Page 84 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

We’re a few inches apart, and we’re not touching, but I want to kiss her, so much. The intensity of that urge surprises me. I look at her lips, imagining how soft they’d feel beneath mine. How she’d sigh, her breath whispering across my lips. But I restrain myself. I’m not snatching kisses in secret with an employee again. She’s worth more than that.

“I’ll text you the address,” I tell her. “Six o’clock? It’ll give me time to get the ingredients and start cooking.”

“Okay.”

I hesitate, entranced by the longing in her eyes. Then I get up and walk out of the room without looking back.

*

I spend the next half an hour looking up recipes when I should be working.

I’m no chef, but cooking helps me relax. I find something easy and fresh for summer, then finish off the report I should have been working on before saying goodnight to Louise and heading out.

At the supermarket, I buy a couple of salmon fillets and a host of other ingredients. Then I drive home to my apartment in the suburb of Brooklyn, which is high on one of the hills surrounding Wellington, with a great view across the city and the harbor beyond. I open all the doors and windows, and set some music playing as I start preparing the meal.

First, I boil some new potatoes in their skins until just cooked, then place them on a baking tray and press them with a mug until they’re almost flat. After sprinkling them with parmesan and herbs, I drizzle olive oil over them. They’ll bake for twenty minutes in the oven and come out crisp and crunchy.

I make up a vibrant salad of baby greens that I’ll toss in a lemon-honey vinaigrette just before I serve it, and in a bowl, break apart some orange segments, sliced avocado, and a handful of toasted almonds to scatter over the top.

Taking some peaches, I halve and then quarter those, ready to be grilled. In a bowl, I beat some mascarpone cheese with vanilla extract until it’s all soft and fluffy to serve with it. I’ll drizzle some honey over, and I chop some pistachios ready to sprinkle on top.

I chill a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, and make sure two wine glasses are clean and sparkling. Then I open a bottle of beer and have a mouthful or two before I tidy up the house.

I’m nervous, I realize with some surprise. Sometimes we all meet in a bar or the cinema, but Elora still gets anxious about being in busy public places, so we usually meet at her and Zoe’s apartment, and it’s the first time Hallie has been here. I want her to like it. I have a cleaner come in once a week, plus I’m a tidy guy and Joel—who’s the untidy one—is away, so there’s not much to clean up. But still, I place any books and magazines in a neat pile, straighten the cushions on the sofa, make sure the bathroom is clean, and then—feeling slightly guilty because of the assumption—I take the beer into the bedroom and tidy that too, straightening the duvet and ensuring any dirty clothes are put away.

When I’m done, I go over to the window, having another mouthful of the cold beer. Normally, the whole of Wellington is visible, right across the harbor to Petone on the other side, but tonight I can only see Hallie in my mind’s eye.

I can’t assume she’ll want to go to bed with me, I scold myself sternly. But in my heart, I know she will. I’m not nervous because of what she’ll think of the house. I have butterfliesbecause I’m excited to see her here, alone, where there’s nobody to judge us.

Part of me thinks I can’t wait until we’ve eaten, and I fantasize that as soon as she walks in the door, I’ll push her up against the wall and kiss her senseless for as long as I can bear it. Then I’ll drop to my knees again and give her an orgasm with my mouth before I lift her, pin her against the window, thrust into her, and take us both to the peak of pleasure again.

I turn and look at the bed. Or maybe it would be better to spend ages kissing her. Undress her slowly, kissing every inch of her skin as I reveal it, sucking those beautiful light-brown nipples, pressing my lips down between her legs and licking her there, until she’s groaning and begging me to be inside her. Then I could take her super slow, while she looks into my eyes with that wonderful yearning expression that suggests she doesn’t ever want me to stop.

Hmm.

After finishing off the beer, I return to the kitchen. Move the salad from one side of the breakfast bar to the other. Get out the cutlery. Move the salad back.

Jeez, now I can’t concentrate on anything. All I can think about is Hallie and her soft skin and her hot mouth. The way she went down on me, so tentatively, shy and hesitant, but clearly wanting to give me pleasure. How she’s now not afraid to let me know if she’s enjoying what I’m doing with moans and sighs, which turns me on more than anything. The smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of all that soft, silky skin…

For fuck’s sake. I can’t sport a hard on as soon as she comes through the door. Briefly, I consider ducking into the bathroom and doing a little DIY so I can alleviate the ache inside me, but even as I take a few steps, there’s a knock at the door, and I know it’s her.

I inhale and blow out a breath, trying to calm myself, and willing my erection to go down. Then I run up the steps to the front door and open it.

My heart leaps at the sight of her. She’s changed from her work jeans, and now she’s wearing a navy jacket over a maxi dress, light yellow with orange flowers. She’s braided her hair and pinned it up with a daisy clip, and her makeup is light and natural—she looks like Áine, or Bridgid, a Celtic goddess of summer and fertility, making me think of the hot sun beating down on the wheat growing in the fields, fish jumping in the slow river, and the young women of the village carrying armfuls of flowers on the fertility festival of Beltane while they creep off into the hedgerows to get laid.

Oh dude… you’ve got it bad.

“You look nice,” she says. Her gaze slides down me, then stops.

I’m wearing a new white tee and a smart pair of black Adidas track pants with white stripes down the side. I look down at myself. My erection strains toward her through the thin fabric as if begging her to touch it.

I lift my gaze to hers. “Homo erectus strikes again.”

She giggles.

I scratch my cheek. “Sorry. I was… ah… thinking about l-later and what might h-happen when we g-go to b-b-b…” I give up.

Her face lights up with amusement, and she presses her lips together. Then her gaze turns sultry. “Glad it wasn’t just me.” She takes my hand and leads me down the stairs and through to the kitchen, and turns me so my butt is against the worktop. Then she lifts up onto her tiptoes and throws her arms around my neck as she kisses me, pressing her body up against me.

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