Chapter Ten
~~MARK~~
I continued along the corridor to my room, stripped off my jacket, shirt and bow tie and dropped them on the nearest chair.
As I did so, something heavy clunked against the curved wooden back.
I fumbled inside one of the jacket pockets and found the little bottle of sloe gin that Mary had given me earlier, with a coy assurance that it would help me forget all my troubles.
By this stage, I was ready to try anything.
In some ways it had been a typical office party; too much drinking and people doing things they’d really regret the next day.
In other ways, however, it had been a reality check — seeing Churchill’s flirtatious behaviour towards Emma well and truly reciprocated.
I poured the vibrant pink liquid into a tumbler from the bathroom, cursing when some spilled over my fingers and onto my bare chest. Too much hassle to wash it off now; it could wait until my shower in the morning.
I turned down the lights, slumped in a chair, flicked through the TV channels and sipped my drink, enjoying its relaxing effects.
While it didn’t make me forget my troubles, it certainly made them a lot more bearable.
As I was contemplating whether to finish the last few mouthfuls now or later, there was a knock at the door. What if this was Emma? I would be polite but firm. Discussion at this time of night was pointless — and dangerous. I switched off the TV, put down the tumbler and went to the door.
‘Polite but firm,’ I muttered to myself, ‘polite but — Harriet! What can I do for you?’
Without a word she rushed into the room, stopped and just stood there, staring at me. I deliberately left the door slightly open — you never knew with these highly strung types — and waited for her to speak.
After a minute or two, I said gently, ‘Is something the matter?’
Still nothing; then the words came tumbling out.
‘I’ve just read my horoscope again and it’s all there, what happened tonight, spooky innit?
It says, “You’ll be eternally grateful to someone who saves you from embarrassment”.
That thing you did, asking me to be your partner, it was probably no big deal to you, but it was to me.
And I just don’t know how to show you I’m eternally grateful.
’ She gave a loud giggle and took a small but determined step towards me.
I backed quickly away, ending up nearer the bed than I’d have liked. ‘No need, I only did what I thought was right. It’s very good of you to take the trouble to come and thank me.’ I did my best to conceal a yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m whacked—’
At this point, Emma lurched through the door, almost hitting herself in the face with it. She weighed up the low lighting, my state of undress and Harriet’s air of excitement and jumped to the obvious conclusion.
Except that the words came out in a drunken slur. ‘Shorry, am I int’rupping shomething?’
At least, I think that’s what she said. Thanks to the sloe gin, I was having difficulty making my brain function properly.
On the one hand, this was the very situation I’d dreaded: Emma in my hotel bedroom, with me feeling at my most vulnerable.
On the other hand, it was the stuff my fantasies were made of.
Either way, it was best to encourage Harriet to leave.
So I pulled myself together and explained to Emma that she wasn’t interrupting anything and that Harriet was just going.
I couldn’t be sure whether Emma understood me, but at least Harriet took the hint and hurried out of the room.
We were alone. Totally alone.
I finished my drink and stood there thinking about — possibilities. When she fell on the bed and begged me to unfasten her dress, it was as if she was telepathic. For a brief moment, I kidded myself that she wanted to make love; but of course it was only because she couldn’t undo the dress herself.
After a feeble attempt to send her back to her room, I gave in. With self-preservation uppermost in my mind, I decided I’d undo just the hook and leave the zip to her.
That didn’t work.
Then, although I couldn’t avoid resting my fingers on her bare skin, I summoned every ounce of self-control to stop myself from enjoying it.
That worked, up to a point . . . until, with her dress unzipped, she turned over.
Such beautiful breasts, there for the touching. But I didn’t touch, I simply stared.
‘Kiss me,’ she said.
‘No.’ I should have left it there, but I added, ‘Once I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop.’
She smiled up at me. ‘Kiss me, then.’
It was as though she was throwing down a gauntlet, soft as velvet, strong as steel. And who could refuse those sultry eyes with their ‘take me to bed’ look, that provocative mouth, that slender but voluptuous body?
I tried one last time. ‘For God’s sake, Emma, you don’t understand—’
Too late. Her tongue was in my mouth and my self-control was in shreds.
As we kissed, I touched her breasts at last. No, not touched, worshipped them .
. . Caressed them, stored their contours to memory, felt the nipples harden and peak.
Tore my mouth away from hers to trail urgent kisses down her neck and round the base of one breast in slow circles, up to the very tip.
Teased it with my tongue until I could almost taste her arousal.
Then started with her other breast. Caressed, kissed, teased all over again; this time knowing exactly how to draw out each murmur of response, each gasp of pleasure.
How long we lay like this, I don’t know. I wanted to hold on to every second, delay the inevitable as long as possible, but it was driving me insane.
When I released her and made to stand up, she clung to me. ‘Don’t go!’
‘Hey, take it easy. I’m not going anywhere.’
As I undressed, she lay back on the bed, her eyes never leaving me. When I’d taken everything off, even my watch, she held out her arms.
‘I want you,’ she said. ‘So, so much.’
I let out a long, ragged breath. ‘Not yet. Not until we get this posh frock off. And whatever you’ve got on underneath.’
As I spoke, I slid her dress and briefs down to reveal every inch of those perfect, perfect legs. For some time, I did nothing except look. And then looking became touching and touching became kissing . . .
Soft skin against my lips, the heat of her, the taste. Just like in my dreams. No, better than in my dreams; this was real.
And then, finally, I was where I longed to be — inside her, to the hilt. We held our bodies completely still, except for small, secret movements. It all felt so right and yet, in a way, so wrong. Because I knew that, if we hadn’t both been drinking, none of this would have happened.
She must have sensed my hesitation. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said. ‘Please, not now.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ A little sigh as she shifted under me, raised her hips, took me deeper. ‘Oh, Mark.’ Her eyes widened, then closed.
Hearing her call my name was all the confirmation I needed.
I gazed down at her face, with its intimately familiar features, seeing them for the first time in the grip of physical desire.
And in me awoke a long-forgotten joy in the power of my own body, an instinctive urge to create something that would last beyond these few precious moments, a burning need to make her remember this mad, unplanned act for ever.
What better way to show her how much I loved her?
So I took it slow, achingly slow at first; watched for her response; guided her gradually into a seamless, soaring rhythm that brought us to the edge. And we went over together, stifling each other’s cries in one last, lingering kiss.
Afterwards I lay at her side, overwhelmed by a sense of completeness. Always my friend, she was now my lover. I linked my fingers through hers, listening as our breathing steadied; anxious to talk, but unsure where to begin.
At last I said, with a catch in my voice, ‘I love you, Emma. I think I always have. Since the day you were born.’
I turned towards her, ready to confess all my soul-searching of the last few months.
She was fast asleep.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
Somewhere, a clock chimed six, maybe seven times.
I opened my eyes. The lights were on low; unusual for me — I liked to sleep in the dark.
Given that I hadn’t gone up to my room until nearly midnight, I mustn’t have had my usual eight hours.
But I felt good. And, for the first time in a long while, I hadn’t spent the night alone.
I stretched a luxurious cat-like stretch, then curled round the warm body beside me.
What bliss. I’d got the man of my dreams into bed after all, although the details were distinctly hazy.
But it had been worth it, I knew that much.
He could shag for England, as Harriet would say. Or should that be Australia?
Wait a minute — Harriet! I sat bolt upright, wincing as my head started to pound. Hadn’t she been here, too? I looked wildly round in case there were three of us in a post-coital stupor. But instead of dark red curls on the pillow next to me, I saw a tousled head of black hair. What the — ?
I knew, even before he rolled onto his back and greeted me with a sleepy smile. I knew it was Mark.
‘’Morning, beautiful,’ he said, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching out to stroke my cheek with his other hand.
Such a familiar hand, with its long tanned fingers and the signet ring that had belonged to his grandfather.
But such an unfamiliar gesture, presuming intimacy.
It stirred something within me, a vague memory of taking those fingers in my mouth, one by one, tasting sloe gin and . . .
I shrank away from him, grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to my chin. ‘What are you doing in my bed?’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady.