Chapter 21
Not a Booty Call
Anders and I lie together naked, hands clasped, making inane observations and laughing at unfunny jokes until my stomach reminds me it’s a long time since it was fed.
Neither of us feels like shovelling me back into my dress so he gives me a soft black t-shirt to wear.
I’m beginning to regret going without knickers as I have to sit bare-cheeked on his cold kitchen bar stool.
He offers me pizza or takeout, but I don’t want strangers intruding into this fantasy.
After unwrapping a couple from his freezer, he opens a bottle of wine, and I realise I can drink as much as I want.
No having to hold back in case I have to drive to a hospital.
But oddly, I don’t want to get drunk. I want to be able to remember everything that happens tonight, forever.
While he moves about his kitchen, I think about what Dana said.
It made a difference knowing I have control.
I should have been a bag of nerves tonight, overthinking everything having not had sex since Effie was born.
But I wasn’t worried for one moment whether my vagina was too sloppy, or my technique out-dated.
It helped that he was so clearly into me, that he found me attractive, and that he wanted me so much he would propose. He thinks I am a prize. Not some disposable pussy, good enough to fuck, not enough to stay. And I finally grasp what he meant; he was right to propose.
When the pizza is done, we curl up together on his sofa. He puts some music on, a selection of Adele hits playing low in the background. Anders pays attention, and he remembers the details.
We talk about our childhoods and our dreams. There’s a lot we already know about each other.
I know what winds him up (stupidity) and he knows my guilty pleasure (expensive chocolate).
But then he talks about Imogen and how painful it was to realise they wanted different futures.
And how much it cost him to call time on their relationship.
So I tell him how I struggled after Mike abandoned me. How long it took to stop blaming myself and to rebuild my confidence. How small I made myself and my life until I came to Cerium.
He knows I work because I have to and I know he works because he loves it. At one point he asks what I would do if I could. And I tell him, I would like to be the world’s expert at something. I don’t know what yet, but something. Maybe Effie and I are not as far apart as it sometimes seems.
Somewhere around midnight, we go back to bed. He holds me as we drift in and out of sleep. Neither of us have lives where we can stay awake all night, no matter how much we would like to.
When my alarm sounds at six o'clock in the morning, it's a rude awakening. I come to face down in Anders's bed, one leg hooked over his, and one arm lying across his body. My hand cups his cock. As soon as I realise where it is, I snatch it back. How embarrassing. It makes me look desperate. And then I realise it doesn't matter. This is not a first encounter where I wonder if I performed well enough to warrant another go. Anders wants a forever relationship. If I didn’t measure up – although I’m sure I did – we’ll keep learning each other’s bodies until we know what works.
So, this can be whatever I want it to be.
He nuzzles my forehead. A kiss, full of warm lips and the gentle prickle of his beard, lets me know he’s awake too.
When I slip out of his bed, he follows, throwing on sweats as I pick up my dress and attempt to fit into it.
That pizza must have morphed into fat overnight because it’s twice as hard to pull it back on as it was to peel it off.
I decline his offer of coffee and breakfast. Instead, he helps to locate my shoes before sliding my coat over my shoulders. And then his mouth lingers on mine long enough for me to think about going back to bed. I push him away. That can't happen.
Shoving his feet into trainers, he comes down to the roadside to wait for my taxi with me. One last throbbing kiss and I'm ducking away. He opens the car door and I slide inside. Slam! The door is shut, the driver pulls away from the kerb, and my night of magic is over.
By the time Dana, Max and Effie arrive, I’m washed, dried and dressed in mummy clothes. If it wasn't for the soreness between my legs, it would be hard to believe the night had ever happened.
Max clatters into the kitchen, Effie following quietly in his wake. She barely gives me a glance as she takes her place at the table. She likes to sit at the head, so nobody's elbows get in the way. Max comes over to inspect the pancake batter resting on the worktop.
“Chocolate chips?” he asks hopefully, but I shake my head. He looks crestfallen until I open the cupboard and produce a jar of Nutella.
“Take this to the table,” I tell him, and he carries it carefully to set it beside Effie. That’s kind of him, but unnecessary. Effie takes her pancakes plain, with about two granules of sugar.
Dana looks at me. “Well?” she says.
“Good,” I say. “No. Not good. Excellent.”
She does a Who’s the Mummy dance.
I burst out laughing. I feel on top of the world. Nothing can spoil this happiness.
Effie and Max look up, then look at each other. “They’re so embarrassing,” Effie says.
“That's right,” I say. “And I fully intend to embarrass you every day until you're grown up.”
“You already do.” Effie sighs, world-weary and resigned.
On Sunday it's difficult to hide from Effie how much I long for her to be gone.
Anders knows my timetable and is aware that Mike's access visit could give us two precious hours together.
He is waiting in a nearby coffee shop for a text to say the coast is clear.
But Mike is not here. Time drags on, and when he's half an hour later than his normal pick-up time, I decide there’s no hope he'll turn up.
I'm about to send Anders the bad news when the doorbell sounds.
As I open the door, the sight of Mike standing there makes me ecstatic. Effie huffs past me, plainly cross but holding her tongue for once.
“Where are we going today?” she asks her father.
Mike doesn't take Effie back to his place.
Not since she was little and got into his weed stash.
One emergency hospital admission later, he'd learned a valuable lesson. As had I. I don’t trust him to simply be more careful, so we agreed he takes her out to other places: soft play centres, fast-food joints, and in better weather, parks and playgrounds. Today it's the cinema.
I wait five minutes to make sure nothing's been forgotten, then send my text. Another five minutes and Anders is at the door. I let him in and he crosses the threshold, scoops me into his arms and kicks the door shut behind him. I giggle as he hunts for my bedroom.
When he finds it, he lays me down gently in the centre of the bed like I'm the most precious package in the world.
We've only limited time, so I expect to get down to business right away.
But I'm wrong. He kicks off his shoes and crawls onto the bed until he is straddling me, a knee either side of my body.
Then he slowly and carefully undresses me.
As each item of clothing is removed, his hands smooth over my skin, learning my body, and his mouth follows.
I close my eyes and relax into the sensations.
I want to purr like a cat. It's been so long since anyone has touched me like this or even held me for comfort.
A little tear leaks from the corner of my eye.
Anders must notice, because the next thing I know his thumb is wiping it away and his lips are warming the dampness.
“Hush.” His whisper tickles my ear. “I've got you.”
But all that happens is a second tear trickles out, and then another. And then I'm weeping, tears of self-pity. For the years of loneliness, for the years of grind, for the life I should have led. Anders's arms come around me, and he holds me until I calm.
“I'm sorry,” I squeak. “I don't know where that came from.”
“Hey, don't ever apologise for how you feel.
You don't have to be strong all the time, Cora. Not with me.” His fingers move over my face and into my hair, and each pass seems to wipe away a corner of my melancholy until finally I open my eyes.
Anders's blue ones are inches from my own.
They hold me as strongly as his arms, with messages of concern, of support, of affection.
“Thank you,” I murmur, the words barely audible.
The corner of Anders's lips twitch. “For what?”
Effie would give him a list, but I at least know he's dismissing my concern with a shrug.
“Bet this is not how you expected your booty call to go,” I say.
His finger moves between us. “This is not a booty call. This is just time spent with you, Cora. We can spend it however you want.”
“And you don't get a say?”
“I dictate your life at work. It's only fair that outside of that, you get to steer the ship.”
“And if I wanted you to kiss me?”
“Then I’m at your service.”
His lips land on mine, and every shred of misery evaporates.
My hand slides down the skin of his chest to his jeans, still on his hips.
I tug at his waistband and he gets the hint.
One hand undoes the button, another the zip, and we're both sliding his clothes off.
His dick is soft, but when I bend my head and take him in my mouth, I feel the immediate surge.
Male physiology is astounding. He swells swiftly and I laugh around his cock.
He flops back on the bed and moans. When I swirl my tongue over his head, he groans, “Fuck me, Cora.” Which is precisely what I had in mind.
When I see his fists tighten on the duvet, I know he's close. I lift off, raise my hips, and slide onto him. He gasps and immediately slams me onto my back. Holding still, he counts the seconds out loud, then his head dips as his mouth finds my nipples. After a while, we start to move together. I come just before him, the clench of my climax triggering the release of his. It’s perfect.
He collapses onto the bed beside me. “Every time,” he pants. “You surprise me. I'm in awe of you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
He gathers me closer. His forefinger traces around my breasts in a figure of eight. “I adore your body,” he says. “Your breasts are flawless.”
I don't think there is a woman alive who is perfectly happy with her breasts, or her lips, or her nose, chin, or forehead. But in this moment, I wouldn't change mine for the world.
“I can't work out which part of you is my favourite,” he says. “Your gorgeous brown eyes, pert little nose, or your tempting lips. Or maybe it's the way my hands can hold your hips. I think perhaps it's all of you. There's not one part I dislike.”
I laugh because the statement is plainly ludicrous. “Not even the crooked nail on my little toe?”
He travels down my body until he finds my feet, inspecting each one in turn. “Not even the crooked nail on your little toe. It’s cute.”
“My turn,” I say. “I like the way your hair is just too long for respectability.” I play with a curl, twirling it over my finger and then letting it drop.
“In fact, I like your hair full stop.” I tap his forehead.
“I like inside here.” I scrape my fingers through his scruff, down over his chest hair.
“I like your strength.” My finger continues on between his legs, circling his balls.
“I find that I, too, like all of you.” Then my fingers brush over his cock.
It twitches. There's more life in it yet.
Things progress rapidly.
He's mid-thrust when my alarm goes off. I'd set it to make sure he was gone before Effie returned.
“Faster!” I yell. His hand reaches between us, his finger finds my clit, and, oh yes!
Hallelujah! He manages one last deep thrust and then rolls off me.
I grab a couple of tissues and plug myself before shimmying into my knickers.
He's pulling up his trousers and shrugging into his T-shirt.
I drag a brush through my hair after throwing my own clothes on, and then we're racing for the front door.
He gives me one last fervent kiss that I feel to my toes, and he's gone.
I run through the rooms, checking everything is in order, pulling the quilt straight, checking for forgotten socks or underwear. All clear. I take a deep breath and compose myself.
Not a moment too soon, because the buzzer sounds. Plastering on a smile, I open the door. Effie stalks in. I've never been more grateful that Effie is not a hugger, because I've not had time to shower. I must smell of Anders and sex.
Mike backs away. “I'm off.” Effie ignores him. I close the door.
“Is everything all right?” I ask my daughter.
“I saw Toothless.” Effie looks up at me, accusation in her eyes. I freeze. Caught like a burglar mid-heist. “Was Anders here?” she asks.
I can only pray my guilt doesn’t show on my face.
Or if it does, Effie can’t read it. I've never lied to her.
I may have fudged some things and omitted others, but I've never directly lied to her face, and I don't intend to start now.
“Yes,” I say. “He popped by. Is that okay? I would like it if Anders and I could be friends.”
“He was my friend first,” she says. She looks at me with her wise-old-but-young eyes. I hold my breath.
“But it's good to share. You can play with him too.”