My heart soared as the twinkle of Mark’s house lights came into view. I took a long breath, and the peace engulfed me, as though I was home, slipping into comfortable slippers. He was waiting for me as I got out of the car, waiting to hold me tight, and I held him, breathed him, savoured the press of his body against mine as I sank into the moment.
Thank God for this, thank God.
The fire had warmed the house, in that blissful way that a real fire does. He lit candles in the dining room while I kicked my shoes off, then grabbed me a glass and poured me a healthy measure of red wine.
He clinked my glass.
“To us. To tenacity. We’ll get through this. Wait and see.” “I hope so, Mark.”
“Less hoping and more believing, please.”
I took a seat at the dining table, and he did, too. I reached out, tiny fingers stretching across the table for him, and he took them and held them. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“Things are shitty this week.”
“They aren’t shitty now.” He squeezed my hand.
I took a sip of wine. “I was stupid, to think I could pull off a lie like that one. Dad knows everyone, he knows everything…” “You did what you thought would be for the best. Things happen, it’s just life, Helen.”
“I’m sorry, Mark.”
He smiled, and the beauty in it ripped my heart open. His quiet resignation, his calm, his strength. “There is nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
But it felt like I had. I felt guilty, and scared, and out of my depth. Not scared for me. Scared for us. But that wasn’t it, either. I was really scared for him.
“Can I at least get a smile, Helen? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
I took a breath and I smiled. And then I moved, because I didn’t want wine anymore. I didn’t want to be sitting at this table with all this space, all this air between us. I dropped onto his lap, and wrapped my arms around him tight, and breathed. Just breathed. And he held me back, so warm and so tight.
“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Forget about it now.” “But you… your job…”
“Nothing’s even happened yet.”
I didn’t have a response for that, because it wasn’t my head that knew what was brewing. My head could rationalise it away, say I’d make up something, anything, keep a low profile and work this thing through, and it would all be fine. Just like we planned. Just like we wanted. But my heart knew. That horrible knowing, the pang of dread, the shadow on the horizon. My heart knew Dad, too.
I wanted to stay there forever, just breathing, my body next to his, his fingers in my hair, tickling my scalp, but he moved us.
Stood up and took me with him, walking us through to the living room where he dropped me to my feet. My toes landed on fabric, and I turned to find the floor covered with sheets. He had paint laid out, lots of it. Paint and brushes all ready to go, but no canvas.
“What’s this?”
His eyes sparkled. “The pull of the muse. Will you indulge me?”
It made me laugh, but it was breathy and disappeared into nothing. “Always.” I watched him as he lit more candles, so many of them, all over the mantelpiece, twinkling and glittering and lighting up our sculpture like little beacons of hope above the fire.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just breathe. I’ll do the rest.” “Sounds good.”
“I hope so.” He came to me, kissed me so gently before he slipped off my cardigan. “You have far too many clothes on, Miss Palmer.” He pulled my top over my head. “Far too many.”
Fingers traced my collarbone, slipped my bra strap down and dipped inside. His mouth was hot against my ear, lips soft, and I was fluttery and weightless, floating away. He took me out of my bra, then out of everything else, until my clothes were a just a pile of useless unwanted fabric. I wished I’d never need them again, wished that I could stay here like this forever.
“This is going to be messy,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice. “Quite messy.” “I like messy,” I said, and his smile was infectious.
He left me naked in the firelight while he grabbed some cushions and arranged them on the floor. He patted the sheet. “Come here, please.”
I dropped to my knees and he coaxed me onto my back, propped my head so gently onto one of the cushions and then lifted me up by my legs to prop another couple under my ass. My thighs fell open naturally and he ran a thumb over my clit. I closed my eyes to his touch, relaxed onto it, but he pulled away.
“Please don’t stop. Please, I really need this.” “Patience,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard him in the kitchen, footsteps and clattering, and when he came back it was with a towel over his shoulder and a bowl in his hands. He positioned himself on his knees between my legs, and I didn’t get chance to ask any questions before he held up a razor.
“May I?”
I felt my cheeks burning. “You want to shave me? There?” “If I may.”
“Ok,” I felt so young then, inexperienced and clumsy. “You may.” “I’ll be very careful.” He smiled.
“I’m not worried,” I said.
He flicked on a lamp at his side, and I felt so exposed, but it didn’t feel unpleasant. It didn’t feel unpleasant at all.
The water was hot, it felt amazing against my skin, but not as amazing as his fingers did as they lathered me with soap. It made me squirm.
“Please try to keep still,” he said. “At least for the next bit.” I nodded.
It felt so weird. More weird than I’d expected. The thrill of the razor against my skin was quite something. His concentration was addictive, too, treating me like a delicate flower, so gently, so carefully.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I said. “Yes,” he replied. “But this is different.”
“It is?” My brain skittered through potential differences. Was I weird? Did I have weird…
“It’s with you.” He swirled the razor in the bowl. “That makes it a different experience altogether.” He read my mind. “A
good experience, Helen.”
I closed my eyes as he spread me open, the razor kissing my most sensitive of places. I’d never felt quite so exposed as I did then, and there was a thrill to it, an excitement.
“You have the most delightful little pussy, Helen. It’s really beautiful.” I grinned like an idiot. “Thank you.”
He ran a thumb over me and it felt so different, so tender. It felt incredible. “Do you like how it feels?”
I nodded. “Yes, I like it a lot.”
He took his time, moving my pussy lips so gently, this way and that. Stopping to tease, stopping to tempt, just enough to make me quiver. The heat of a wet sponge made my breath hitch. Water trickled down over my ass and it tickled. Everything was hot and wet, and needy. I was needy. “All done,” he said. “Beautiful.” He took my fingers and placed them between my legs. “Feel how pretty you are, Helen. How soft.” It was so tingly. So different. “Wow.”
“Nice, yes?”
“Intense… it feels… so tender…”
“Exposed, vulnerable. Perfect, Helen, you look perfect.” My eyes met his. “You like it?”
“I love it.” He reached to his side and held up a paintbrush. “Makes a much better canvas, too.” My heart hammered at the realisation. “You’re going to paint my pussy?”
He laughed. “I’m going to paint you. Not just your pussy. Although I have to say I’m looking particularly forward to that bit.”
I couldn’t stop feeling my newly exposed skin. It was addictive, the sensations were addictive. He watched my fingers, and his eyes darkened. “Don’t stop,” he said, and shifted position.
His hands gripped my thighs, and his breath tickled tender skin and I moaned.
He kissed my fingers between my legs, and followed them with his tongue. It set me on fire, turned me into a squirming hot mess.
A week had been too long. I reached down for him, grabbed at his hair. “Please…” I spread myself with my fingers. “Mark, please…”
His breath was hot on me. His words gravelly and breathless. “Since you ask so nicely…”
***