Chapter 25
We’re not supposed to wild camp, but we passed the two bivouacs where we could have stayed a while back, and as we’re not erecting a tent, étienne doesn’t think anyone will notice us on the banks of the river.
We do our best to hide his bright yellow kayak though, shoving it as far under leafy bush cover as we can manage.
I’m very glad of the change of clothes étienne encouraged me to bring, including a hoodie and leggings, and I’m grateful that he went overboard with picnic supplies too.
We still have half a baguette, crisps, cheese, and two big bottles of water so at least we won’t starve or die of thirst out here.
“Where will we sleep?” I ask.
“Here on the sand. Easier to see what’s around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask twitchily.
“Well, there are wild boars and scorpions so—”
“Are you serious?” I ask, my voice jumping up several keys.
“It’s fine, Grace,” he replies calmly.
I gawp at him and he lets out a small laugh, coming closer. I’m tense as he places his hands on my shoulders. And then something happens to me that I wasn’t expecting: I melt.
His lips curve up as he gazes down at me. And then he pulls me into his arms.
Oh my God, I could live here.
“You do like physical touch,” I whisper stupidly, swaying slightly as though I’m drunk.
He chuckles and I feel the sound reverberating through my chest as his arms hold me a little tighter.
Our entire bodies are aligned from the length of our torsos down to our knees. He breaks away long before I want him to.
He spreads the picnic blanket out and drapes the beach towels on a rock to make sure they dry fully so we can use them as blankets later. I’m finding it hard to stop watching every little thing that he’s doing.
“Can I help?” I ask.
He shakes his head and glances at me as he sits down on the blanket. “Just relax.”
Easier said than done, pal.
I go and sit beside him, envious of the ease with which he stretches out and tucks his hands behind his head.
“Was Mellie ever married?” he asks.
“A long time ago,” I reply as I settle down beside him. “Her husband refused to foster so they parted ways.”
“She chose fostering over marriage?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “She wanted to take in the girl who lived next door, but her husband told her not to get involved.”
“What was the situation with the girl?”
“Mellie used to hear her parents through the walls, yelling and screaming and banging about. When the girl was in her back garden and thought no one was watching, Mellie would often see bruises on her. She was thirteen, but so skinny. Just this broken little person. Mellie started to intercept her when she came home from school. She’d pretend that she was throwing out food because she’d cooked too much, and she’d plead with her to take it rather than see it go to waste.
Eventually she called social services. Her husband was cross, he really didn’t want her to interfere, but she couldn’t look the other way.
She applied to be a kinship carer, which turned out to be surprisingly easy.
She and the girl moved away and started afresh. ”
“That’s incredible.”
“Yeah. Mellie was and still is an angel.”
“What happened to the girl?” he asks.
I stare at the sky. “She grew up, had a baby with a Kosovar Albanian refugee, and became an aid worker.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face turn toward mine. “She was your mother?” he asks with surprise.
I nod, my eyes misting.
He reaches over and takes my hand, and somehow it also feels like the most natural thing in the world.
We’re lying on our sides, propped up on our elbows, talking. We finished eating a while ago and the sun has long since disappeared beyond the uplands, but the air remains warm and balmy.
étienne’s hand is resting on the blanket between us. I pick it up and study his fingernails.
“How do you get them clean?” I ask. “After you’ve been at work?”
“I scrub them,” he replies with amusement, indulging me as I continue to play with his hand.
Since that hug, it’s easier to be tactile with him.
“Your hands are rougher than they used to be,” I comment.
“Yours are just as soft.”
I meet his eyes. We maintain the contact for an extended moment until he eventually pulls his hand from mine and rubs at his neck, gazing across the river.
“Do I make you nervous?” I ask, feeling bold.
He casts me a sideways look.
I lift my hand and he flinches, but doesn’t retreat further than an inch as I press two fingers to his pulse point. He stares at me, all playfulness gone from his eyes.
“I have no idea how fast your heart rate usually is,” I murmur. And then I can’t hold in the question any longer. “Do you remember what you said to me the other night? When you were drunk?”
“As I told you”—he waits two seconds and in that time his pupils dilate—“I wasn’t that drunk.”
I feel a hustling beneath my ribs. I want him. And I know he’s made it clear that this would be a casual thing, but I think I’ve just got to get him out of my system so everything feels clearer.
He reaches out and time slows as he presses the pad of his thumb to my lower lip, just as he did in the bar. My breathing is ragged as he drags it down my chin, under my jaw and over my soft skin, and then I do a full body shudder as he cups the back of my neck and draws me to him.
A bolt of electricity blasts down my spine as our lips meet. Our kiss is slow and sensual, but it soon transforms into something more urgent, more desperate, more dangerous, more…
I rake my nails through his hair as I pull him on top of me, hooking my leg around his waist. My mind splinters as I feel how turned on he is—I’m a little unhinged as I tug his hips against mine.
He retreats a couple of inches and then sinks back onto me again, establishing a rhythm that continues to press him against me with every deep stroke of his tongue.
I’m wound up so tight, desperate for release.
Suddenly he lifts himself off me, but before I can panic, he’s kissing my neck, my collarbone, the underside of my breast, my stomach.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly.
“Giving in to my curiosity,” he replies roughly as he pushes up my skirt, his eyes like thunderclouds.
I see stars long before they pepper the night sky.