Read Online The Living by Léan Cullinan - Free Book Online Page A

dullness.
    â€˜You make it sound so interesting,’ I said, relaxing a little.
    â€˜Don’t I just?’
    I paused, then said deliberately, ‘I could listen to you all night.’
    Once again, we were looking straight at each other. Much more softly, he said, ‘Then I intend to go on talking.’
    But in fact, he fell silent.
    From there, it was a smooth, delicious dance towards themoment when we drifted closer together on the sofa, the moment when we crossed the line and slid into each other’s space, the moment when we got so close that our faces blurred – and then Matthew brought his hand up and rested his fingertips on my cheek as we kissed, gently at first, then more urgently, deep, searching kisses that made my body hum, planted a knot of clean, singing pleasure in my very centre.
    Eventually, I stood up and whispered, ‘Come on.’ Matthew got up too and allowed me to lead him by the hand into the bedroom. I fervently thanked myself for having changed my sheets that week. ‘I’ve decided,’ I said, ‘that it’s far too much trouble to get out the spare blankets for you.’
    â€˜Oh really?’ He raised an eyebrow.
    â€˜I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘You’ll just have to share my bed with me.’
    There was a moment, a short time later, as I crossed the room to turn off the light, when everything seemed to teeter on an edge. I felt acutely aware of my nakedness, how my pasty body must look under the unkind bulb. With my hand on the switch I looked back towards the bed, to see Matthew propped on one elbow, head held back slightly, face solemn, looking intently at me.
    In that moment I almost made a flippant remark to puncture the atmosphere, but something stopped me. Some niggling idea at the back of my mind that here was a junction, a choice between flippancy and seriousness.
    Without letting go of Matthew’s gaze I turned off the light, then groped my way back to the bed and the eager mysteries of his body.

    O THER TIMES WHEN I’d brought a man home to bed for the first time, I’d spent a sleepless night, dozing but always conscious of his presence, always slightly wary – of what I might do in my sleep, of what he might do if my vigilance slipped. This first night with Matthew, though, I slept soundly until ten o’clock in the morning. I woke to hear him moving around in the bathroom, and levered myself up on one elbow, blinking in the flood of sunlight that washed through the thin curtains. Matthew came back in, running his fingers through wild hair.
    â€˜Ah, there you are,’ he said, mimicking an absent-minded aristocrat.
    â€˜Good morning, Mr Taylor.’
    â€˜You must be Ms Houlihan,’ he said, with a little too much ee in the middle syllable. He climbed back into bed behind me and began to stroke my back, gently, slowly.
    â€˜Oh well, if you say so, I suppose I must …’ I turned to him, and we kissed – carefully at first, both conscious of the sharp taste of sleep in our mouths.
    It was a long time before we got up. Finally, I couldn’t ignore the twinges of hunger any more. I heaved myself ungracefully out of bed and shambled into the kitchen to put on the kettle and find some bread to toast. The floor was chilly under my feet. I leaned against the sink surround, letting the hard countertop press into my flesh.
    â€˜Wow,’ said Matthew from the door. ‘A naked breakfast service.’He was dressed in his jeans and shirt, his eyes sleepy. He put his arms round me and kissed my neck. I started buttering the toast, enjoying the feel of his clothes against my body, his lips on my skin.
    There was a moment of giddiness – vertigo, almost – when I thought, how can this possibly be happening? How did we get here? Is Matthew Taylor really standing in my kitchen kissing me? Then I put the knife down and turned to kiss him back.
    Breakfast shaded into brunch, after