One Summer Night. Carol Marinelli
Forgive me if I got carried away.’ And he watched as she blinked, still wary. ‘When we spoke, when you were in London and I was in Australia, when you were in bed …’ And she blinked again, for she had thought of him too. Unable to picture him then, still her mind had wandered, so much so that she could now understand his haste. ‘We’ll take things slowly.’ He smiled his lethal smile, except this time he meant it—thought not of his brother or hate, only of her. ‘We’ll go back to the beginning. How did you lie?’
She did not understand his question.
‘How did you lie in your bed when you spoke with me?’ And she could not help but smile at the memory of a dream that had come true, and could now forgive his roughness.
‘On my side.’
‘Show me.’ He rose from the bed and she watched the suited man slowly undress as she rolled to her side and pulled up the covers around her shoulders.
‘You?’ Charlotte asked, as he climbed back into bed.
‘On my back,’ Zander said, and something deep in her stomach tightened. ‘So tell me.’
‘What?’
‘How is the weather?’
And she lay on her side and closed her eyes and imagined the rain on her window and the grey of her life and his voice in her ear, only this time it was better, for it was cool but not cold in Xanos, and this time he was beside her.
‘What did you do today?’ This time, as she spoke of her day, she didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to make anything up, for it was all real.
‘I went walking in the hills.’
‘Alone?’ Zander asked.
‘No, not alone.’
‘And did you enjoy it?’ This time, when she retold her day, there was his hand on her waist, this time and for evermore she would lie in her bed in her room and remember the feel of him, gentler hands now exploring her body, the nuzzle of his mouth on her arms along her shoulders, a tender exploration of her breast. ‘Did you enjoy being with him in the hills?’
‘Very much.’
‘What did the two of you do?’
‘We just kissed,’ Charlotte said, as he rolled her onto her back.
‘Just?’ Zander asked, his mouth moving down to her stomach.
‘Better than just.’
‘Better than this?’ he asked, and his head moved lower.
Though determined as his quest was to rise above Nico, as he tasted her with his mouth, he forgot to hate. Charlotte lay there, eyes open to the ceiling, to what should feel strange and wrong and unfamiliar, except as his tongue explored and his lips teased, he knew what she wanted as only a lover could; he knew more than her as he pushed down hips that were resisting and demanded she come to his mouth. He kissed her till she bore no more reluctance, till she gave to his mouth a part of her that had once been subdued.
And then, when her body was quiet, he rose over her and kissed her again, kissed her slowly till she was waking, till she was again alive with greedy want, could attune to different sensations. She wanted to feel him, to hold him, to sheath him, for his fingers were now within her and she wanted the rest.
Her fingers were all thumbs at the feel of him, the hard strength that would soon be within her, but his fingers were far more skilled than hers.
He felt the restraint of the latex, felt her clumsy roll down and wanted, for the first time, to tell her not to bother, wanted to really feel the intimate skin that wet his fingers now. Wanted more for himself than was usual as for Zander touching was merely a means to an end, the part where he said and did the right things, worked a while for a brief reward. Yet here and now this did not feel like work.
He forgot to hate for the first time, for it had no place in this room.
He forgot he was here to prove something, to claim something, as his body pressed towards her. He forgot too that he was performing, because that was all sex ever was, and he meant what he said as his fingers moved from inside her, as his erection moved to that place. What he said he would not recall, what she heard was in Greek and not fully understood, but it was an intimate declaration that did not require translation.
It was the words of a man moving deep into a woman he wanted.
She thought he would glide into her, so wet and ready was she, but Zander in full arousal did not make for soft landings, he slammed into soft tissue and stretched her completely. It was more compulsive than tender, a basic rhythm that was exquisite, and he took her breath away and did not let her catch it. When she wanted more, there was more; when she thought there could not be more, she was again proven wrong. He was in her body, in her head and in her heart as he gave everything and simultaneously demanded everything from her. She had never known hands roam so hungrily, or a tongue and a breath in her ear, or the sheen of his back beneath her fingers. There were too many sensations for Charlotte to focus on, so she did not try, just moved with him and beyond herself, moved to a place that was waiting for them.
He moaned and it made her feel dizzy; he moved faster and she did too, and there was a hush then, a moment of stillness, no work needed now, just a wait for arrival, and it was now that he glided, and flew her away. She felt every beat and responded with her own; she heard every breath and tasted his moan, and as their bodies quieted she went back in her head, closed her eyes and attempted to reel in her heart.
It was too soon to love him.
They did not sleep for ages; they tried not to sleep. Zander could see the red numbers on the clock that ticked beside them, their hours left too few, not that she knew it. And here in his bed, with a woman beside him, for once he did not want to roll over, did not want to escape to sleep, or order from the bar, or envision tomorrow. For the first time he was comfortable in a place.
‘What is it like?’ She lay there and tried to fathom it, to comprehend how it must have been for him, and though she had said not to discuss things, it was way too late for that now. ‘What is it like knowing that you have a twin and never having seen him?’
‘I have seen him,’ Zander said, for he was not sure if it was a memory or if it was the one photo he had found, but he had seen his brother, they had once been together. ‘When we were babies …’ He did not want to talk about it, did not need to explain it. He turned to his side and closed his eyes, but she turned too, her hand loose on his waist, her breath on his back. He held his breath for if he did not he would speak, would ask her to leave, for suddenly she felt too close.
‘I mean …’ Still she would not leave it, did not heed the silent warning to halt. ‘What was it like, growing up without him? What has it been like, knowing you have an identical twin?’
And maybe there was weakness, for already it was tomorrow, already the day was here. Maybe it was sex that made him soften, or maybe it was her voice that sounded more tender than probing, or her hand that still stayed on his waist, because he did not tell her to be silent, did not respond in the way that he usually would have; instead, he lay in the silence as she patiently awaited his response and he thought about it.
He actually thought about it and how best to describe it.
‘You look in the mirror each morning?’ He was grateful that she did not answer with the obvious ‘Yes’, that she let him be for another moment with his thoughts. ‘Imagine looking and there is no reflection, knowing there is a you that you cannot see.’
And he could explain it no better, and he did not try to.
There was no point anyway.
Tomorrow, when she knew him, she might not want him in her life.
WAKING