Page 17 of For Real

He dropped the towel and dived into the sheets, but not before I caught the pale flash of his haunches, the dimples at the base of his spine.

I flicked off the light so I didn’t have to watch the shapes his body made beneath the covers as he wriggled himself into a comfortable position, then I stripped off my dressing gown and climbed in gingerly beside him.

He was still wriggling, making odd little purring noises at the back of his throat and tucking himself so firmly into the duvet I wondered how I was ever supposed to get him out of it again.

I didn’t usually sleep on my back, but I thought it prudent to lie that way.

“G’night, Laurie.”

“Do you need an alarm?”

“No, s’fine.”

God. When he was tired, his voice had that husky edge it took on when he was aroused. It had been quite a while since I’d shared my bed with someone. I’d forgotten what it was like to have that awareness of another body. I almost thought I could hear the flicker of his eyelashes. Feel his heart beating.

Which was impossible because he had settled on his side, facing away from me, his whole body compressed into a tight little ball.

I listened to him breathe, until it grew slow and deep and even, and then risked rolling over myself. I didn’t even feel him move, but there he was pressed right up against me, his back to my chest, his arse snuggled against my thighs. He made a sleepy, contented noise that could only have been entirely calculated.

I wondered if he was smiling.

I put an arm over him and pulled him to me, my hand closing almost instinctively over his wrist to keep him there.

In for a penny… When in Rome…etc., etc.

A soft pulse of desire went through me, not for sex or pain or humiliation or some other release, but for this, this quiet closeness. Someone to hold in the dark.

He must have felt it. The way I stirred against him, the way my breath caught. I waited, helplessly and half-afraid, for his response, for him to turn and cover me, kiss me and take me. I wouldn’t have resisted. I would have welcomed him, in all his sincerity and obstinacy and his youthful ardour for forbidden things. But he hadn’t lied when he’d promised me mercy. His fingers twisted back to brush my hand, and he settled his body into the curve of mine, giving me this instead.

4

Toby

I wake at fuck knows what time in a strange bed, in the arms of a man I hardly know, and it’s perfect. I’ve never been held like this before. Kind of so…absolutely. His fingers are slack against my wrist, but they’re still there. This comforting weight, like he can’t bear to let me go. I don’t think he’s moved all night long.

I’m super careful because I don’t want to wake him, but I wriggle myself round in his arms until we’re face-to-face.

Laurie.

His breath’s morningy, but so’s mine. I just like looking at him like this. He’s both more and less like himself somehow, stern and soft at the same time. And, lying there in this warm haze with him, I can’t believe all the things he’s given me in a single night: power and submission and kindness. And now this as well. His peace.

He’s also the first person who’s ever taken me seriously. The first person to really make me feel beautiful. I can’t help wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to be able to give him back.1

Very, very lightly, I touch his eyelashes. The corner of his lips. He doesn’t stir. And I’m a little bit worried this is what stalkers do.

I know we’re not lovers or boyfriends or friends, and I know that he’s going to wake up and call a taxi to drive me out of his life. I hope he doesn’t regret me—this stupid kid he took home one night—but I’m going to remember him forever.

I’m not sure I’m the same person who snuck into that stupid club. The only thing I was right about was him. I kind of half wish I’d met him later. When I’m older, and I’m all cool and sophisticated. However that happens. I can’t really imagine it properly, though. The best I can come up with is us both wearing tuxedos. And we’re in this sort of…bar, I guess, which is all oak and honey and candlelight, and I’m all like, From the top shelf, please, to the bartender. And Laurie looks exactly the same, but I’m kind of hazy, and my brain wants to substitute Daniel Craig, and what the fuck kind of fantasy is this, where I’m played—in my own head—by somebody else?

Besides, if I had met him some other time, I wouldn’t be here now. And he wouldn’t be my first. And I wouldn’t lose that for anything.

I hope he hasn’t totally ruined me.

I’ve no idea what time it is. Late, I think, from the light, which is kind of bright and sharp and sparkly, like you sometimes get after seriously hardcore rain. And it’s such a ridiculously gorgeous room to wake up in, a little bit fairy tale, especially since he’s got this massive four-poster bed. Or some kind of posh modern take on one, anyway, since there’s no curtains or canopy, just the base and the posts, which are heavily carved with arches and spirals and have that inside gleam of really good wood, so deep and rich you think it’d be warm if you touched it. It’s fancy without being fussy, and honestly, it gives me a bunch of filthy ideas.

He’d look fucking amazing spread-eagled on a bed like this.

And that’s a fantasy I can definitely imagine properly.

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