Chapter 14 December 14th #2
I can’t take it. How utterly amazing this man is, I just can’t take it. I nod, agreeing, and he exhales, the sound a groan mixed with heavy breathing, and rolls his mouth onto mine as he flexes his hips and plunges deeply into me.
I’ve been awake since five, and despite only drifting off past one, therefore only having four hours’ sleep, I feel rested.
Wide awake. I should have left at six to walk home so I could dress and make it to work on time.
But I couldn’t bring myself to leave the warmth of Dec’s bed, where I’m tucked under his arm, my cheek on his pec, my fingers brushing through the trail of hair that drifts from his belly button down to his lower stomach.
Listening to his breathing. Feeling his heart beating under my cheek.
Lost in my thoughts.
Daring to hope.
Calm is a cosy blanket around my usually frantic, lonely heart.
I told myself I’d brave the Tube or get a cab, just to stay here for a while longer.
And I’ve stretched my time in bed to the absolute limit.
It’s seven. I have to be at work in an hour.
Not contractually—my working hours are nine to five—but for the sake of predictability. I’m always in the office for eight.
I peel myself away from Dec, pouting my sullenness as I do, and creep around his bedroom, collecting my things.
I’m halfway down the stairs when Lynette appears, a basket of washing resting on her hip.
I stop, clutching the balustrade, feeling all kinds of awkward.
“Morning.” I smile, that’s awkward too, and shift on the spot.
“Morning, Camryn.” Her smile isn’t awkward at all. It’s as genuine as a smile can be. She’s not surprised I’m here. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”
I descend the rest of the stairs and slip my heels on, unable to stop my thoughts from locking down on that. She’s not surprised I’m here. “No, thank you, I really have to get myself home or I’ll be late for work.”
“You weren’t expecting to stay?” she asks, carrying on to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder as she goes.
“I definitely wasn’t expecting to stay,” I say quietly, following her.
And had I known it had been five years, I would have been more doubtful to be having a sleepover.
Five years. I just can’t wrap my head around that.
I wouldn’t be able to with any man, but Dec?
He’s the full package. Was he being honest?
I cock my head. Why would he lie about that?
“Does Dec have overnight guests often?” I blink my surprise, recoiling at my own question.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry, I was only supposed to ask that in my head. ”
Lynette chuckles, dumping the basket on the island. “If I were in your shoes, I’d probably be asking that question too.”
My nose wrinkles. “It was inappropriate.”
“I’ve worked for Dec for four years.”
“Definitely inappropriate.”
“And I’ve never known him to have a guest overnight.”
My stomach flutters. “But he’s had guests?” Why the hell am I digging?
“Never.”
“No one?”
“I assume you’re talking about the female variety.” She flicks on the coffee machine.
“I need to learn to control my mouth, clearly.” I point behind me, guilt getting me good.
Of course he wouldn’t lie. I know he’s a good man, and now, frankly, I feel utterly ashamed of myself for doubting that.
But, in my defence, he did not have sex like it was the first time in nearly five years.
“I’ll just get my coat. Dec’s asleep, I didn’t want to disturb him. ”
“Should I give him a message?”
I pause for thought at the door. She thinks I’m running out too. “Do you have a pen and paper?”
She smiles, and something tells me she’s pleased as she opens a drawer and pulls out a pad and pencil, pushing it toward me before giving me some privacy and disappearing through a door at the end of the kitchen—the laundry room, I assume.
Picking up the pen and bending over the counter, not overthinking, I just writing what my heart tells me to write.
I’m not running. Thank you for being wonderfully you. Camryn x
I set the pen down and find my bag in the hallway, throwing it on my shoulder and letting myself out.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, stepping into a flurry of snowflakes.
A blanket of white hides the steps down to the street again, ready to be shovelled away.
My gaze drops to my heels, the toes kissing the blanket of snow, my shoes safe in the sliver of ground by the front door that the snow hasn’t reached.
“Damn.” I drop my bag, wedging my hand in the doorframe to prop myself up, and change into my boots.
Crunching my way down the steps, I look back at Dec’s house in the dim light of an early December morning.
It's picture-perfect.
Like the man who lives here.
My eyes peek left and right to the other houses on the street. All have fairy lights on the box hedging and trees flanking the front doors. Uniform. As if the residents have consulted each other on the theme for this year and understated and classy won the vote. No colour. No fuss.
Just pretty fairy lights, the tone a warm yellow glow, decorate each house.
Except Dec’s.
I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas.
I hum, hugging myself, and start ploughing through the snow to the nearest Tube, feeling the aftereffects of Dec Ellis, the flesh of my inner thighs tender and my insides aching deeply.
Can you breathe when we’re close? Because I can’t.
And it truly is for the best reasons.
I smile, accepting and appreciating the true happiness that courses through me. And it’s okay.
I’m okay feeling happy.
I should have anticipated it. The Tubes weren’t running.
All cancelled, the snow now surpassing a few inches, which takes it from disruptive to disastrous.
So I trudged my way through the snow, constantly checking my Uber app for a car close by.
They were thin on the ground, only drivers with vehicles built to handle the snow working.
Which wasn’t many.
Which meant I walked for a solid forty minutes until one close by popped up and I nabbed it.
My toes are brittle by the time I make it home, and I have exactly ten minutes to shower, change, and get to the office. I’ve already accepted I’m going to be late; I’d work from home if I could bear it.
I open the gate with a few firm thrusts, pushing the snow back, and take careful steps to the door, heaving it open. My teeth chatter, my skin burns it’s so cold. Why didn’t I stay in bed with Dec?
My key is halfway in the lock when Mr. Percival’s door swings open. He looks me up and down. I’m sure I don’t like the slight drop of his mouth. “Good morning, Mr. Percival.”
“And what time do you call this?”
“Huh?”
He pulls out his old watch, dangling it at me. “Seven fifty!”
“I know what the time is, Mr. Percival.”
“I’ve been worried.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have. You leave in the morning—Monday to Friday—at five thirty to run and return at six thirty. Then you leave at seven, for work, I assume, and return at ten p.m. earliest. On Saturdays, you run a little later and then leave again at noon and return at eleven p.m. earliest. Sometimes as late as midnight. On Sundays—”
“I get it, Mr. Percival.”
“So where did you stay?”
I laugh and turn the key. “That’s private.”
He recoils, injured.
“Mr. Percival, I appreciate your concern, but it’s not needed.”
He huffs, coming at me on his walking frame. “You are a very beautiful young woman, Camryn.”
I smile fondly. “Thank you.”
“You’re single and live alone. You run here, walk there, and stay out much later than you should.” He waggles a finger at me. He actually waggles a finger. “And from what I know about you since you moved into this building, there’s no one to worry about you, except me.”
Ouch.
“Well, there’s . . .” Dec. There’s Dec. Mr. Percival has seen Dec, because he spies on me.
“I’d feel much better if we exchange numbers.” He whips out a phone the size of a house and thrusts it toward me. “If you don’t mind.”
“You want my number?”
“Just so you can let me know if your regular routine changes to save my worry.”
I laugh, pulling the key out of the lock.
I could refuse. But, of course, I don’t.
Sighing, I go to Mr. Percival, to save him the effort and trouble of hobbling to me, and take the brick from his hand.
He’s just looking out for me, maybe more so now he’s seen Dec walk me home.
“How do you work this monstrous thing?” I grumble, punching in my number, a loud beep sounding with each button I press.
“Looks like you’ve got the hang of it.”
My number on the screen looks like it’s on a calculator. I swear, you could read the digits from the fucking moon. “There.” I press dial and raise my brows when my phone starts singing in my pocket. “I’ll save your number, Mr. Percival, so I know it’s you harassing me.”
“Marvellous.” He claims his mobile—if you can call it that, the thing needs its own bloody walking frame—and shuffles round, going back into his apartment.
“Ever thought about a smartphone, Mr. Percival?”
“You must be joking. It’s taken me twenty years to figure out how to use this one.”
“I was at Dec’s, by the way.”
“I thought as much.” The door slams.
“So there is someone else to worry about me,” I add quietly to myself, smiling.
I enter my apartment and go straight to the kitchen, pulling out Mr. Percival’s cake from the fridge and cutting off a slice, feeling unusually peckish for this time of day. I wrap my lips around a piece and hum, catching a crumb as I turn.
“Fuck!” Something leaps off the kitchen table, screaming in shock as it flies through the air, landing on the counter and scurrying away.