Page 26 of The Last Train Home
It feels so different from how I thought it would feel: Tom’s lips on mine. So gentle at first, as if he’s attempting to work out if I’m going to retreat quickly. But I don’t. I close my eyes and let Tom kiss me so softly, so very gently that my body begs him to kiss me harder. And he does, but it’s still wary, hesitant, until it’s not. And we ease in so readily, so willingly. He touches my face, my neck and his hand edges into my hair, gently holding me.
I’m lost, but it’s in such a good way. I never want this feeling to end – Tom wanting me. Me wanting Tom.
I hold onto his hips, hooking my fingers into his belt loops, pulling him towards me until our bodies are pressed against each other. We break for breath, for reassurance that this kiss is what we want, and then his mouth seeks mine again. I’ve never been kissed like this before.
He moves back ever so subtly and looks at me. I’m not sure if he’s weighing up what we’re doing, what we’re about to do or if he’s checking I’m OK.
I don’t want him to check on me. I want him to have sex with me. But I can’t say it out loud. I just want him toknowthat’s what’s happening.
His mouth is on mine again and I think he’s finally got it, because our height difference gets the better of him and he finds a solution, lifting me onto the countertop, pushing the open tub of ice cream out of the way so that it flips over, the spoons clattering onto the floor.
I groan softly and, in doing so, I have made it abundantly clear where my head is at. But he’s stalling, his hips in between my open legs, focused on kissing me. His hands rest on my waist and then they’re around me, commanding me, pulling me into him.
I can’t take this, I’m desperate now. I put my hands in his hair, pull him towards me and then I move, untucking his shirt from his trousers. His tie had come off the moment we entered his flat, and his top button’s been undone all night. I don’t think he gets how alluring it is, that little V of skin where his neck meets his collar. He’s getting it now, though.
I lift my arms as he pulls my T-shirt up and over my head. He’d been a gentleman in the café that time, determinedly not looking at where my dress was so short, but he’s far from that now. His eyes are on my chest and, because we both know where this is leading, he cuts to the chase, his hand unclipping my bra and pulling it away from me while I tackle his shirt buttons.
I mutter something provocative about how much I want him inside me and he pulls his belt off at such a speed it’s dizzying. I slide off the work surface because I can’t get my jeans off up here like this, and he holds me, kisses me. I pull back, fumble with the button, but my eyes are blurring and my hair falls in the way. He does it for me and I push my jeans down, almost falling over in the process as I stand there in my knickers. Tom pulls his socks off and his trousers hit thefloor. Then he comes towards me again and scoops me into his arms, his metal watch cold against my back. I groan with desire as he kisses my neck, working his way seductively towards my mouth.
He pulls back, gently, slowly, reluctantly – leaving static charge in the space between us as he crouches on the floor, pulling his wallet out of his discarded trousers. In his haste his phone falls out of the upturned trouser pocket and crashes onto the floor. Tom pulls a condom out of his wallet, his phone screen lights up and he automatically glances at it. A perplexed expression descends on him and then he slowly stands up, clutching his phone.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘What?’
He shakes his head.
‘What?’ I ask again. ‘What’s wrong?’
He skips a beat and then, ‘Nothing.’
‘That’s not true. What’s going on?’
But he pulls back and then draws out the words, ‘Oh, fucking hell.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘What?’What’s happening?
‘Oh, fuck, Abbie.’ And then he issues a noise direct from the back of his throat. He moves backwards, away from me. ‘Oh, fuck,’ he repeats.
‘What? What?’ I’m not tipsy any more. I’m stone-cold sober.
He turns away from me and I know I’ve lost him at this point, as he exhales long and loud. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says and walks away, picking up our clothes one by one. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
I’m so incredibly still, standing in his kitchen, half naked. I feel even more exposed now than I did when I was about to have sex with him. My breathing ramps up and I don’t know what to say.
‘We shouldn’t do this,’ he says. But what he means is: we’re not doing this. There’s no discussion. He’s decided.
He’s picked up his clothes, but he’s not putting them on. He’s standing in his tight boxer shorts, still hard. He’s still hard, but he’s not having sex with me. This makes no sense.
‘Why not?’ I ask. I am genuinely confused. Is it me? Is he not into me? His erection tells me otherwise. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening,’ I beg.
He shakes his head. ‘You should …’ He gestures to the clothes scattered around us.
‘Are you dismissing me?’ I baulk. ‘Are you kicking me out?’
‘I just … you need to … Yeah. I’m sorry. Just – I’m sorry.’
I can’t move. My mouth is open in horror, shock, humiliation, embarrassment. I’m naked. And I’m being kicked out because of something on his phone. ‘Why?’ I try again. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘It’s not my fault,’ Tom says. And then his facial expression tells me he’s reconsidering this.
