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Something disturbs me from sleep… a shuffling noise. “It’s just me,” he whispers into the dark.
Pulling the blanket up around my ears, I half-sleep, half-dream, because this still doesn’t seem real. It must be pretty late because I feel myself almost go blank instantly, my heavy body falling back into the chasm of nothingness.
He climbs in beside me and while not even daring to touch me, I still know he’s freezing cold and shivering – it’s coming off him in waves, disturbing my warm bed.
Now I’m awake.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I whisper.
“He pulled through; he’s recovering. Still gotta wait and see… fingers crossed,” he whispers.
Some dark part of me is relieved because I know it wouldn’t have been good for us to begin this love affair with a funeral to look forward to.
“I’m glad.”
“God, I’m freezing. Had to walk from the hospital.”
“Come and get warm.” I reach behind me, encouraging him close.
He’s only wearing his underpants, I realise.
Paul scoots up behind me, face buried in my hair, his arms looping around my body. A few tense minutes pass before our heat exchange is complete and the bed is toasty warm again.
“I’m never leaving you again,” he tells me, shaking. “I don’t ever want to be apart, ever again.”
“Me too.”
He kisses me repeatedly, along my throat, my cheek, then he turns my head and leans over me, kissing my mouth. It happens so fast, his breathing becoming heavy, sweat breaking out on his chest. He slides his hand under my nightshirt and cups my breast, squeezing gently. Then he’s pushing his boxers down and rubbing his erect cock against my bum.
“God, baby. Baby,” he groans, as I try to ignore the faint hint of alcohol on his breath.
I don’t have anything in the house like spirits, which is what he smells like, so he and his brothers must have gone somewhere after the hospital or else he went somewhere and drank alone and that’s why he’s not quite managed to mask the smell.
For the first time, he comes up against resistance as he fucks me. I try to tell myself it’s because we haven’t done much foreplay, and maybe he’s telling himself the same, but in reality, we both know I’m not dripping wet because he’s woken me in the middle of the night for a quick, drunken fumble, at least on his part.
Paul isn’t so gone he forgets to work his finger around my clit and I gradually enable him to push deeper, the gentle throb of lust making it all more pleasurable.
Just as I’m starting to enjoy myself, he finishes with a half-hearted lunge and barely spurts into me, falling asleep almost as soon as he’s slipped out. I consider reaching down to finger myself, finish the job so to speak, but I can’t be arsed and I don’t want to deal with the reality of this crap shag, not right now.
I also don’t want to… but I can’t help comparing this to my relationship with Ian. This is how it started with Ian… half-hearted shags, and eventually, I just wasn’t interested anymore, and neither was he.
I tell myself it’s just this once… and it’ll all look different in the morning.
Letting the water of the shower stream down my body, I tell myself we had our time – and now we’re done. I woke this morning and he’d gone. We should never have expected anything more than that night we had at Christmas, over a year ago. If Ian hadn’t have come home early and caught us, I probably would’ve stayed with him and maybe we’d have got married… or, I don’t know, at least parted on better terms. I should’ve realised that Paul and me was a one-night thing, never meant to be anything more, because that’s who he is: a one-night man. A complex man. A man who hasn’t always treated me well.
So I’m shocked when I hear the shower door open and close behind me. He takes hold of my waist gently, slides his hands up and around, cupping my breasts, his thumbs stroking my nipples.
“You had nothing in for breakfast so I went out,” he murmurs, his beard brushing against my shoulder as he kisses my skin.
For a moment I let myself believe he’s a stranger, someone new, but someone I want. My spine elongates as I press myself back into him, my lover already hard – ready just for me.
He French kisses my throat, his rough beard hair grazing and caressing, his hands plumping and massaging my breasts, the tips hard and puckered, pressing against his palms.
“Tell me you love me,” he groans.
“You know I do.”
“Tell me anyway.”
