In At the Deep End

by Penelope Janu

  ‘Jesus,’ Per says, pulling me backwards against his body and crossing his arms around my middle, cocooning me. ‘Easy, Harriet. Breathe.’

  My back is warm against his front. The side of his face rests on mine. I’m not under the water and neither is he. We’re here, safe.

  He counts slowly. ‘En, to, tre, fire, fem.’ A few minutes pass and we’re breathing in time. I’m aware of Per rhythmically stroking my sides from the base of my rib cage to my hips, and back again. The nausea has gone.

  I shift in his arms. ‘I’d better get back.’

  He sighs and stands up straighter, but he doesn’t let me go. ‘Soon.’ He points to a tassel. ‘What’s that thing called? In English.’

  My voice is croaky. ‘There’s no need to distract me. I’m okay.’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s why I asked.’

  He didn’t know about flannelette pyjamas so he mightn’t know about this.

  ‘It’s a tassel.’

  He turns me around so we’re facing each other, then he reaches for my ponytail. He threads the strands of hair through his fingers, again and again, and then smooths them down. I can’t take my eyes from his face. He’s looking at my hair as if it fascinates him.

  ‘What are you doing, Per?’

  ‘Gyllen dusk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gyllen dusk. Golden tassel. That’s what your hair is.’

  I’m terrified I’m blushing, so I take a deep breath and step away. ‘You’re just being kind to me so I don’t puke on you.’

  He crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes are silvery grey, like the stripes on the chaise lounge, as his gaze travels from my face to my neck to my breasts.

  ‘Those pearls suit you.’ His voice is husky.

  ‘They were my mother’s.’

  His hands are nowhere near my breasts but my nipples tingle. And there’s a warm ache that extends from my belly to my thighs. When he reaches for me, I step straight into his arms and rest my cheek against his chest as if this is a rational thing to do, even though we’ve been at loggerheads for most of the evening. His heart is thumping like crazy. I put one hand over my left breast, just like he’s taught me to, and compare our heart rates. I look up in surprise.

  He swallows. ‘What?’

  ‘Your heart is beating quicker than mine.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s never happened before. Maybe you’re having a heart attack.’

  ‘I told you a week ago, you’re killing me.’ His face is tense and drawn, and when I smile at him he doesn’t smile back.

  ‘You can be funny,’ I say, fitting my body to his. His erection is pressed against my stomach.

  He stares at my face for a moment and then he groans, reaching between our bodies for my hands. ‘I gave you my word not to touch you,’ he says. ‘Not to act inappropriately.’

  I’ve never desired anyone before, not properly. I liked it when Grant kissed me but I didn’t like having sex with him. What I really wanted him to do was just to hold me, but I was so desperate to please him that I went along with what he wanted.

  This is different. Per is different. I’m attracted to him even though I don’t like him a lot of the time. He’s attracted to me even though he thinks I’m incompetent and reckless.

  ‘We’re not at the beach,’ I say. I’m looking at his mouth, and he’s looking at mine.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  When I kissed him in my bedroom he was the one to pull back. I free my hands and shove him in the chest. ‘Right, then. Don’t worry about it.’

  He closes his eyes for a moment. ‘We can meet tomorrow, walk along the beach.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  His jaw is tight. He’s white around the mouth. It’s the same shade as his scar. He moves me aside to get to the door but instead of storming out like I expect him to do, he locks it. Then he rests his forehead against the doorframe before turning around and facing me.

  He takes his jacket off and throws it over the back of the chaise lounge. ‘You wanted this,’ he says, ‘so you can’t accuse me of acting inappropriately. Is that understood?’

  He’s angry. But sexy-angry. I’m not sure how to handle him.

  ‘You’re the one in control,’ he says, undoing his cuffs and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Just like in the pool. So I’m not making you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not taking over. Got that?’

  I don’t know whether I’m nervous because he’s taking off his tie and undoing the button at his throat, or because the ballroom is only twenty metres away—on the other side of the door and down the corridor. Is anyone looking for us? Professor Tan, or Lisa Toohey? Maybe Kat, or someone else from the Torrens table?

  He drapes his tie on the hook where one of the tassels hangs and gestures that I sit on the chaise lounge. I’m ramrod straight in the middle of the seat when he kneels in front of me. We’re at eye level.

  ‘If you intend to kiss me, Harriet, you’d better stop frowning and pressing your lips together.’

  When I smile, he touches my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. Which is when I look at him properly and see that he’s not nearly as calm as he’s pretending to be. His eyes are bright, his face has more colour than usual, and his breaths are short, even a little ragged. I touch his face, skating my fingers over his cheekbones, jaw and chin. I kiss his scar and then draw back.

  ‘You have wonderful bone structure. Your face is almost perfectly symmetrical. And you have a widow’s peak. That’s very unusual.’

  ‘I’m an identical twin. My brother looks the same.’

  ‘Do you have to have an answer for everything? What’s his name?’

  ‘Tør.’

  I run my fingers through his hair. It’s thick and smooth. He presses his face against the inside of my arm.

  ‘Does Tør have longer hair than you? Is he in the navy too? What does he do?’

  ‘Yes. No. Diplomat. Are you going to kiss me or not?’

  ‘Will you join in properly this time?’

  His hands rest on my upper arms, and his fingers clench and unclench. His voice is gruff. ‘Yes.’

  I take his hands and hold them on my lap. Then I study his forearms. His skin is tanned, and the muscles are firm.

  ‘I like your arms,’ I say, running my hands over them.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he says.

  At first I use my fingers to touch his lips, and then I kiss him gently, but thoroughly. He sighs deeply when our tongues meet. I think he’s relieved I’ve finally got around to it. I touch the corner of his lip with my tongue, and his mouth slides across my mouth to do the same. I suck tentatively on the tip of his tongue and he finds mine and mimics my action. His hands feather over the back of my neck as I hold his face between my palms. When we’re both breathing unsteadily I ease away, and then I lick his bottom lip and take it between my teeth, like I did months ago. I loosen my hold and mumble against his mouth. ‘Shall I bite it?’

  His voice is so croaky I can hardly understand his words. ‘Jesus. Yes.’

  The sensation of having him moaning into my mouth as I play with his lips and tongue arouses me more than I’d ever have thought possible. He’s still kneeling in front of me. I undo his second button, and the next one, and slide my hands inside his shirt. The skin of his throat is smooth, and the muscles of his neck and the exposed part of his chest are warm and hard. When I trail kisses over them he mutters words in Norwegian. I kiss my way back up to his mouth and speak against his lips.

  ‘What’s “Jeg vil ha deg?” What else did you say?’

  ‘I want you. Like crazy.’ He kisses me, briefly and hard. Then he looks at his watch. ‘It’s almost eleven.’

  I nuzzle his neck. ‘Tan wants me to thank everyone for coming.’

  He grumbles. ‘Fuck Tan.’

  ‘My car will be here at twelve.’

  He turns his head to search for my mouth and then we’re kissing all over again. I think he must’ve liked it
when I touched his mouth with my fingers because he keeps pulling back, and running his fingers over my lips. When I softly bite his thumb his breath catches in his throat. I drag his shirt out of his trousers and open all the buttons so I can see him properly. But when I try to take the shirt off he looks towards the door and shakes his head, so I have to be content with opening the crisp white fabric as wide as I can. I’ve seen the shape of his body plenty of times in his wetsuit so I know he’s slender and muscular, but this is different. His nipples are flat and dark brown. His navel is neat. He has hardly any hair on his chest, but there’s a line of hair running down his stomach to the waistband of his trousers. I think he knows I’d like to see more of it because he says, ‘Nei, Harriet,’ in a gravelly voice when my hand goes to his belt.

  I give him a shaky smile as I stroke his stomach. ‘I know what that means.’

  He cups my face with one hand and wraps my ponytail around his wrist with the other.

  ‘Du er vakker,’ he says.

  ‘I am … what?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  I sit back and study his body again. I’d like to draw him, just like this. I dip my head and kiss his nipple. He tenses immediately, which encourages me to sweep over his other nipple with my tongue. That makes him even tenser, so I run my finger over one wet nipple while I lick the other. I’m smiling when he grasps the tops of my arms and sits me up straight. At first he stares at my mouth, but then he holds my face firmly in his hands and stares into my eyes.

  ‘Can’t.’ His voice is rough. His gaze sweeps down to my breasts. My dress is gaping at the front and my breasts are rising and falling with each breath I take. He lowers one hand and it hovers over my body, but then he brings it back to my face. It’s a little shaky. ‘Can’t do …’ He looks over my shoulder.

  ‘Can’t do what?’

  Suddenly I’m aware of how warm his hands are. His palms and fingers are hot like he has a fever. But his eyes aren’t feverish. They’re determined and …

  He’s holding back. I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier, but that’s what he’s doing. And that’s also why—even though he must be far more experienced than me—he hasn’t initiated anything. He told me at the start that I’m responsible for this, and that I’m in control. So he’s determined not to lose control of his own responses. Kissing me was obviously manageable. But touching my breasts? Would that be more difficult?

  I narrow my eyes. ‘You said I was in control, didn’t you?’

  He exhales on a shaky breath. ‘Yes.’

  I swivel around so my back is to him, and then I turn my head to the side. ‘Can you pull my zip down?’

  He’s silent for ages. I imagine him counting. Then he groans, and buries his face at the side of my neck.

  ‘Don’t do this, Harriet. Please. We’re in a fucking cupboard here. Tan will be looking for us. This bench thing—it won’t even hold my weight.’

  ‘This,’ I pat the seat, ‘is called a chaise lounge. And you promised to participate. You gave me your word. I want you to touch my breasts.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he says, as he slowly draws down the zip. When I slip the straps over my shoulders the dress slithers down to my waist. He grumbles. ‘This is not a good …’

  I’m not wearing a bra. The air is cool on my skin. I shiver a little, but within seconds I’m warm again because he puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses all the way down my spine to my waist, and then up again to the base of my neck. Then he pulls me back against his body. He runs his fingers down the strand of pearls until his hands meet, just above my navel.

  ‘Vakker,’ he says, cupping my breasts and gently rolling his thumbs over my nipples.

  I tip my head back and make murmuring noises against his throat. I’m weak with desire when he whispers against my ear. ‘Turn around?’

  I do as he says but once I’m facing him I feel self-conscious. My breasts are nice enough but they’re not very big.

  As if he can read my mind he dips his head and kisses one nipple, a slow lingering kiss. Then he kisses the other one. ‘Perfect.’ He kisses my mouth. ‘Everything. Perfect.’ He carefully takes my necklace off and puts it on the floor.

  I wrap my arms around his neck. ‘Thank you.’

  He rests his forehead against mine and we both watch his hands as they explore my body, from my collarbones to my breasts and stomach and hips. Then I kiss him again. We’re both taking jerky breaths when he pulls back and lays the heart-shaped cushions on the end of the chaise lounge. His chest muscles ripple when he moves.

  He looks at me uncertainly. ‘Would you like to lie down?’ he asks.

  It’s ludicrous for him to pretend that I’m in control because I haven’t done anything like this in eight years. And even then I merely endured what happened next.

  ‘Do you want to have sex?’ I say. ‘Is that it?’

  He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling—like he always does when he can’t believe what I’ve just said. ‘Harriet Hillary Amelia Scott,’ he mutters, and lays me down. He drapes himself over the chaise lounge, so that one of his legs is between mine. ‘Just kiss me for now.’

  I stroke over his shoulders and down his back. ‘How do you say “bossy” in Norwegian?’

  He takes a breath. ‘You mean as an adjective?’

  ‘In the sense of, “You are very bossy”.’

  He smiles. ‘Sjefete.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound anything like “bossy”.’

  He rests his hand on the inside of my knee. I bend it immediately, and wriggle down the lounge.

  ‘Nevertheless, that is what it means,’ he says, grimacing when my dress rises up to my thighs. He pulls it down again.

  I push it up. ‘You think I’m being impetuous, don’t you? Impulsive?’

  ‘Worse. Reckless.’

  I stroke his hair. ‘You probably want emergency provisions. Water. Flares. Things like that. Matches too. And contraception.’

  I’m not sure whether he’s groaning or laughing against my neck. But then we’re kissing again and I can’t think about anything at all except for how good he smells and tastes, and how wonderful the texture of his skin feels beneath my hands. His fingers finally rest right at the top of my thigh. My mind goes totally blank when he looks into my eyes and says, very seriously, ‘Would you like to come, Harriet?’

  I manage a nod. And then I gasp because his fingers slide into my underpants and move against me, and I’ve never felt anything like it before. His breath against my mouth is laboured, and he’s shaky, and I think that excites me just as much as anything else. Finally he zeroes in on just where I want him to be. He circles and strokes and plays. When I moan he smiles against my mouth. And then he slips a finger inside me.

  Memories come flooding back—of Grant, and all the men I picked up at the pub. Without meaning to do it I clamp my legs together and dig my fingernails into his shoulders.

  His hand freezes. He searches my face. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’ve had sex before. With lots of men.’

  ‘Not with me.’

  He kisses me—a long, possessive, thorough sort of kiss. And when I’m kissing him back as frantically as I was before, he touches between my thighs again. His fingers soothe and calm, they gently glide, they tease until I press against his hand. And before too long I’m lifting my hips because I want him inside me. I want him to touch me everywhere. But each time I’m about to climax he pulls back a little.

  ‘Please, Per.’

  ‘Do you want me?’ His breathing is harsh. ‘Say it.’

  I wrap my arms around his neck. ‘Yes, Per. I do.’

  There’s something subtly different in his next kiss, a fierceness I haven’t felt before. And soon the waves of sensation take over and I’m trembling. He smothers my sounds against his mouth, and strokes until I’m limp and breathless. He nuzzles my neck, and then rests his face between my breasts. I stroke his hair and hold him t
ightly.

  Per eases himself off the chaise lounge. He avoids looking at me as he takes my hands and pulls me into a sitting position. His face is set, and grim. He turns his back as I struggle to adjust my dress, pulling my arms into the straps, and pushing down the skirt so it covers my thighs. My underpants are damp.

  I’m flushed and cold all at the same time. ‘Are you all right?’ I say.

  He nods. It’s a brusque I don’t want to talk about it kind of a nod.

  Is he angry with me because I’ve made things even more complicated than they were already? Or with himself for doing something he didn’t really want to do? Most likely it’s a combination.

  He does up his buttons. Then he puts his tie back on, and his jacket. When I stand he gives me my shoes. I can’t even remember taking them off. He hands me my pearls.

  ‘Turn around,’ he says.

  I do as he asks. He doesn’t touch my skin when he fastens my zip.

  ‘Get your bag and I’ll drive you home,’ he says.

  I focus on straightening my dress again. ‘The professor wants me to wind things up.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Could you look at me, please?’

  He faces me. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t need a lift home. I’m tired. I want to go home by myself.’

  ‘I’m taking you home, not asking for sex.’

  ‘I said no. I don’t want you, or sex.’

  Maybe he flinches. I’m not certain because there’s an enormous ache in my chest and all I can think about is the way that I’m feeling. He opens the door and gestures that I precede him. Then we walk silently side by side down the corridor. He turns sharply left, towards the men’s bathroom.

  I see him briefly back in the ballroom, shaking hands with the people seated at our table.

  He catches my eye and mouths one word. ‘Monday.’

  He’s long gone by the time I give the closing address, and thank the guests for coming.