Page 39 of Oyster

“Ambidextrous,” she informed me, smugly. “I think I’ll be even better with this hand.”

The bubble of laughter welling in my throat died as she proved correct. Ah merde.Suddenly, I was grateful for the solidity of the fridge at my rear and the strength in her thigh. Chills licked up my spine, and I groaned against the hot skin of her neck, my balls squeezing tighter with every stroke. Her ragged breath mixed with mine, her own arousal pressed up against my hip.

“Oh, God, I’m coming, Éti, I’m… pute… that’s…”

She made a noise deep in her throat, sounding so raw and hungry and fucking sexual. Before my brain had time to warn either of us, I spilled into her hand and over onto her dress. Still pulsing, I staggered towards her, reaching out for support.

“No, no, Nico, just a sec… I need to…”

Head down, she backed away. Colour rose up her cheeks; her hand moved to cover her groin. “Ugh, I need to see to something.”

Rustling clothing, a running tap, the flush of the toilet—mundane sounds bringing me down to earth as swiftly as if someone had chucked a bucket of water over me. In a hurry, I put myself back together, then looked up to find her hanging in the doorway, less red in the face, but uncertain, upset, chewing on a nail. Light years removed from the woman who, moments before, had so confidently emptied my balls.

I held out my arms. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Wrapping her close, I pressed a kiss into the top of her springy curls. “You okay?”

I felt a little nod. “Yeah, sorry about that. Just, you know. Hating my shitty body. The usual stuff.”

I squeezed her even tighter. “You don’t have to hide away to do that, Éti. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I huffed a laugh. “You just made me do the same thing, but all over the front of your dress.”

“I know. But I’d rather it didn’t happen that way. To me, anyhow.”

“It’s a sign you were turned on, that’s all. That we turn each other on. It makes me happy that us being together like this has that effect on you.”

“I know that too, but some days I want rid of it all.” She buried her face even further into my chest. “There are days when makeup isn’t enough. Dresses and painted toenails aren’t enough. I turn all the mirrors to face the wall. And I hate my… my junk. All hanging out.”

My heart clenched. I wished I could make it better for her, but how did I begin? I’d just had one of the best orgasms of my life, and hers had brought her shame and tears. “I can’t begin to understand how that feels, Éti.”

“I know. No one does.”

“I wish I did so I could say the right thing. But I want you to know that I don’t care that you’ve got it.”

“I might get rid of it one day. After my career’s over. Investigate taking hormones, too.”

At a total loss how to comfort her, I swallowed. Smooth platitudes had no place here. “Well,” I said eventually, “I hope whoever is in your life when that moment comes will support you whatever you choose.”

Her hold on me tightened. “I hope that person will be you, Nico,” she whispered. “So much.”

If I had my way, I’d wrap her up between now and then and never let her out of my sight. “So do I, my sweet.”

Time ticked by, both of us reluctant to let go of the other. Mon dieu, what a heavy conversation. Tonight had thrown up a few of them.

As the kitchen clock pinged the hour, I untangled her, stepping back. “Listen, sweetheart. I don’t know about you, but when I’ve had a three-course dinner, followed by a sprint along the beach and a whole-body orgasm, I need a moment to recover. Why don’t you put on those cute flowery pyjamas and go and warm up the bed for me? I’ll lock up, give you a head start.”

And me a moment alone too, an opportunity to check my phone. I’d not checked in for hours. Max promised to call if he had any concerns, about either parent, but twenty-year-old blokes weren’t known for their reliability. No messages; I sighed with relief.

“My sister would adore rummaging through this lot.” I unbuttoned my shirt, removing it for the second time that evening and laying it over the back of a chair while absorbing the sheer amount ofstuffhiding every square inch of the dressing table. Creams, lotions, tubes, tubs, sticks, brushes—pots crammed with brushes. Some were big enough to paint the ceiling. Necklaces and bracelets too, ropes of fat pearls (no doubt real) draped over the edge of the mirror, a three-tiered jewellery box spilling open and littered with sparkles, and the huge fucking diamond ring just lying there, like a fat glittery snowball. I recalled the night I first met her, finding the doors to the terrace hanging wide open.

“You really should set the burglar alarm, you know. Or invest in a safe.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” agreed Éti, not giving a shit, propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows. And anyhow, she was staring at me, not the treasure trove. I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest a little. “You’re lovely to look at, Nico.”

I rolled my eyes. “You spend your days surrounded by professional athletes. I’m ordinary in comparison.”

“Not to me.”

Feeling my face colour, I fondled the pearls. “There’s enough stuff here to open a beauty parlour.”

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