Page 43 of The Ghost of Exes Past

And then there’s Timothy. Who never once made me feel like I was too much or not enough. He has never put me in a situation to test me, or make me jealous, or feel the need to compete. I think about that one female diner at his restaurant … I’m sure there have been plenty, but I actually caught this one – she had leaned across the bar, laughing too hard, her hand on his arm. But he’d looked up, seen me, smiled, and walked straight back. We didn’t even need to mention it. It wasn’t even worth an explanation.

Maybe that’s what tonight has been. Not a haunting, or a test. Just a chance to set things down properly before tomorrow. A reminder that I’m right where I need to be.

And I’m not even finished yet … I take a deep breath and focus again on the fireworks in front of us.

Jules is to our right now, dancing with my dad under the stars. He twirls her around while my mum takes photographs. After a couple of spins, she raises her arms in the air and she twirls more, eyes shut, completely in her own world, while my dad tries to copy, although two beats behind. I watch her longer than I mean to; she reminds me of me, that night in Ibiza.

Just behind them I spot Kelly cheers-ing with Barnaby – Timothy’s youngest cousin. I roll my eyes. By the looks of it, she’s going to be successful in her quest for a shag tonight.

The fireworks show comes to an end, and Timothy turns to me, looking deep in my eyes before pulling my chin close and kissing me deeply. It feels natural, normal.

But there are no fireworks. My stomach doesn’t flutter, and I don’t feel the urge to sink into him more, legs weak from his kiss. Instead, I pull away and turn back to the crowd.

I’d planned this especially, the night before the wedding, to give us a moment I’d always dreamed of when I thought of pure love: fireworks overhead, his arms around me – something straight out of a film. And now I’m standing here, leftover smoke from the show billowing over the sea, feeling nothing but the cold bite my skin and my feet hurting.

Of all the places, of all the nights to feel nothing when his lips touch mine. I’d have swapped the fireworks in an instant, just to feel some metaphorical ones tonight.

‘What’s next?’ Hot breath tickles my neck and I jump, hairs raised. That’s not Timothy’s voice. It’s Jake’s.

‘You okay?’ says Timothy, feeling me tense. I try not to look at Jake, who is standing directly beside him, grinning.

‘All good!’ I sing.

All three of us turn as a voice from the hall shouts to come in for the party.

Great, this is my chance, I have the perfect excuse – I don’t even have to lie for this one.

‘Time for my outfit change!’ I squeal, as Timothy shakes his head, surprised.

I rush off back upstairs, Jake behind me.

‘Four more,’ I whisper to him in the long corridor. ‘Let’s do this one quickly, get ready, have a big drink – maybe a shot – and then brace ourselves for what’s coming.’

We open the door to my suite, and as soon as it closes, Jake takes my hands in his.

Arthur Adler

He had been teasing her all day – for hours – leading her to the edge of climax. And just as she’s about to explode, he stops. Pulls back. A mischievous glint in his eyes. She moans, cries, begs for him not to stop. To enter her. To ravish her. Please. His light eyes, dimpled cheeks, and tanned chest drive her crazy. He starts again: rubs his hands over her thighs, licks between her legs, circles her clit, inserts his fingers … and then, just as her legs start shaking again, he stops. She grabs the bedsheets with her hands, gasps for air, begs him to release her.

Then she feels a drip of sweat hit her chest. Belle opens her eyes as Arthur grunts. He’s atop of her, thrusting.

The fantasy has gone and instead is replaced with the familiar.

She stares into his eyes, dark brown, as he pumps. She knows every inch of him. Can read his pale skin like a map, knows the constellation of his moles. Could blindly trace the Pac-Man tattoo on his ankle. Knows every vein of his cock. She arches her back up slightly and he furrows his brow. She knows he likes that. She can tell he’s concentrating on not coming too soon.

Focused, he returns the favour, reaching down to squeeze her nipples. She tilts her head back, reaches her arms above her, and grabs on to the headboard for support as he pounds.

This dance they play is well rehearsed, follows the same act. Initiate – usually an ‘early night?’ with a wink or just ‘bed?’ – then they strip their clothes, socks still on, and jump under the sheets, giggling. They cuddle. They warm each other’s feet with their thighs, they kiss, they touch. He climbs atop and enters. She relaxes into him, feels utterly safe.

He knows her just as well. He knows that if he leans on his elbows and kisses her neck, there’s a spot that gives her goosebumps, that makes her arch into him more. He knows her favourite sex toy (the rose-shaped one with a sucker) and he knows that she loves sixty-nine but only on the three days of the month when she’s feeling her most confident and has had time to properly shave.

Belle grips the headboard harder, feels complete as he slides in and out, and she closes her eyes again. Thinks of edging. Thinks of being taken from behind. Thinks of sex in lavender fields. ‘I’m gonna come,’ she moans, fingertips white, head thrown back as her body shudders. The orgasm ripples through her body, legs going weak.

She grins, looks up, locks eyes. His mouth falls open. He continues fucking her. ‘Oh fuck,’ he whispers.

‘Hmmmmm …’ she replies, a soft moan back. He pulls out as she bites her lip, looks from his dick to his face, as he comes over her chest. Warm, sticky, and his. He kisses her on the forehead. Climbs off, a grin on his face as he leaves the room. Belle looks down at the mess on her chest as Arthur walks in with a tissue roll and cleans her up. He throws the tissues into the bin and rolls over.

He’ll be asleep in four minutes. She doesn’t mind.