Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1)

by Isabella Wiles

  Just before she takes me in her mouth, she unexpectedly slips one of the ice cubes from her glass of water onto her tongue. The freezing icy coolness of the melting water against the soft heat of her mouth is mind blowing. My hands naturally reach for her face, cupping the sides of her head with my hands as I groan with pleasure, instinctively thrusting my hips upwards desperately wanting more. I watch her cheeks sucking fervently as she teases and caresses me with her mouth, with her tongue.

  “Oh God, Vicky. I don’t think I can last much longer,” I say quickly, her touch almost pushing me over the edge.

  “Don’t come yet, Chris, I want you inside me. I want to keep a piece of you within me for as long as possible after I’ve gone,” she whispers, looking needily into my eyes.

  Sitting up, she expertly guides me seamlessly into her hot wet core, her warm folds enveloping me as I let out another deep moan of desire. She’s become adept at the tease, controlling the speed and depth of our coupling and I willingly surrender to her skilful lead.

  Lying back on the cool crisp sheets beneath me, I’m in awe of the hot beauty in front of me. Her long, slightly unkempt and unbrushed bed-hair falling seductively over her face and shoulders, partially obscuring her beautiful features that are devoid of any make-up. The perfect cupid’s bow of her full plump lips, her cheeks flushed pink as her own desire continues to ascend with each rise and fall of our own bodies. Her long slim neck that leads down over her slender feminine shoulders, down over her chest, down further still to her slim waist and flat stomach as she sits straddled across me.

  I notice beads of sweat appear around her hairline and in her cleavage as I reach up and cup her small pert breasts that bounce gently with the momentum of our increasing rhythm. I run my thumbs over her taut pink rosebuds, causing her to breathe in sharply, filling her lungs with air. She lets out an involuntary cry of pleasure as she continues to ride me eagerly, running her fingers seductively through her own hair before falling forwards onto my own chest as she continues to lose control, her own desire mounting and rising within her.

  Lovingly holding her face in my hands, I reach up and push the hair back from her face, so I can look deep into the vibrant deep green pools of her eyes, feeling our souls connecting and I see tears glisten on their surface, the pure rawness of the moment overwhelming us both. There is a vulnerability and virtue emulating from her that seemed to have evaporated a couple of months ago, from when we were in Hong Kong I think, that thankfully has returned, making our union more intense, more real and more truthful.

  Being inside Vicky is where I belong, she is my home, my safe haven, my harbour. I pull her face closer so I can kiss her passionately again, our hot mouths connecting as we feed off each other’s need for one another.

  I feel her body begin to shudder on top of mine, as she cries out, throwing her head back, her orgasm taking hold. I grasp her hips firmly, thrusting myself deep into her core, releasing my seed into her, feeling her body milking mine as we climax together. It’s impossible to feel where I end and Vicky begins, our energies blurring together as our souls transcend our physical bodies for the briefest of moments.

  Drained and satiated we lie together in each other’s arms, completely spent, neither of us in any rush to be the first to speak, to break the spell and bring us back to reality. The sound of our own breath entering and leaving our bodies, together with the quiet music of the radio in the background, the only sounds that fills the moonlit space.

  Vicky is the first to speak. Sitting up, she slides her hands behind her neck and unclasps her necklace.

  “Chris, I want you to take this,” she says solemnly handing me the solid gold orb and chain. “It’s the most precious thing I own. It was my grandfather’s Masonic Orb. He gave it to me before he died, and I’ve never taken it off since. I’ve often noticed the unusual gold chain and orb necklace she wears but I’ve never understood the significance of it before now.

  “My grandfather was a freemason - it’s an ancient organisation in the UK that goes back centuries to the Middle Ages. Back then, every craft and skill had a membership fraternity designed to regulate the skill and quality of that trade. The masons are descended from stonemasons,” she adds in response to my blank questioning stare.

  “Oh,” I add, still none the wiser.

  “Anyway, today its members have nothing to do with stonemasonry, it’s more like a kind of business support network for influential folk in the community. Actually, it’s quite a secretive organisation, so unless you’re a member, nobody really knows what goes on, but my grandfather was a member for as long as I can remember.”

  “OK,” I say sensing this is important to her, “I’ve always thought that it is an unusual piece of jewellery and I’ve never seen you take it off but I had no idea it belonged to your grandfather.”

  “See, it opens,” she says. Holding the orb in one hand, she pulls on a hidden lever with the other and the circular sphere releases from the claw to unfold into a cross shaped pendant. Its innards are punctuated by six pyramids that lock together when it’s closed, and I can see tiny engraved symbols on each side of the pyramids. It looks positively medieval.

  “Wow, I didn’t know it did that,” I say amazed.

  “I know. I have no idea what any of the symbols mean, but that’s not the point. What makes this so important to me is that this belonged to my grandfather, who was such an important part of my life. I absolutely idolised him. He was such a kind and hard-working man. The hardest working person I’ve ever known. He came from nothing and turned himself into something just through blood, sweat and hard graft. Wearing it keeps me connected to him and I want you to keep it safe and return it to me as fast as you possibly can.”

  Now I appreciate the gravitas of the gesture, and why she’s giving this to me. It’s a promise. “I will. I’ll treasure it,” I say gravely, taking the precious necklace from her, “and I promise you’ll have it back around your neck very soon.”

  Chapter 18

  Victoria

  “Pass me the roller,” Michelle asks turning towards me, leaning back to stretch, her hands pressed into the base of her spine as she curves backwards, her modest bump protruding out in front of her.

  “Here you go,” I say, passing her the reloaded paint roller, so she doesn’t have to bend down to reach the tray of paint which is parked on top of the dust-sheet covered carpet. We’re decorating the second bedroom of her flat in Russell Square, to get it ready for the baby coming, which although still a good four months away, she wants to get done before she gets too big and heavy. Having decided not to find out the sex of their unborn child, Michelle and David have opted for a non-gender specific light mint green paint to freshen up the room.

  “This colour is going to look lovely, Michelle, once it’s dried,” I say standing back to admire our handiwork. “I’ll give your back a rub later if you like,” I add looking over in her direction. Her discomfort and backache obvious as her pregnancy progresses.

  “Oh, that would be lovely, Vic-to-ria. Thank you,” Michelle is the only member of Chris’s family that calls me by my full name, often exaggerating the annunciation. I’ve noticed she does this to Chris as well. She’ll call him Chris when she talks about him but will call him Chris-to-pher to his face. I love that she does this to me as well. It makes me feel accepted. Part of her tribe.

  Six weeks have passed since I arrived back from New Zealand and in that time, as I’d hoped I’ve secured a new job up in London which I start a week on Monday. Melanie has already moved out of the house we shared in Wootton Bassett having accepted a transfer to another location. As I suspected she was ready to make her next move and glad of our joint decision to let the lease go on the house we were sharing in Wiltshire.

  “It’s been emotional,” she’d said after we finished cleaning the house from top to bottom a couple of weekends ago, hugging me warmly before packing up her rented car to move her gear to the new house she’ll be sharing with a new housemat
e.

  “I know. What was it you’d said to me on that very first night after I’d left Steve and we went clubbing… ‘let the games begin’?” I’d said, mirroring the overly dramatic hand gestures she used at the time. “Well I think it’s fair to say, Melanie, games have definitely been had!”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “A new chapter for both of us. Hey, what you crying for, Chook? We’ll be seeing each other again very soon. I’ll catch up with you when Chris gets back, or we’re bound to bump into each other at Michelle’s in the very near future.”

  Looking into Mellie’s glassy eyes I could tell that she was also holding back the tears that threatened to spill over. “I know. Ignore me. I’m being silly,” I’d said. “It’s just that this feels like the end of an era, Mel. So much has happened since we met and became friends,” I said, closing her car door, leaning in through the driver’s window to give her a final hug.

  “It was meant to be. Take care, Vicky. Love you,” she said, finishing our conversation, her right hand waving out of the car window as she drove away.

  A sense of sadness had washed over me as I’d walked back inside the little house that was once so full of life, now noticeably devoid of any noise or company. The space seeming huge with only me in it. Walking solemnly back into the kitchen I’d flicked the switch on the kettle, wrapping my own arms around myself as I’d waited for it to boil. Once again, I was alone. All alone, but then again, growing up as an only child it was a familiar feeling, if an unwelcome one.

  I’m due to move up to London permanently next weekend, bunking in with Michelle, and starting my new job on Monday morning in the City, which is why I’m here this weekend helping Michelle to decorate, so that her second bedroom is ready for my temporary occupation before being converted into the nursery once I move out. David is away this weekend at a conference, so I was more than happy to step in and help out. Anything to get me away from the another long lonely weekend back in Wootton Bassett on my own.

  Chris still has no idea when he will be able to return. Him and I seemingly stuck in a permanent limbo. According to his last letter he’s sold all of the cars but one - the black Merc. But as is often the case in business, it’s always the last deal which holds all of the profit, so until that final car is sold he’s unable to come back home. It’s terminally depressing but both of us are powerless to do anything about it, so we’ve adopted a war-like spirit and are gritting our teething, carrying on as best we can, living separate lives with the hope we can be reunited before we drift too far apart.

  My new job is a more senior role with the same company. Another small step up the career ladder. Only this time the client, instead of an international electricity company, is a large American investment bank. Headquartered in New York, but with branches in every major financial city around the world, I’m expecting the travel needs will be simpler than what I’d had to manage previously. Rather than involve moving engineers and senior managers from one obscure place in the world to another, this is more likely to involve flying their executives from Frankfurt to Hong Kong or from London to New York. However, I also anticipate that these guys will have large egos that will need massaging. They’re rich, well-educated, privileged and - I’m also anticipating - arrogant. Along with sorting their first-class travel and five-star hotels, I’ve heard it’s not unusual to be asked to organise flowers for their wives, whilst simultaneously sending chocolates to their girlfriends! However, I’m up for the challenge and for the first time in my career, I have a small team to supervise.

  “Tea?” I ask Michelle. “I think we’ve earned a cuppa. Come on. Let’s take a break for half an hour and have a quick sit down with a cuppa and a biscuit. Or would you prefer a warm milky Milo?” I’d purposefully packed a couple of tubs of the dried powder for Michelle when I came back, knowing it’s a favourite of hers that she can’t get over here in the UK, and also appreciating she has to be careful with the amount of caffeine she’s drinking while she’s pregnant.

  “Actually, what I really fancy is a glass of chardonnay but until this little one arrives,” she says rubbing her tummy, “a warm Milo will have to do.”

  Michelle’s third floor flat, like so many in central London, is a simple layout. A straightforward rectangular floorplan is divided on one side into an open plan living room and kitchen, partitioned by a sliding screen door and the other side of the flat is divided into two bedrooms and a bathroom. Usually, for central London, it does have the bonus of a small balcony that leads out from a door at the side of the living room and runs in front of the bedrooms. The outlook faces East and overlooks the postage-stamp size patch of grass that is Brunswick Square Gardens. By London standards even a view of a small green space is a luxury but if I’m honest, after the magnificence of New Zealand’s South Island it’s not even a close consolation and I have no idea how Chris is going to cope living in this massive and overcrowded city when he does eventually make it back here. I worry he will feel like a caged animal and the tiger spirit within him, the dangerous energy in him that is constantly bubbling below the surface, will erupt and need to either lash out or run away.

  I pull two cups out of the cupboard, just as the kettle boils, the room suddenly fills with competing sounds. The audible click of the ‘on’ button clicking back into place on the kettle, the sound of the water bubbling violently and the high pitch of the telephone which has just begun to ring.

  “You go,” I say across to Michelle, “I’ll make the drinks.”

  I hear her exchange a couple of pleasantries before she returns into the kitchen, a wide smile plastered all over her face.

  “It’s for you,” she announces. “I’ll finish up here. Go,” she commands.

  I walk through to the hallway and pick up the handset.

  “Hello?” I say into the receiver having no idea who could be at the other end. It could be my mum calling for a quick natter, Melanie or even Tim, who, knowing I’m in town may want to organise brunch tomorrow.

  “Hey, ya olde goose. How ya doing?” My heart flips over instantly at the sound of Chris’s voice, my hand instinctively flying up to cover my mouth in shock.

  “Oh my God, Chris. How are you? It’s so good to hear from you. Thanks for your last letter which arrived just yesterday,” my words as usual when we speak, coming thick and fast.

  “I’m good, Vicky. Look I’m keeping this quick as I’m in the car and on my mobile, so this will be costing a fortune and I’ve already left you a message on the answerphone at home, called your mum, then called Mellie and finally here trying to track you down,” he sounds excited. I hear him take an audible deep breath in before blurting out, “I’m coming home.”

  “Oh, Chris!” My tears well up immediately at the release of knowing our separation is to be over.

  “I’m on my way up to Auckland right now. I have a buyer for the Merc.”

  I automatically do the quick calculations in my head and whilst it’s 8pm, Saturday night here, it’s 9am on Sunday morning for Chris,

  “And once I’ve completed the deal tomorrow, I’m going to stay with Dean, Lisa and the kids for a few days, then I’ve got my ticket to London booked. I leave at the end of the week and I’ll be back in London just before lunchtime on Monday.

  “Oh, God. I start my new job that day, Chris, so there’s no way I can take the day off to come and meet you at Heathrow, but you must come and find me at lunchtime at least. I’ll fax the address of my new office to Dean’s.”

  “Shame. I had visions of taking you straight to bed and shagging the arse off you as soon as I land, but I absolutely will come and raid your new office at lunchtime,” he says mischief radiating from his voice. “I have your necklace with me. In fact, it’s right in front of me. I have it hooked around the rear-view mirror of the car right now and I can’t wait to put it back around your neck. Not long now, sweetheart. Just hold on for one more week, Vicky and I’ll see you very soon.”

  “I will. I love you, Chris.”

&
nbsp; “I love you too, Goose. I’m going to go now. Apart from the fact I’m driving, and I should be concentrating on the road, this is costing a king’s ransom, but I had to call you. I couldn’t wait a moment longer to tell you. This week will fly by, sweetheart, I promise. And I’ll be there before you know it. See ya.”

  “Bye, Chris. See you soon,” I say finally before the line goes dead.

  I rush back into the kitchen and fall into Michelle’s arms, sobbing. Tears of relief flooding down my cheeks and landing in damp pools on her shoulder.

  As Chris predicated the following week flew by. By the time I’d finished packing up my stuff, completing the official handover of our old house in Wootton Basset, accepting a couple of invitations to go out for goodbye drinks with both clients and colleagues from the team in Swindon, it was Friday night and I found myself driving east up the M4 corridor once again to head into London. Michelle is away this weekend, visiting friends out of town, which actually worked out perfectly. Other than I had to single-handedly lug all my suitcases and heavy boxes up three flights of stairs, I’m looking forward to a chilled Saturday slobbing out in front of the TV, wearing only sweat-pants and munching on the biggest bag of crisps, that I plan to have in one hand whilst in the other, a bottle of New Zealand’s finest Sauvignon Blanc.

  By Sunday night, despite the fact I should be absolutely knackered having lugged suitcases and boxes from one house to another, as well as cleaned the flat, changed the bedlinen, filled the fridge with home-cooked Thai curries, spaghetti bolognese and steak pies, all in preparation for Chris’s arrival tomorrow, I find I can’t sleep. My head on my pillow, Chris’s t-shirt wrapped around it, as is now my usual custom, the butterflies in my stomach refuse to settle, making sleep impossible. I can’t decipher my mental state. I know I’m beyond excited, like a child on Christmas Eve. But my excitement is also tinged with a mix of more confusing emotions.