Love Lies

25. Fern

By the time the croissants and strawberries have been eaten and the coffee has gone cold, neither of us is wearing much. Quelle surprise. He’s in jeans, but once again he’s revealing his tip-top chest, and I’m in just bra and knickers (revealing my best-if-I-breathe-in-and-lie-at-a-funny-angle bod). Our clothes didn’t come off in a mad passionate frenzy but – a little like when we were playing poker – we indulged in a slow, tantalizing striptease.

I barely noticed him undo the buttons on my shirt and I hardly registered the soft slither of fabric as my skirt fell down my legs. It was almost as if when his fingers fluttered across my shoulders and neck the buttons sprang open of their own accord. And, as he gently stroked my back, my shirt pretty much spontaneously combusted. As he touched my waist and dwelt on my thighs my skirt ran for the hills. It’s odd; while I know he’s practised in the art of disrobing women, the experience still feels completely individual and mine.

While it’s very lovely that he doesn’t rush the disrobing, truthfully my knickers are doing a full all-singing- and-dancing routine of their own and I am more than willing to fling caution to the wind if he’d fling me to the wall (or the floor or behind a big bunch of peonies – I’m happy to be flung anywhere really). I’m keen to seal the deal, he’s the one who wants to loiter and withhold gratDallas series. I was knee-high to a grasshopper when all of this occurred (or more accurately didn’t occur) but I remember the effect it had on my mum (still in shock, she burnt the toast at breakfast the next morning). You can’t just invalidate an entire season of the country’s most popular show and not expect some long-term scarring. Imagine, if we found out Carrie never really met Mr Big, Aidan Shaw just dreamt him up.

Even if this is for real, there’s still the very serious possibility that it might end hideously abruptly. Saadi might storm the building. The press might track us down with sniffer dogs. He might get bored. Asleep or awake, I have no control.

Besides, despite the cashmere rug and cushions I’m beginning to find the shop floor an uncomfortable place to lie. The cement floor is cold and unrelenting and I only endure it by concentrating on his soft warm flesh instead. I trace my fingers over his tattoos. The decorated skin slightly less yielding than the rest of his body. I gently trail the tip of my tongue over his nipples; the gentleness becomes hard. At this point he still hasn’t gone anywhere near my tits but I feel my own nipples spring to a respon

He’s so attentive. He seems to be just as mesmerized by me. He dances around my breasts and the parts where my legs join. He kisses my stomach, waist, ribs, neck, shoulders and arms. He kisses inside the crook of my elbow and tells me the skin there reminds him of holding a baby bird. His endless strokes, his confident caress and gentle, sweet touch create an almost unbearable and aggressive longing inside me. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself yelling that I need him to get a move on. I need him to take me. I am soaked with my excitement. I long to feel his cool fingers inside me on my red hot flesh. I’m sure I’d come immediately, spurting out on to his hands. The exquisite release would send shocks somersaulting through my spine. I’d grab hold of his cock, move it up and down, swiftly and expertly, until he came on my stomach. That wouldn’t be breaking my promise to Saadi, would it? Not by the letter of the law.

I’ve never longed for anyone quite so much. For God’s sake this is Scott Taylor and he’s lying semi-clad on top of me, next to me, sometimes underneath me. He manoeuvres me like I’m featherweight. It’s inhuman to expect me to resist. Actually cruel. There are probably international laws against such torture.

But I did promise Saadi. What if we do go for it and he’s knackered at the gig tonight? Ninety thousand people are expecting to be entertained. My needs suddenly shrink

‘We can’t,’ I moan. ‘I promised Saadi.’

‘You what?’ Scott looks stunned.

‘She says it puts you off your stride,’ I admit with voluble sadness. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like to be doing more than –’ I search around for the best word. It wouldn’t be a shag. Not considering the immense sexual attraction that clearly zings between us. But it wouldn’t be a fuck, not after the hours of conversation; it would be more passionate than that.

Scott helps me out. ‘There’s nothing you’d like to do more than me.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Me too, so what’s stopping us?’ He kisses my shoulder again and my resistance shivers like a leaf hanging by a thread from a tree. He kisses the back of my neck and a great big breeze threatens to blow that leaf right off. God, I want him.

‘I’m scared of Saadi,’ I confess with a whine.

Scott laughs but pulls back and tosses my top back at me. ‘We’ve got more chance of behaving ourselves if you put those fantastic tits away. I’ll get the cards.’

He looks momentarily reluctant but stands up and starts to hunt for the cards. I’m grateful he’s moved away from me. The smell of him sends me weak with want. He smells of pheromone, not of a chemical aftershave. It’s delicious. While he roots around for his clothes and the cards I hunt around for the will to pull my top on.

He deals. ‘Well, it’s not so bad. We only have to wait until after the gig tonight, right? That’s what you promised

‘Right.’ I smile.

‘OK, great. We get more time to get to know each other and that’s a good thing,’ says Scott.

‘What shall we talk about?’ I ask. ‘We covered all the basics yesterday. I know that you used to shoplift for dares, you know that I padded my bra with tissue –’

‘Until you were sixteen!’ howls Scott.

‘Yeah.’ I’m beginning to regret telling him that bit. ‘You prefer milk chocolate to dark.’ I pull on my skirt.

‘You like that hideous white stuff designed for kids.’ He picks up his T-shirt and turns it the right way out but doesn’t put it on immediately.

‘Correct. You’ve never eaten an oyster.’

‘Snot in a shell.’

‘Agreed. You like football and I like flowers.’ I run my fingers through my hair and try to appear less rumpled than I am.

‘Why are peonies your favourite?’

Good question. A bit left of centre. I’ve never been asked that before, yet I do have an answer.

‘I think they’re a great mix of sturdy and exotic, which has to be something every girl aspires to. They smell so clean. The flower was named after P?on, a physician to the gods, who got the plant on Mount Olympus, from the mother of Apollo. Once planted the peony likes to be left alone and punishes those who try to move it by not flowering again for several years. I like the idea that a plant has a sense of revenge,’ I giggle.

‘No uprooting. I’ll remember that,’ says Scott.

‘Ah, but remember, once established, it produces splendid blooms each year for decades,’ I mutter, just in case we’re talking about more than the plant. I continue with my search for fresh topics. ‘I know all about your family. You know about mine. Where do we go from here?’

‘You could tell me a little more about your boyfriend.’

The word boyfriend hits me like a train. Hell, does he still exist? The thought that Adam is somewhere – anywhere – doing something – anything – floors me. I’d completely forgotten that he existed. It’s easy to do when I’m cocooned up with Scott, away from anything remotely normal or expected; protected from any inconvenient truths and intrusions.

‘Adam.’ Even his name sounds alien. Yet he’s been in this shop a hundred times. He’s popped by to while away slow hours and help me lug round potted trees. He’s dropped off sandwich lunches, he came to my rescue when we had a power cut and I struggled with the burglar alarm and the electric till. These things happened a millennium ago.

‘Yes. This Adam, is it serious?’ asks Scott.

‘We broke up.’

‘When?’