by Grace Lowrie
‘Oh fuck,’ he breathed, collapsing back onto both elbows and squeezing his eyes tight shut as he fought to maintain control. ‘Are you OK?’ he said, re-opening them and pinning me with a fresh look of determination.
Grinning at him I nodded and the tension in his expression softened slightly with relief. I felt victorious sat there astride him, part of his body encased in mine, and as I ran my hands over the tanned muscles of his abdomen and circled his navel with my thumb, the pain ebbed away to be replaced with a satisfying fullness; a gratifying ache and an urge to move. Experimentally I circled my hips, feeling him there inside me; solid and pulsating, and he collapsed flat onto his back with another groan.
Leaning forwards I pressed a kiss to his lips. He tasted unusual though not unpleasant, and I realised it must be myself I was tasting. Bracing my hands on his warm, downy chest, I slowly lifted myself up along his length and then pushed down, letting him fill me again; causing a delicious ripple of pleasure to spread out through my core.
‘Jesus, Mel, you have no idea how amazing you feel...’
Reassured, and confident that the painful part was over, I started to move on him with a steady rhythm. Watching as Liam closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, only turned me on more. Being able to ride him like that; affect him so much; excite and pleasure him with my own body, was intensely liberating and as I gazed down at him I could feel another climax rising up inside me.
As I got close I held onto his forearms, viciously digging my fingernails into his skin, and this time he came with me – his large hands gripping my hips, his face contorting and his body bucking deep inside mine as he groaned my name.
Chapter Thirty-seven
There was blood on the condom afterwards; proof, as if I needed it, that I had deflowered an angel. And yet, weirdly, it felt more like she had taken me. I’d never experienced sex like it. The woman could turn me on with a look, so seeing her naked and taking possession of me like that... it had required a monumental amount of effort and concentration to hold back from coming too soon. But by God, Mel was worth it.
She stared as I removed the condom, tied a knot in it and set it aside, and I wondered what she was thinking.
‘I didn’t hurt you too much did I?’
She shook her head and settled down close beside me, tucked into my sweaty armpit, one arm and one leg thrown casually, but possessively, across my body. Together we lay in silence, looking up at the pale patch of sky bordered by skeleton trees, listening to a blackbird singing. The sun had moved further over to the west out of view and the air was cooling, but Mel was warm against my side. Stroking her hair with one hand, I lightly circled her right nipple with the other. I’d never felt so content.
After half an hour or so her skin began to goose-pimple and I knew it was time to get dressed and go back to work. Our clothes were slightly damp from where we had abandoned them on the mossy floor as we gathered and pulled them on, one by one. Despite the haze of post-coital bliss, or perhaps because of it, I had a keen urge to be honest with Mel. Her gift of virginity had created a new level of intimacy between us, and I wanted her to be able to trust me in return. I didn’t want there to be any secrets between us.
‘The other day, when you asked me why I don’t drink...’
Mel stilled and looked up at me, her wide eyes fixed on mine.
‘I didn’t tell you the whole truth.’
She didn’t move a muscle, not even to blink, as she waited for me to continue with my confession.
‘Alcohol makes me aggressive.’
Her brows lifted in surprise.
‘Lester drinks, and it doesn’t seem to make him angry or anything, but I... I turn into a monster. It had the same effect on my mum; she was a violent drunk. She hid it well, so you couldn’t always tell, and my dad bore the brunt of her wrath more than Lester and me, but... it wasn’t good. I don’t want to be like that; I don’t want to be the way she was, so I try to avoid it altogether – alcohol I mean...’
Retrieving her phone from her coat pocket Mel tapped out a one word question: Was?
‘She died of a heart attack when I was nine.’ My voice broke at the end of my sentence, betraying the raw emotion I kept locked down inside. This was why I never talked about my mother.
Taking my hand Mel encouraged me to sit down by patting the rock we’d made love on. As soon as I was seated she made herself comfortable in my lap, and I cradled her in my arms, pressing my face into her hair and fortifying myself with the reassuring feel of her. Drink corrupted my mother, there was no denying that; it made her mean, volatile and easy to hate. But on the rare occasions she was sober, she was someone else; someone calm and kind. On those days she was my mum and I loved her. Reconciling my feelings for her was always difficult, but losing her, especially at such a young age, was even harder. Part of me would never get over it. Would she have approved of Mel? I liked to think so. I imagined Mum might have admired her inner strength and determination.
The memory of how turned on I was when Mel slapped me reared up unexpectedly in my mind, and I quickly pushed the unwelcome thought away. Retrieving her phone, Mel tapped out a message.
I can’t imagine you hurting anyone.
I swallowed heavily, glad that she couldn’t see the guilt that was no-doubt written on face. But I’d started this, and I wanted her to know everything. ‘When I was at University I almost killed someone. I didn’t know him very well, he attended the same lectures as me but... anyway, we were at the pub one night and we’d both had a lot to drink and we got into a stupid argument about nothing... but I got really riled up. He threw the first punch but once I started hitting him back, I couldn’t seem to stop. They had to drag me off him. It took five of them. He was taken to hospital with facial injuries and a severe concussion and I was cautioned by the police. I don’t know why he didn’t press charges; he should have; it was a complete over-reaction and I deserved to be punished.’
So you stopped drinking?
‘Yes, and I haven’t hit anyone since. Not even my brother, even though he deserves it sometimes.’
Raising my hand to her mouth she tenderly kissed my knuckles; as if offering her acceptance or a silent blessing.
I was glad to have confided in her; getting everything off my chest felt cleansing, healing in some way. And, feeling closer to Mel than ever before, I couldn’t resist asking her the one question I’d held in check for months: ‘Will you tell me how you lost your voice?’
She went rigid with tension in my arms and immediately I wished I could take the words back. But after a brief hesitation she typed out a response and showed me the screen:
I think I stopped talking when my mother died. I was 6.
‘God, Mel... I’m so sorry.’ My heart swelled with grief as I pictured her as a small child. Losing a parent was tough enough at nine, but at six it must have been near impossible to make sense of.
She shrugged and I tightened my arms around her and kissed her forehead.
‘Do you remember it?’
No. I don’t remember her at all, but I think I have bad dreams about her.
‘I’m so sorry.’
She looked up at me, but there were no tears in her eyes. Softly I kissed her on the lips.
‘So...’ I was keen to know more, but afraid of upsetting her, yet she raised her eyebrows; silently encouraging me to go on. ‘Your muteness is psychological rather than physical?’
Yes, but it feels physical to me.
I recalled how she hadn’t called for help when she was drowning, or spoken when delirious with fever, or cried out when she came, and I realised her trauma must be deeply ingrained.
‘Didn’t your dad take you to see someone – get you treatment; therapy of some kind?’
He thought I’d grow out of it and when I didn’t, I refused treatment.
I raised my eyes from the small screen in surprise. ‘But why? Don’t you want to be able to talk?’
She shook her h
ead.
‘Why not? Isn’t it frustrating not being able to speak your mind? Don’t you sometimes want to scream and shout and sing...?’
Abruptly she hopped off my lap and I knew I’d said too much.
‘I’m sorry, I’m just trying to understand...’
Without a backward glance she stalked out of the grotto with her arms crossed angrily across her chest.
‘Don’t go, Mel...’
As she stormed away from me, yet again, I mentally chided myself for being insensitive. Should I respect her right to walk away and give her space, or should I chase after her this time? Her body language implied I should keep my distance, so I let her go with a sigh.
The woman was obstinate, proud, unpredictable and infuriating, and sometimes she wielded her silence as a weapon, or more accurately, a shield to hide behind. But that was almost certainly down to her unusual upbringing – that and the fact that she’d been living in isolation all her life, instead of receiving the help and support she needed. Sinclair had a lot to answer for. Single parent or not, in my eyes he had failed his daughter. Given the circumstances it was a miracle that Mel was as well-rounded, passionate and funny as she was. And despite, or maybe because of her eccentricities, I loved her.
*
I was halfway through a Chinese take-away when the doorbell rang. Back when Cally was living with me I cooked every day, but lately it had lost its appeal; my culinary efforts seemed excessive when there was only myself to feed. And after a long day at work – involving alfresco sex with my client’s virginal daughter; confiding my darkest secrets; upsetting her, and then finally admitting to myself that I’d fallen in love with her – it seemed sensible to simply order in.
‘Bridget?’
‘Surprise! Sorry to turn up like this, but I’m back. I happened to be in Wildham, and I wanted to apologise in person for how busy I’ve been...’ She kissed me on the cheek and patted my arm as I automatically stood back to let her in.
‘You don’t have to apologise...’
Her hips swaying and a bottle of wine clutched in one hand, she walked through to the kitchen. ‘Oh I’ve interrupted your dinner, how rude of me!’ Eyeing the food cartons on the counter she turned on her heel. ‘Do you want me to go? We could always catch up another time...?’
‘No, it’s fine, I... I need to talk to you actually.’
She grinned at me from across the room. ‘Great, do you mind if I open this bottle and pour myself a drink while you finish eating?’
‘No, I...’
My words were drowned out as she rummaged in my cutlery draw in search of a corkscrew. ‘Would you like some? I know you don’t usually drink but this looks like a particularly good Spanish Rioja – it was a gift from Marguerite...’
‘No, I won’t, thanks.’
‘Sit down! Don’t let me stop you – your food will get cold.’ Moving over to the table I looked at the remaining food congealing on my plate, but I’d lost my appetite.
‘I’ve finished actually – I might save the rest for tomorrow.’
While I set about transferring the leftovers to the fridge and pouring myself a glass of water, Bridget settled on the sofa with her wine and launched into tales of her research trips abroad. Her glass was almost empty by the time I’d summoned enough courage to say what I needed to.
‘I can’t see you anymore, I’m sorry.’ The joy faded from her features and I rushed to fill the awkward silence. ‘It’s not you – you’re lovely, really, and it’s not because you’ve been away or anything – in fact I’d like to stay friends if that’s possible, but, well... I’ve met someone else.’ Her eyebrows rose as she stared at me. ‘It may turn out to be nothing, but it wouldn’t be fair to keep seeing you if...’ I trailed off, unsure how to finish my sentence without sounding offensive. ‘I’m sorry,’ I added again, wishing the armchair I was sat in would swallow me whole.
Bridget licked her lips and leaned forwards, displaying a generous V of cleavage as she carefully set down her glass. Clearing her throat she returned her eyes to mine while I waited, nervously, for her to speak.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Liam wanted me to speak! I’d been comfortably mute since I was six years old but now he’s decided I should want to talk – just like everybody else. Why had I expected him to be any different? Why should he understand when no-one else ever had? Why couldn’t he accept me the way I was? Why did he have to go and ruin everything just when things were getting interesting? Stupid man.
I’d spent the whole morning trying to proofread a debut author’s novel. It was a period romance, not my sort of thing at all, and littered with spelling and punctuation errors, grammar mistakes and awkward sentences, many of which, in my professional opinion, should have been caught and corrected at the editing stage. The ending was rubbish too – the heroine was whisked away to a faraway country by the hero and she was pathetically grateful, even though she had a perfectly good home already. Unfortunately it was not my job to suggest plot changes; I’d been told off for that before.
Liam spent the day working somewhere in the grounds and I deliberately stayed away to punish him; for suggesting I should want to use my voice; for wanting to change me; for letting me down. But even though he was out of sight, I was distracted by thoughts of him. If I was really honest with myself, it wasn’t what he’d said that had upset me, it was realising how much I’d fallen for him.
He made me happy. He was warm and kind and he was my only friend, and now we’d had amazing sex. Tantalising flashbacks of his naked form, his electric touch and the way he felt inside me, tormented me relentlessly. Now that he’d opened up my mind (and body) to pleasurable sexual possibilities, there were a hundred different dirty things I wanted to try out with him. And I’d tried to keep my emotions out of it, I really had, but it had been far more incredible and meaningful than I’d been expecting; connecting with another human being on a physical level like that.
The terrifying truth was, I’d fallen in love with the man. If he now decided he no longer wanted to hang out with a strange, stroppy, stubborn mute... what would I do? How could I go back to my dreary black and white existence when being with Liam Hunt was vivid Technicolor?
I spent the afternoon whiling away the time, listening to Paloma Faith’s ‘Only Love Can Hurt Like This’ on repeat, and irritably re-painting my fingernails three times over.
Eventually the distant but familiar snarl of Liam’s van starting up roused me from my wallowing, and a glance at my watch confirmed it was five-thirty. He always left promptly on Tuesdays to get to rugby training. But with his departure imminent I suddenly regretted avoiding him all day. Racing downstairs I flung open the front door, but I was too late and he was gone.
Cross with myself I slumped down to the tiled hall floor. I was pushing him away because I was scared he would leave. Even I could see that was bananas. So what should I do about it?
Tonight Liam would be hanging out with his friends again; drinking in that pub with that pretty redhead who, instead of avoiding him and giving him the silent treatment, would flirt with him like a normal person.
Bitch. Was it her he really wanted? Was I just going to sit back and let her have him?
Forty-five minutes later, dressed all in black, I’d wolfed down a cheese sandwich and cycled out the front gates, on my way to Wildham rugby training ground. The sun had set and the night was quickly shrouding everything in shadows, but I was used to cycling around town in the dead of night, and grateful for the camouflage.
By the time I reached the club I was warm from frantic pedalling, except for my hands and face which were frozen stiff. The pitch smelled damp and earthy and was floodlit in an eerie white light, which cast the surrounding world into even denser shade. But there were few spectators around. One or two observed from the warm comfort of their cars while a couple of men in tracksuits and padded jackets lurked near the door to a squat, single-storey building. There was no sign of the redhead, and my arrival went
unnoticed.
On the windowless side of the clubhouse I stood in the shadows astride my bike, quietly picking at the pebble-dashed wall, while on the field the coach barked instructions. The team practised endless drills in varying permutations – passing the ball back and forth; running in and out between lines of cones on their tiptoes, and tackling each other whilst wearing cushions of padding.
Balls, cones and cushions aside, the imposing size and speed of the men coupled with the powerfully synchronised lines they moved in, made them seem more like an invading army rather than simply players in a game. But then maybe war was a game of sorts; a senseless game with devastating consequences. Rugby was infinitely preferable.
Liam was easy to spot when standing, because he was taller than everyone else, and I enjoyed watching him move; practising rugby with the same focus, skill and confidence that he applied to everything else he did. But I grew chilly just standing there and was relieved when they finished for the night.
As they piled into the clubhouse I retreated and cycled on ahead to The White Bear, relishing the pump of blood in my muscles. It was only as I drew up to the cold, dark garden, that it dawned on me that Liam and his friends would be seating themselves inside the pub, where I would not be able to observe them.
Fiddlesticks. I just wanted to check if there was anything going on between Liam and that redhead. I was new to this whole love and relationships thing, and I’d already given Liam my body. If I was going to give him my heart, I needed to know that he felt the same; that he was different with me than with other women; that I could trust him. Was I brave enough to go in there and hide somewhere at the back? What was the alternative? Freeze to death lurking outside? Give up and go home?