naked. She went to him, stroking the warmth of his bare shoulders before putting her arms around his waist, her fingertips exploring the muscled contours of his back. He dropped his lips to her neck, then locked his mouth to hers, strained to help her to drag offboth their clothes and groaned when their naked limbs met under the sheets.
Leonie awoke in the small hours from a deep sleep. He too stirred and folded himself around her. Breathing in the redolent scents of his bed, she felt a deep rush of joy.
II
By Sunday evening, Leonie was beside herself. She couldnât remember when sheâd last felt like this, and could hardly bear to believe that sheâd fallen so headlong into the cliché-ridden trap of waiting for a man to call and wondering if he ever would. Nearly forty-eight hours earlier, awake in Patriceâs arms and smiling into the darkness of the unfamiliar room, she had allowed the fantasy of happy-ever-after to wash over her. Sheâd been unable to explain to him before they went to bed on Friday how Saturdays were her busiest days at work, and so sheâd have to scramble off at dawn. He had woken with the light and, apart from saying good morning and asking how sheâd slept, had set about making love to her again without further speech. Then she had decided that, for once, she could be late, even though afterwards sheâd had to rush off without even a cup of coffee, apologetic, embarrassed and glowing from the unaccustomed sex.
All day, sheâd been a grinning fool with a spring in her step. When she had come home on Saturday eveningexhausted from work it had simply never occurred to her that he wouldnât want to speak to her. She had even hummed to herself as she took leftovers out of the fridge for her supper, sure he would call and interrupt her meal at any moment. But as bedtime had come, and the instrument of her torture remained infernally mute, terrible forebodings had begun to take shape. Was her rushed exit that morning the reason heâd not rung? Had he wrongly assumed that work was just an excuse, that sheâd dashed away because she regretted being there? In which case, ought she to call him? But she knew that was impossible. She may not have had much experience of starting relationships, either before or after Greg, but she knew it was mandatory for her to wait for him to call.
And so she had lain in bed that night, watching the clock. This could not be! Before sheâd left his house, sheâd scribbled down her home number â maybe he couldnât read her handwriting? Or had lost the piece of paper? Eventually she slept, but all Sunday morning she had hovered near the phone. To keep busy, she had set about spring-cleaning her small apartment. By mid-afternoon, it was spotless, so she had driven to the nearest Carrefour to stock up on essentials she didnât need. And now, at eight oâclock on Sunday evening, she was exhausted and climbing the walls.
She would just have to accept that she was a one-night stand. She could live with that, she told herself; she was a grown-up after all. It had been heavenly to be remindedwhat it was like to be touched, aroused, desired, held. Extraordinary to remember, to realise how the body could forget pleasure as easily as it forgot pain. She had no regrets. She just had to pull herself together. Okay, sheâd obviously been wrong about Patrice, but not for her the agony and humiliation of persisting in a belief that it had been anything more than it was. She might have been a bit naïve, assuming he felt the same way as she did, but being a bit naïve wasnât going to turn her into an object of ridicule. Or pity. Sheâd simply have a good cry before she went to sleep, and hold onto a glimmer of the sexual afterglow.
Leonie was very glad to reach the haven of the office on Monday morning, despite having to maintain constant guard against Gabyâs acuity. The busy phones were a
Leonie awoke in the small hours from a deep sleep. He too stirred and folded himself around her. Breathing in the redolent scents of his bed, she felt a deep rush of joy.
II
By Sunday evening, Leonie was beside herself. She couldnât remember when sheâd last felt like this, and could hardly bear to believe that sheâd fallen so headlong into the cliché-ridden trap of waiting for a man to call and wondering if he ever would. Nearly forty-eight hours earlier, awake in Patriceâs arms and smiling into the darkness of the unfamiliar room, she had allowed the fantasy of happy-ever-after to wash over her. Sheâd been unable to explain to him before they went to bed on Friday how Saturdays were her busiest days at work, and so sheâd have to scramble off at dawn. He had woken with the light and, apart from saying good morning and asking how sheâd slept, had set about making love to her again without further speech. Then she had decided that, for once, she could be late, even though afterwards sheâd had to rush off without even a cup of coffee, apologetic, embarrassed and glowing from the unaccustomed sex.
All day, sheâd been a grinning fool with a spring in her step. When she had come home on Saturday eveningexhausted from work it had simply never occurred to her that he wouldnât want to speak to her. She had even hummed to herself as she took leftovers out of the fridge for her supper, sure he would call and interrupt her meal at any moment. But as bedtime had come, and the instrument of her torture remained infernally mute, terrible forebodings had begun to take shape. Was her rushed exit that morning the reason heâd not rung? Had he wrongly assumed that work was just an excuse, that sheâd dashed away because she regretted being there? In which case, ought she to call him? But she knew that was impossible. She may not have had much experience of starting relationships, either before or after Greg, but she knew it was mandatory for her to wait for him to call.
And so she had lain in bed that night, watching the clock. This could not be! Before sheâd left his house, sheâd scribbled down her home number â maybe he couldnât read her handwriting? Or had lost the piece of paper? Eventually she slept, but all Sunday morning she had hovered near the phone. To keep busy, she had set about spring-cleaning her small apartment. By mid-afternoon, it was spotless, so she had driven to the nearest Carrefour to stock up on essentials she didnât need. And now, at eight oâclock on Sunday evening, she was exhausted and climbing the walls.
She would just have to accept that she was a one-night stand. She could live with that, she told herself; she was a grown-up after all. It had been heavenly to be remindedwhat it was like to be touched, aroused, desired, held. Extraordinary to remember, to realise how the body could forget pleasure as easily as it forgot pain. She had no regrets. She just had to pull herself together. Okay, sheâd obviously been wrong about Patrice, but not for her the agony and humiliation of persisting in a belief that it had been anything more than it was. She might have been a bit naïve, assuming he felt the same way as she did, but being a bit naïve wasnât going to turn her into an object of ridicule. Or pity. Sheâd simply have a good cry before she went to sleep, and hold onto a glimmer of the sexual afterglow.
Leonie was very glad to reach the haven of the office on Monday morning, despite having to maintain constant guard against Gabyâs acuity. The busy phones were a
Similar Books
