Chapter Twenty-Two
Marama
I didn’t honestly come up here expecting sex, but I’m certainly not going to turn it down.
It’s clear to me that Spencer is suffering. I didn’t tell him, but when I bumped into Kingi, he’d just walked out of the meeting, and he said, “I don’t know what you’re doing to Spencer, but he’s in trouble.”
I’m ashamed that part of me felt a flare of pleasure that I’m affecting him as much as he’s affecting me.
But equally, I don’t want him to suffer.
This business with Genevieve is going to hit him hard.
I still can’t believe that he’s refusing to confront her because he doesn’t want to ruin my dealings with her. I’m incredibly touched by that.
I don’t care about the others. I only care about you. His words prompted me to tell him I love him, not because I expected him to say it back, but because I needed him to know that he is loved.
He tilts his head to the side, slanting his lips across mine, and our tongues tangle, electricity sparking between us and making my nipples stand on end.
He releases the clip holding up my hair, bringing it tumbling down around my shoulders.
This man undoes me physically and metaphorically.
I love his sure, skilled hands, his confidence, his no-nonsense attitude. I love that he can’t keep away from me.
If this is so wrong, why does it feel so right?
He strips off my skirt and top, then groans as he sees my lacy white bra and matching knickers. “You’re so beautiful,” he says in hushed tones, his hands skating over my skin as if they can’t get enough of me. “Marama…”
“Yes…”
“I want you…”
“I’m all yours.” I undo my bra and toss it away, then take off my knickers.
He pushes me up against the window, chuckling when I gasp as my warm back meets the cold glass.
“Wicked man,” I protest, tilting my head to the side so he can kiss my neck.
“I wasn’t, until I met you.” He gives my skin big hungry kisses, trailing his tongue down my throat and then closing his mouth over where my pulse is pounding. When I moan, he growls, “Yes, moan for me, baby,” and takes my hands and pins them to the glass as he kisses my breasts.
I shiver, arching my back as he sucks on my nipples, my body going from zero to sixty in seconds. I ache for him, and when he kisses down my body and drops to his knees, I tip my head back on the glass and sigh as he slides his tongue into the heart of me.
I’m so turned on that it’s only minutes before he kisses back up my body and gets to his feet. “You’re so wet,” he says huskily, taking out his wallet and extracting a condom.
“Charming.” I take it from him and rip the packaging off.
“It was a compliment.” He undoes his trousers and pushes down his boxers, and I roll the condom on.
“A compliment to be told how slutty I am.”
He just laughs and lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. “As long as you’re only slutty for me, my darling.”
I kiss his forehead as he directs the tip of his erection beneath me. “I’m glad your frown has vanished.”
“You make me happy,” he says simply, lowering me a little so he penetrates me. Then he lowers me a bit more, so he slides inside me, and I’m impaled on him, all the way up.
We both groan, our foreheads touching as we adjust to the sensation. Then he kisses me and starts to move, pushing me up against the glass as he thrusts.
Ahhh… it feels amazing, and I love pretending that there’s nothing I can do about it—he’s going to take me all the way whether I want him to or not.
Ohhh… I adore that he hasn’t even undressed, I love his white shirt that he hasn’t bothered to undo, and the fact that I’m naked just makes it even more erotic.
“Fuck,” he says against my lips, still thrusting hard, “ah Marama, you’re so fucking hot.”
I know he’s wiped all my lip gloss off, and my mascara has probably smudged, and my hair is mussed, but I don’t give a damn.
I don’t even care that there are probably people who are having an evening walk along the beach who can see us outlined by the lamp behind us.
My whole being is focused and concentrated on my mouth and my nipples and between my legs, and as he thrusts against my clit, I feel the rise of my orgasm, as unstoppable as the rising moon.
“I’m going to come,” I whisper urgently, and he gives a groan of appreciation, his thrusts turning faster and harder, and then my orgasm hits, and I clench around him, giving him everything, all my body and my heart and my soul as the exquisite pulses claim me.
“Yes,” he hisses against my mouth, “you only come for me, baby.”
I nip his bottom lip with my teeth, and he groans and then stiffens as his climax hits him. I kiss him while he comes, wanting to capture his sighs and make him mine in that moment.
It takes a while, but eventually he opens his eyes and looks into mine. He gives me a wry smile, and we both start laughing.
“I can’t control myself when you’re around,” he scolds, lifting me off him and lowering me to the ground.
“Good.” I tremble a little, my legs still wobbly.
“Careful,” he says. He disposes of the condom, then comes back and gives me a hug. “You okay?” He kisses my hair.
I nod, nuzzling his neck. He smells so good.
We stand like that for a long while. My arms are curled in front of me, and he strokes my back. Mmm. I could stay here forever.
“Come on,” he says gently. “You should get dressed.” He bends and picks up my underwear and hands it to me. “Well, unless you want to go to the party like that.”
My euphoria fades. “I don’t want to go to the party. Can’t we just hang out here?”
“Our absence will be noted,” he points out, pocketing his wallet.
Slowly, I pull on my knickers and my bra, then my skirt and top. “Where’s the bathroom?” I ask stiffly.
He gestures, and I pick up my purse and hairclip and go over to it. Once inside, I shut the door and lean on the sink, looking at my reflection.
God, I look a mess. My face flushes at the sight of my mussed hair and smudged lip gloss. I feel suddenly foolish and embarrassed. What did I expect? That he’d ask me to stay the night with him, knowing that our friends and family would easily work out what was going on?
He’s not suddenly going to want to announce to the world that we’re an item. He’s made it quite clear that he wants to keep this a secret from everyone.
I think by asking for him to give up control with me, I did more harm than good. I wanted to establish trust and intimacy between us, but instead I think he saw it as a weakness.
He had no intention of having sex with me again. This was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I’m being an idiot if I think anything else.
Quickly, I use a tissue to clean up any smudges and add some fresh gloss. Then I attempt to wrestle my hair back into the clip. It doesn’t look as elegant as before, but it’ll have to do. I straighten my clothing and give myself one last glare in the mirror. Then I head back out to the living room.
He’s still standing by the window, looking out at the view in the darkness, although he’s holding a bottle of water now.
Suddenly, I need a glass of wine.
“Maybe I should head over there first,” I say, a touch tartly.
He just nods. “Probably a good idea.”
I clench my jaw, silently fuming. I hate this. His refusal to acknowledge me. His insistence on adhering to his principles. I hate it and admire it at the same time. And that really pisses me off.
He comes over and gives me a last hug. “Thank you,” he says.
What am I supposed to say to that? You’re welcome?
I extricate myself from his arms and walk over to the door. “Don’t worry, I won’t talk to you at the party.”
He frowns. “You can still—”
I don’t listen to the end. I go out and close the door behind me.
*
I make sure to stay away from Spencer. The party is being held in one of the rooms adjoining the main club, but people are coming and going all the time, and moving between tables, so it’s not noticeable that I don’t go near the table in the corner where he’s sitting with my mum and dad and a few others.
I congratulate Mack and Sidnie, and circulate a little, pinning a smile on my face and making sure that nobody could possibly criticize me in any way.
Then after an hour or so, I quietly tell Scarlett that I have a headache, which isn’t a lie, and I slip away.
I stride out of the club in case he’s following me, then realize sadly that he was never going to, and slow my step as I cross the gravel drive to one of the waiting taxis. It’s starting to get cold at night now we’re halfway through April, and I shiver, wishing I’d brought a jacket.
The taxi takes me home and pulls up next to the Kombi van. I’ve decided to paint the outside of it with big flowers so it looks like I’m off to Woodstock. I thought about calling it The ’69 and was going to tell Spencer because I thought it was funny, but I forgot.
I should keep away from him now. It’s what he wants, and prolonging any contact is only going to make it more difficult.
Tears prick my eyes, but I sniff and refuse to let them fall. I’ve cried enough over men in my life. I’m not going to do it anymore. I’ll celebrate what I’ve had, and it’s time to move on.
*
I stay at home for most of the next week, spending all my time in the studio, painting.
I know I’m only delaying the inevitable, and there are decisions to be made. I can’t live with my parents forever. At some point I need to decide what I’m doing going forward, whether I’m going to travel, or relocate and find an apartment or house in another city.
And I will. But right now I need to work on the paintings for the Lumen exhibition.
I spend a long time reading, researching myths and legends, and sketching ideas.
Genevieve has suggested a total of six paintings, and a date for the exhibition of 21 June—the celebration of Matariki.
It gives me a good two and a half months, which should be doable, and it also gives me space to breathe.