Finally, he’s there. Twitching and jerking, he fills me with a few last thrusts, and I implode, muscles contracting in one delicious flood of heat that leaves me gasping and writhing beneath him. He collapses on top of me, still throbbing inside, waiting until we’ve both come down from the high before he speaks.
‘Thank you,’ he whispers against my mouth.
‘What for?’
‘The best Christmas ever.’
I gaze up at him in surprise.
‘Overcooked sprouts, a pissed-up sister and nightmare Scrabble?’
He laughs.
‘Being with you.’ He pecks me on the mouth and withdraws.
‘Are we having a cheesy moment?’
‘Yes,’ he says proudly. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with cheese.’
He reaches over to a box of tissues on my bedside cabinet, and pulls out a handful. Concentrating fully, he sets about wiping his semen from me.
‘Last Christmas was fucking miserable.’ He tosses the tissue onto the floor. ‘Spent it on my own.’ He rolls over onto his back and I cuddle up to him. A warm arm closes round me. He rests his chin on the top of my head and pulls the duvet over us. ‘I never thought in a year’s time I’d be engaged to the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘Oh, come on.’ I prod him. ‘I am not the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘Oh yes, you are.’ He runs a hand across my stomach, down to my crotch, urging my legs apart. I’m still tingling from my climax. If he goes on like this, I’ll be cross-eyed with ecstasy before breakfast. ‘I never thought I’d be a dad … and I certainly never thought I’d be back in touch with my sisters. You’ve given me all that, Maya. You’ve given me happiness.’ He presses a finger against my clit. An arrow of warmth shoots right through my groin. ‘I’ll never be able to pay you back.’
‘Oh, I can think of a way.’
‘Which is?’
‘More kink.’
‘Filthy woman. You’ve had plenty.’
And I have. Over the past month, we’ve used the cross more times than I can remember – only for pleasure – and experimented a little further with rope. But more often than not, we’ve returned to his favourite, the cuffs. Yesterday morning, he even presented me with my first ever Daniel Foster Christmas present: the Rolls-Royce of all vibrators. And he’s already managed to send me mad with it. The only thing that’s out of bounds is spanking. He’s made that perfectly clear.
‘I want more.’
He circles the finger.
‘I bet you do. And you’ll get it, believe me. But before that, I’m making you breakfast in bed.’ The finger’s removed.
‘Oh,’ I whine.
‘No complaints. I need to feed the pregnant one. Tea and toast?’
‘Perfect. Use the teapot.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Shuffling out from beneath me, he rolls out of bed. ‘Jesus, it’s fucking freezing. I’ll put the heating on.’
He slips on his jeans, runs his fingers through his hair and goes over to the window, twitching back the curtains.
‘It was a crap present, wasn’t it?’
‘The teapot?’
‘I get a vibrator. You get a tea set.’
‘It’s the best present ever.’
‘You don’t even like tea.’
‘I can always put coffee in it.’ He winks. ‘Now, stop complaining. It’s our last day in Norfolk. I’m going to cook us a wonderful dinner. We’ll have cuddles in front of the fire, maybe watch a slushy film and, oh yeah, and I’m going to fuck you senseless.’
‘That’s the day planned then.’
‘Almost.’ He retrieves his sweatshirt and puts it on. ‘Before we go back to London, there’s one other thing I’d like to do.’
The cemetery’s at the top of the hill, overlooking the town. The Mercedes comes to a halt in the car park. He kills the engine and doesn’t move. Sitting absolutely still, he stares ahead at a bench, a collection of wind-worn trees.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes,’ he says curtly. ‘You don’t have to come.’
‘I’d like to be with you, if you’re okay with that.’
He seems to think, and then nods. He gets out of the car, circles to my side, opens the door and offers me the customary hand. As soon as I’m on my feet, the cold makes its move. A wall of wind rolls up the hill. I fasten my coat and look to the left: a handful of people lost among the gravestones, visiting the departed on a cold, grim Boxing Day morning. And then to the right: under a grey, colourless day, roof tops huddle at the centre of town, the squat tower of Limmingham church almost lost in the clouds.
‘So, where is it?’ I ask.
‘At the top.’ He points up the hill. ‘Row twelve.’
Suddenly, he seems unsure of himself. I take his hand in mine and give it a squeeze.
‘We can go back to the cottage.’
He shakes his head.
‘I want to do this. I need to …’
Slowly, we make our way along a path between the gravestones, some adorned with flowers, some too old to be remembered by the living. Here and there I spot an offering, a personal memento, a photo, a pint glass, an angel. At the top of the hill we come to the smaller memorial stones, the ones belonging to the cremated. Leading me by the hand, he takes a left, peering at the inscriptions, one after the other, caught up in the business of locating the right name. At last he comes to a halt, staring at one stone in particular.
‘Miriam Eleanor Taylor,’ he reads. ‘‘Much-loved wife and mother’. You couldn’t get much further from the truth.’ A smile touches his mouth, but steers clear of his eyes. ‘Layla said she didn’t know
