out. And the timing was disastrous. There was no way I could manage to get through the next few hours with him and not have him realise something really was amiss. And yet, I couldn’t just run off, Cinderella-like, when he was expecting to spend the evening with me.
The implications of my decisions felt like a lead weight over my shoulders. Somehow, I needed to escape them.
And suddenly I thought of the only solution open to me.
‘You said that, with Paula, you would sometimes switch,’ I said. ‘That you’d be the dominant one and she would be submissive.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Mostly, yes.’
‘Because I was wondering … I’ve never experienced that, and I want to try.’
‘Submission?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, Emma?’
‘To see what it’s like. To understand what you feel.’
He was quiet for so long that the silence between us started to grow uneasy. Then, just as I was about to take back my request, he spoke.
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