Page 61 of Birds of a Feather

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘to get back to your original question, no, I’m not afraid of flying. I figure at least if I’m in a plane crash there’s a good chance that I’ll plummet to my death, so I won’t have to deal with the fallout of any misread romantic cues or viral videos.’

The distance between us shortened, although I couldn’t be sure if it was him moving towards me, or me to him. My heart rate quickened.

‘But I hope I’ve got better at reading signals since then,’ he said.

By the time he’d placed his hands on either side of my face, I realised he was going to kiss me.

‘Is this okay?’ he whispered.

I nodded and inched my face towards his.

As our lips met my stomach flipped.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you,’ he said after a few moments, his mouth only a fraction away from mine.

I couldn’t believe that Nick – a handsome, clever, funny, kind, sensitive and thoughtful man, with soft lips, a nice smell, well-kept fingernails and a genuine interest in me – would want to kiss me. This wasn’t like the time at Sophie Arbunkle’s birthday when Tim Alloy’s friends told me he wanted to kiss me by the swing set, only to leave me standing there for half the night. Or when I succumbed to the advances of Dave – a guy from my geospatial science tutorial who I’d had a crush on for most of the year – who kissed me at an end-of-semester party and then confessed he’d thought I was someone else. Nick wanted to kiss me.

Nick pressed his lips against mine again. But this time the tenderness of his kiss had transformed into something more urgent. More passionate. I was sure he could feel my heart thumping as I pushed my chest against his. A warmth coursed through my body; it was how I imagined lizards felt on the first sunny day after winter.

I tried to focus my thoughts on the sensations of my body: the feeling of his hands that he’d moved from my face to my lower back; the smell of his skin; and the rise and fall of my diaphragm as my breath became deeper. But an intrusive voice in my head kept asking the question about what this all meant for two people who lived on opposite sides of the world.

I was comfortable with this being a one-off holiday event; I was not a prude and had no sense of pious obligation for sex to be part of anything long-term or monogamous. But I wondered how being with Nick would shape my future, when every exchange with a man from this day forward would be compared to this perfect moment. And that was even with the intrusive thoughts about him seeing my unkept bikini line and granny knickers.

I defiantly pushed all that noise from my mind and surprised myself with my own boldness as I sat up and swivelled my body to straddle him in his seated position on the couch.

Nick moaned.

‘Oh, God. Sorry. Are you okay?’ I asked hurriedly. ‘Did I hurt you?’

He lifted his eyes to meet my gaze.

‘Quite the opposite,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’m very glad you’re here.’

I wasn’t sure if he meant in London, in his apartment or on his lap, but I enjoyed being the object of his desire.

We pulled and tugged breathlessly at each other’s clothes, our hands and mouths exploring each other.

‘Wait there,’ he said suddenly, lifting me to one side and springing off the couch. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He took off into his bedroom.

His abrupt departure slapped me back into reality and I was wracked with disappointment. Was it something I’d done? Was he not attracted to me? Had I misread the situation?

But when he returned holding a small, foil condom packet, which he wordlessly announced with a wink, I allowed myself to relax again.

He lay down on the couch and pulled me towards him.

‘Should we move to your bedroom?’ I asked. ‘What if we mess up the couch?’

The throw cushions that had been tastefully arranged were becoming strewn all over the place.

‘Fuck the couch,’ he replied with a wry smile.

‘Fuck the couch,’ I agreed as I lowered myself onto him.

Our bodies fit together like smooth-edged puzzle pieces, and we moved together in perfect unison – slowly at first.

‘You are magnificent,’ he whispered, which provided an alternate track to the soft nagging voice in my head that made me self-conscious about the silvery stretch marks on my breasts.

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