1. Prologue #3
I grip her hips and give her harder. The counter rattles. Something shifts near the toaster. Her earrings swing wildly, catching fragments of kitchen light, and she meets me thrust for thrust with a rhythm that is hers, not mine, something she sets and I follow.
Her hand finds my jaw, pulls me down, and she kisses me with a desperation that tastes like surrender.
I can feel her tightening around me, the first fluttering contractions that signal she is close, and I change the angle, pressing deeper, grinding against her on each stroke.
She breaks the kiss, throws her head back, and comes with a sound that is half cry, half my name, her whole body shuddering against mine.
The clench of her pulls me over the edge. I bury myself in her and let go, my forehead pressed to her shoulder, my breath ragged against her skin, the kitchen spinning in slow circles around us.
We stay like that for a long moment. Her hand comes up to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my curls, and she makes a sound that is quiet and satisfied and entirely hers.
Then I ease back, keeping a hand at the base of the condom as I pull away.
Mandy shifts on the counter, still catching her breath. “Kitchen roll’s in that cupboard.”
I glance over. “That was disturbingly practical.”
“I am a doctor. Bodily fluids do not frighten me.”
“Romance is alive and well.”
Her mouth curves as I take off the condom and knot it. I pull my boxers and trousers back into place before crossing to the sink for the kitchen roll. I wrap the condom, drop it into the pedal bin and wash my hands before turning back to her.
Mandy is watching me with her golden-blonde bob mussed, one bra strap slipping down her shoulder and her skirt still bunched around her hips.
“Well,” she says.
I lean against the counter between her legs. “Well?”
“That was a terrible idea.”
I look at her. “You seem traumatised.”
“I am trying to be sensible.”
“Bit late for that.”
Her mouth twitches. “Peter.”
I kiss the corner of it. “You all right?”
“Yes.” Her fingers tighten briefly at the back of my neck. “Very.”
I step back, and she lets out a soft breath as her feet find the floor.
“Christ,” she mutters, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs. “My legs have gone numb.”
“That sounds like a complaint.”
“It is an observation.”
“You made several enthusiastic observations a minute ago.”
She gives me a look that should shut me up.
It does not.
Mandy bends to retrieve her blouse from the floor. One button is missing.
She holds it up, inspecting the gap with a frown. “That was my good blouse.”
“I can look for it.”
“Are you telling me you can sew.”
“I was going to look for the button, not offer tailoring services.”
“That is reassuring.”
I find it under the table leg, slightly bent but intact. Mandy takes it from me, her fingers brushing mine.
The kitchen feels different now. Not awkward. Just quieter. The sort of quiet that follows a decision made too quickly to examine while it is happening.
“This does not have to be weird,” she says.
“No.”
“I mean it, Peter.”
“I know.”
She turns around, arms folding loosely across herself. Her expression is calm, but I recognise the look. It is the one she gets when she is about to say something she has thought through carefully.
“I am not looking for a relationship.”
The words should not catch me off guard. They do anyway.
“I am neither,” I say.
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
“I like my life,” she continues. “My job. My house. Not having to explain where I am going or negotiate whose family we see at Christmas.”
“Christmas is months away.”
“That is not the point.”
“No, I know.”
She watches me for a moment, making sure I do.
“I do not do serious relationships,” I say. “I am not suddenly going to start because we had sex on your kitchen counter.”
“Good,” she smiles.
“Good?”
“Yes. Good.” She picks up her handbag from the floor and places it on the table. “Because I do not do serious relationships either.”
I zip up my trousers, then button my shirt.
“So, what are we saying?”
“That it was a one-off.”
“One night.”
“No expectations.”
“None.”
“And no telling Alexandra.”
I laugh. “Absolutely no telling Lexi.”
“She would have an opinion.”
“My sister would have several opinions.”
“And then she would look at you in that way she has when she is deciding whether you deserve to live.”
“I am familiar with the look.”
Mandy smiles, but it fades as quickly as it appears.
“We can still be normal,” she says.
“Of course.”
“No avoiding each other in the pub. No acting strange.”
“I never act strange.”
She gives me a flat look.
“All right,” I say. “No more strange than usual.”
That earns me another small smile.
Mandy walks me to the front door while I try very hard not to notice how natural it feels to stand in her kitchen.
At the door, she reaches up and straightens my collar.
“There,” she says. “Almost presentable.”
I look down at her.
“Goodnight, Mandy.”
“Goodnight, Peter.”
I kiss her.
Brief. Stupid. Completely necessary.
Then I make myself leave.
By the time I reach the car, I have the whole thing neatly sorted in my head.
One night.
No expectations.
No complications.
I make it halfway down the road before the lie falls apart.
Because this is Mandy.
And nothing about wanting her feels simple.