It would have been enough just to stand her and look at her like she was. Half-naked, her back on display, her shoulders ripe to be kissed. But he held himself together, his hands shaking as he dispensed ink into a tray, finding a soft-bristled brush from his calligraphy table. He dipped the brush into the ink, a swirl of glitter soaking the bristles, before turning back to River, putting a hand on her back to pull her further into the light.
He tried to ignore the thrill he felt at the way she shivered when his hand touched the bare skin of her back, tried to ignore the hardness that was now pulsing almost painfully between his legs. He tried to empty his mind, letting the peace of calligraphy, of River’s presence, wash over him.
Tonight, he was an artist and she was his canvas, and he would do justice to the beauty of her body.
He started low, at the curve of her lower back. He applied a simple stripe to start, just to see how the ink took to her skin. And it was glorious, like a starry sky, a whole new universe written on this woman. Still, he took a deep breath. Because he wanted this to be perfect, and he knew he could do better.
He dropped to his knees behind her and, putting his hands on her hips, pulled her towards him. He licked a clean stripe where he’d painted, sucking the paint from her body, swallowing down the sweet taste of sugar and of her.
She shuddered in front of him, and he planted a kiss on the damp flesh. Running a hand from her neck to her buttocks, he started again. A few strokes of his brush, and then he dipped for more ink. He went back to her, embellishing the marks he had already made, licking away his errors. Within ten minutes, her lower back was covered, and he turned her to the mirror so she could see his work.
She smiled at him. He’d painted upon her a star, a star bursting with light and life and flecks of ink, swirling against the creamy peach of her skin. She gestured for her notebook, and Cohen placed it gently into her hands.
You’ve made me beautiful, she wrote.
But he shook his head. You were already beautiful, he replied. You’re always beautiful.
She stared at the design on her back, bringing a hand to her hip and pressing a light finger against the ink. Her fingertip came away blue and glittery, and she sucked the ink from her finger.
More, she wrote in her notebook, though the written words were unnecessary, because he could see the silent entreaty in her eyes. And he was more than happy to oblige.
He went to put the paintbrush on her upper back, but River stopped him. While he watched, his tongue a leaden weight in his mouth, she went to the straps of her bra, pulling them down before unhooking the garment in the back. Without a second thought, her eyes on him all the while, she removed the item, fully baring herself to him and his brush.
Cohen stared at her, the brush shaking in his hand. Mentally, he was finally sending Uncle Israel that thank you note for the calligraphy set. Mentally, he was thanking the Jewish faith for Bar Mitzvahs, which now and forevermore would be the best thing ever. Mentally, he was sending a take that to the memory of disappointment in his father’s eyes. But more than anything else, he was mentally thanking any and every God who might exist for sending this perfect woman to him.
How much more do you want? he suddenly wrote, his normally meticulous handwriting for once messy and hurried. He needed to make sure, absolutely sure, that they were both on the same page with whatever was about to happen here.
River’s eyes were soft when she read his words and when she looked up again, she gazed at him from over her shoulder, heat in her eyes and a gentle smile on her lips.
Everything.
He didn’t pick the brush up again, deciding to discard it, jealous of any item that wasn’t him upon her skin in that moment. His mouth was suddenly the best paintbrush he could ever think of, and her hands clenched at his shoulders when he bent down to kiss her, softly, unhurried and tenderly.
He drew back, skating a hand over her back, pressing his forehead against hers. For a moment they didn’t move as they stared into one another’s eyes.
I love you, he said to her, honesty soaking every word, and she nodded, hearing him even without hearing his words.
I love you, she signed back, and he nodded, understanding her without understanding her signs.
And then together, they lost track of everything but each other.
Cohen forgot himself, the world and everything that came with it. It could have been any universe, any world, any city, any year, any month or any day.
It could be a Sunday, a Monday or even a Tuesday.
But he knew that, from that moment on, it would only ever be River.
Chapter Ten
Cinnamon
Rain woke Cohen from his sleep. There was a steady drumbeat on his window, a gentle sound which told him that – yet again – it was another miserable London day. Outside, people huddled further into coats, their boots navigating sudden puddles, before seeking refuge in shops or cafés, or under awnings. Outside, an icy wind blew rain into damp faces, causing hair to stick to cheeks and foreheads. Outside, people walked quickly from home to tube and then tube to office, all the while berating the English winter.
Outside it was cold.
Outside it was wet.
Outside it was grey.
But here inside it was warm.
Inside it was dry.
Here, inside his home, Cohen was fairly certain he would never feel grey or miserable again. River was in his bed and in his arms and he could hardly believe it. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at her, watching dreams play upon her face. They were naked, cuddled together under his thick duvet, warm and safe. She was still asleep, and he felt a moment of pure joy to see her there, her cheek against his pillow, her brown hair resting on his arm. Her skin still bore a faint trace of ink and glitter, even though they’d showered together the night before. It was, quite frankly, the best shower of his life, and he vowed to never criticise British plumbing again. River had let him wash her skin clean with his soapy hands until she’d cried out under his fingertips, and then they’d fallen into his bed, still damp, still glowing, still blissfully happy, and succumbed to sleep wrapped around each other.
And now ... to wake in his warm bed, next to a warm River, knowing that outside it was wet and cold ... he couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face. There was, he decided, nothing better than the sound of rain pattering on a windowpane when there was no danger of needing to go out in it.
Because he had no plans to leave this room or even this bed today.
If he had his way, they would stay here forever.
When he looked down at River again, she was looking back at him, her hazel eyes drowsy with receding sleep. He smiled at her, bringing his face to hers and kissing her good morning; a slow, luxurious and deep kiss, which he hoped conveyed his deep contentment that she was her and that she was there. It was a kiss which told River that he did not regard their night together as a one-time thing, but as a precursor to the rest of their lives. A kiss to tell her that she was wanted, that she was loved and that she was his, just as he was hers.
He had never belonged to anyone else, he realised suddenly. He’d been waiting for River, and River alone, to offer his heart and soul to.
When they pulled apart, she nestled her head back onto his shoulder, and they lay quietly, locked together. She ran a hand along the hard planes of his stomach, while he tapped his fingers on her arm, mimicking the beat of the rain outside.
Cohen abruptly realised that River would never know the simple pleasure of hearing rain beat upon a windowpane. It was such a simple thing but so cruelly denied to her. Then and there he decided that he would fill her life with other pleasures, so that she would never miss what could never be hers.
He decided he would give her the world, just as she had given him hers.
An alarm sounded, and he sighed, reaching for his phone and dismissing it easily. He glanced briefly at the screen. Three missed calls from his mother. Seven missed calls from Tarquin
bloody Fowler. Seven hundred and eighty-seven new emails.
He threw the phone across the room, hearing it land with a thud on the carpet.
He turned back to River, pulling her closer.
They must have slept again because when he next opened his eyes, River was straddling him, her naked thighs pressed against his hips. His body instantly reacted and he reached up for her, running his fingers down her body. She was a marvel to him, for how could any woman be so strong and yet so small? How could any woman be so silent while also telling him so much?
Her hands came together, and she signed at him frantically, but he could only look at her blankly. With a frustrated growl she rolled off him, reaching for a pencil on the bedside table, and he vowed in that moment to learn all the BSL he could, so that she could never leave him like this again. He watched as she scribbled hastily on an abandoned newspaper by his bed, and when he saw the words form under her pencil, his mouth went dry.
Is more okay?
Is more okay? If Cohen could think in that moment, if his mind hadn’t been wiped blank by thoughts of pressing into River’s body, bare and tight and hot and his, he would probably have written something eloquent back to her. A Shakespearean response declaring his undying love and appreciation of her; something witty, mature and deeply affectionate. A response to give all the great romantic poets a run for their opium-soaked money and powdered wigs. But all he could do was nod, his hands already reaching for her again.
Afterwards, they slept some more.
When he woke again, it was because the rain had turned from a gentle thrum into a heavy, thumping beat, and his first thought was that a storm must have arrived. His eyes still closed, he waited for the crash of thunder, the tell-tale flash of lightning. But neither came, and he opened his eyes again, confused. Because the thumping noise was louder now, and so close, and ... and followed by a furious voice.
‘I know you’re in there, Cohen Ford!’ the voice screeched. ‘So, you better damn well open your door before I kick it in!’
Cohen sat bolt upright in his bed, suddenly very awake, River wide-eyed and curious next to him.
Because a storm had indeed arrived.
Rushi.
To say River’s mother got to the point was a huge understatement.
In fact, she was so sharp she got to the epicentre of the point and then guillotined it, letting its blood-soaked head roll away with any other hope Cohen had of small talk or polite chit-chat.
He threw on the first pair of pants he could grab from his dresser, stopping to kiss River quickly before running through his house to the front door. Rushi’s pounding, with a litany of what he could only guess to be exceptionally offensive Chinese words, was only getting louder and angrier the more she was left to stew on his doorstep.
He expected a hurricane when he finally unlocked and opened the door, immediately bracing his hands across his chest to protect himself from the full force of Rushi’s anger. But instead, he was met only with a chilling breeze. Because once they were face to face, Rushi’s hands dropped and her mouth closed, and she simply stared at him. She didn’t move to hit him or hurl herself at him or scream at him. No, she simply looked at him, her eyes dangerously narrow, her mouth set in a tight frown.
Cohen stood there, unsure of what to do. But it quickly became clear that both Rushi and Esther had taken the same ‘disappointed and repressed fury for mothers 101’ class, because he felt a familiar flush cross his cheeks, along with an instant feeling of guilt. No matter that he was a grown man, and that River was a grown woman. No matter that he was a Vice-President of a multinational corporation. Right now, under Rushi’s intimidating stare, he was reduced to a guilty teenager, caught red-handed and shirtless in an act of pleasure.
‘Look,’ he started slowly. ‘This isn’t what you think.’
But Rushi remained silent, her eyes going up and down over his half-naked frame with clear disbelief. And suddenly he saw himself through her eyes, his hair tousled and chest bare, wearing only his taekwondo trousers – and God, but why did he still even own these? He’d only been to one taekwondo class, post-Christine – his skin still glistening with sex and glitter.
‘No, no, no,’ he protested quickly. ‘Okay, so it is what you think, but it’s also not what you imagine, I mean River and I—’
‘Oh,’ Rushi said bluntly. ‘So, she is here then? Go and get her. Right this minute.’
But Cohen stood at the doorway, desperate to rectify this matter, and quickly too. He loved River, and he knew that River loved her mother. If it hadn’t been for Rushi, River would never have lived the wonderful life she had. She might have rotted away in a children’s home, or jumped from foster parent to foster parent, waiting for a family that was never going to come. If it hadn’t been for Rushi, there wouldn’t have been an amazing girl standing in an ice creamery, ready to fill in all the missing parts of his soul.
River loved this woman, and Cohen loved River. He had to salvage this.
So, he decided to do what any other decent Brit would.
‘Rushi,’ he said calmly. ‘Come inside and have a cup of tea.’
‘A cup of tea,’ Rushi repeated, parrot-like. It was the voice of a parrot with a natural sarcastic tone and a squawk that made his stomach tighten, but she was still calmer than she’d been five minutes earlier, which he took as a plus.
‘Yes.’ Cohen stood taller, yanking his trousers further up his stomach. ‘A cup of tea.’ She nodded her head ever so slightly, and Cohen opened his door further, ushering her in.
When they reached his living room, he suddenly saw the blinding error in his plan. Because by the window sat two abandoned piles of clothing, as well as a very large patch of blue on his carpet. He blushed red from head to toe when he spied two obvious handprints by the patch, along with a clutch of hastily dropped brushes and a spilt bottle of ink.
An ink that very clearly matched the slight blue tinge to his own skin and mouth.
Rushi looked at the offending evidence and then again at him, her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips pressed together. She was clearly unimpressed and growing more concerned by the minute.
And he realised he didn’t even have any tea. What the hell was he thinking?
Not that it mattered, because Rushi got to the crux of the matter.
‘So,’ she began, in a light, almost conversational tone. ‘I take it you bedded my daughter last night.’
Cohen couldn’t reply, caught somewhere between immense guilt and perfect horror.
Rushi took a step towards him. ‘I distinctly remember telling you not to take advantage of my daughter.’
‘I didn’t take advantage—’ he began, but Rushi cut him off.
‘No? Oh, so you magically learned British Sign Language in the past three weeks?’
Cohen felt like it might be a mistake to show the few signs he did know in that moment. In fact, he was fairly certain that if he did make the sign for apple or kiss or wine right then, that Rushi might think he was mocking her. And that was not the angle he was going for right now.
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘But I love your daughter and—’
Rushi gave a sour laugh. ‘You don’t love my daughter, you fool. You hardly know her.’
Cohen opened his mouth to protest, before shutting it again just as quickly. Because he did love River. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone else in his life, and he needed her just the same as he needed air to breathe and food to eat. And he knew enough about her to know that his love was genuine, and not just born of his loneliness or lust.
But he also knew he couldn’t adequately express such emotion or do justice to the depth of his feelings. And so he wisely kept his mouth closed, letting Rushi do all the talking.
‘I warned you,’ Rushi was now saying bitterly. ‘I saw that look in your eyes – a look I know well, having seen it in the eyes of your father when he looked at your mother. I warned you. I explicitly told you she wasn’t for you.’
> ‘And I told you that I’m not my father,’ Cohen reminded her quietly.
‘Your father,’ Rushi told him, ‘broke your mother into thousands of tiny pieces when he left. And she put herself back together, piece by piece, because she had you to love and care for. And what does she have to show for it? All you’ve done since is break her heart more. Whenever I’ve spoken to your mother in the past ten years, all I’ve heard is about how you have diminished and betrayed and hurt her at every turn. The job you took, working for her rival. The awful wife you chose. Your disregard for her feelings. For her love for you.’ Rushi looked at him, shaking her head and sucking in her breath. ‘You aren’t good enough for my girl. I want more than you for my River,’ she finished calmly, words which seemed to pierce at the very essence of Cohen’s soul.
‘But what about River?’ he asked her. ‘What if she doesn’t want more for herself? Look, I know I’m not good enough for her. No one is good enough to deserve her. But River ... she seems to want me. Don’t her feelings – don’t our feelings – count in this at all? What if I’m enough for her, just as she’s enough for me?’
Rushi seemed to consider his words, because she tilted her head to one side, giving him a keen look. But then she sighed, shaking her head, while resting on her cane. ‘Go and get her, Cohen. I’m tired. I’m taking her home.’
But he didn’t need to go and get her. Because there was a rustle behind them and then River appeared, his blanket wrapped around her body and held tightly to her chest. And he felt a possessive flare jolt through his body at the sight of her. He and River belonged together, and he wasn’t going to let anyone, not even Rushi, come between them.
Rushi began to sign at River, but River shook her head. She could not sign back to her mother without dropping her blanket, and Cohen felt – once again – the deep unfairness of the situation.
‘Stop,’ he impeached Rushi genuinely. ‘Don’t do this to her now. Not like this.’
And then he walked over to their pile of clothing, finding River’s bits and pieces and gave them to her. He pressed them into her hands, leaning down to kiss her, and she looked up at him gratefully. When she left to dress, Cohen turned back to Rushi, shrugging at her.
Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Page 12