Page 96 of The Secret Christmas Library
‘Tell me you were incredibly presumptuous and brought a condom,’ she whispered. ‘Because I don’t think we can nip to the all-night garage.’
He laughed, looked a little rueful, and confessed that he had.
And then they continued, staring into each other’s eyes in the flickering firelight, completely naked and, unusually for Mirren, completely unembarrassed, completely unselfconscious. He covered her, and, still looking into her eyes, slowly, and totally in control, he entered her, just the tip. Her eyes widened at the width of him. But he didn’t smile or apologise.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. Just . . . ’
She felt her breath coming fast now, feeling so close to him; he laid his body full-length on hers and she felt his heart beat faster, and a groan escaped him, and suddenly she was sweating all over. She held on to him closely as he pushed further; breathtakingly deep, all the way inside her, both slippery now, the heat and the pressure overwhelming.
‘Oh, God,’ she said, looking up at him, the two of them caught in a red-curtained four-poster world of their own, and they waited, frozen for a moment, until she couldn’t help moving, her hips urging him forward, until with a huge thrust he pushed them both over the edge, and before she knew it she was clinging to him, muttering words as he crashed down on her like a wave and she followed him, matched him, until they were completely one and she found her back arching, her body completely possessed by another, and slamming down again and again and again, until she felt herself lift, stretch, electricity powering through her veins to the very tips of her toes, even as he roared above her and reared up.
Neither of them spoke afterwards, both a little startled by what had just taken place. They swapped shy glances, and giggled a little. Mirren felt sweat drying on her skin but also felt the urge to touch him, again, to stroke his hairless chest, to make sure in a way that he was still real. And yet even touching him set her off again, astonishingly, once more with longing. He looked at her, equally astonished, then pulled her back towards him. He sat back against the back of the bed.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Come and sit on me. I want to see . . . ’
He pulled her on to his lap, astride him, fondled her heavy, swollen breasts, as she squirmed, still flushed with the excitement he awoke in her. He hoiked her closer, looked up at her, his beautiful sandy hair falling over his forehead, the green highlights glowing in his hazel eyes. She pushed herself against him.
‘This isn’t getting the book found,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood.
‘What fucking book?’ he said, taking her face in his hand once more, crushing her tightly to him with the other hand, refusing to loosen their tight connection until once again, hard against him, she found herself holding one of the curtains, screaminghoarsely as her curls cascaded down her damp back while he rammed her steadily, taking his time, refusing to relinquish his hold, even as she cried out, over and over.
Afterwards, still warm, sore, still feeling as if inside she was entirely melting, Mirren stood up and walked towards the window, conscious he was watching her move, and of the power that it gave her, that she had over him in that moment, even as she knew he must be falling asleep. She glanced back and the fine eyes were already drooping, the long lashes shadowing on his high cheekbones, and she felt a bolt of both joy and alarm: joy at his beauty; alarm that this might be – would be, must be – part of a short-lived thing, a sojourn from real life, where normal rules applied, where he would marry someone posh and annoying, and she would save up to try to soundproof the connecting wall.
She turned back towards the window. The snow had stopped, finally; finally the storm had blown itself out. Which was good of course but it meant . . . at some point they would inevitably have to go home. This spell would come to an end.
On the other hand, would she have missed it? Would she ever have missed this? An evening that she already knew she would remember for the rest of her life. Would probably, she thought, spend the rest of her life trying to equal.
The moon shone strongly now through the clearing sky, casting its light . . . She moved closer to the window, dreamily taking in the view.
Then, suddenly, she stopped short.
‘Jamie!’ she hissed, loudly. ‘JAMIE!’
‘What?’ came the amused voice, sounding sleepy. ‘I mean, I canprobablymanage another time. You are just so unbelievably fucking sexy . . . ’
‘Jamie! Come and see! NOW!’
46
From the window, Mirren pointed. Her tone woke Jamie up fully, and he leapt up, grabbing a blanket to wrap them both in.
‘If this is just a really good moon, could you take a bad photo of it and show me later?’ he said, but as he crossed to the window he fell silent.
‘What is it?’ said Mirren. ‘Is it something totally normal that happens here all the time and I can just ignore it because it’s some weird country thing I just don’t understand?’
Jamie didn’t answer her at first and just leaned over.
‘Crap,’ he said. ‘No. No. I think . . . ’ He got even closer to the window. On the horizon to the north was a steady orange glow. ‘Crap,’ he said again. ‘You know what’s there?’
Mirren looked at him, shrugging.
‘I think it’s the maze.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Theo didn’t get the fire out?’
‘Theo got completely turned around in the snow,’ said Jamie. ‘I was lucky to grab him on his way back from the maze. But I didn’t think to go back . . . I thought if I couldn’t see any flames it must be alright; it’s so cold and wet. Mind you, the snow is fresh, and there was fuel on it . . . It must have got inside the roots, and there was enough left when the snow stopped to smoulder . . . oh, God.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mirren, then she frowned. ‘But it will just be the maze, won’t it? It can’t reach the house; it’s too far away. Can it?’
