now it’s as if eighty per cent of my body has suddenly become heartbeat. I swallow. We’re as close as two humans can possibly be without kissing. There’s no flicker of panic this time, just blissful, fiery wanting.
So, at last, I kiss him.
When I kissed him on the cheek I’d planned to make our first proper kiss soft and slow, the kind of kiss you feel in your toes, but when I actually get there it’s clear there’s been way too much waiting and sexy tiffin-eating for that. This is a proper kiss, the kind that promises very imminent undressing, the kind that generally happens while in the process of stumbling towards a bed. I’m not surprised, then, to find that when we surface for air, I’m straddling him, my hair hanging down on either side of us, my long skirt ruched to my thighs, his hands on my back pulling me as close as I can possibly be.
We don’t pause for long. I twist to dump my wine glass unceremoniously on the coffee table and shift a little to ease the angle on my ankle, and then we’re kissing again, hungry, and my body is responding with a heat I genuinely don’t think I’ve felt before. One of his hands shifts to the back of my neck, grazing the side of my breast en route, and I pretty much yelp as the sensation hits. Everywhere and everything seems to be in overdrive.
I have no idea what will happen next. I actually can’t even consider the question. I’m incredibly grateful for that – all thought of flashbacks and exes has evaporated altogether. Leon’s body is hard and warm and all I can think about is getting all of these clothes out of the way so I can be as close to it as possible. This time when I move to unbutton his shirt, he drops his grip on my waist to help me, shrugging it off and chucking it over the back of the sofa, where it hangs like a flag from the lamp. I run my hands over Leon’s chest, marvelling at the strangeness of being able to touch him like this. I break away from him for just long enough to wriggle out of my top.
He breathes in sharply, and as I lean back in to kiss him again, he stops me, hands on my upper arms, eyes on my body. I’m wearing a thin chemise under the top, its neckline following the line of my bra, dipping to a low V.
‘God,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘Look at you.’
‘Nothing you’ve not seen before,’ I remind him, already ducking in impatiently to get another kiss. He holds me back again, still staring. I let out a little frustrated noise, but then he moves to press his lips against my collarbone, then lower, kissing across the top of my breasts, and I stop objecting.
It’s becoming impossible to form thoughts for longer than about two seconds. They just evaporate. I can feel great sections of my brain rededicating themselves to thinking about sex. The part of my brain that deals with pain, for instance, has entirely forgotten about my ankle and is now much more interested in what exactly Leon’s lips are doing as his kisses dip lower and lower to the edge of my bra. The section that usually busies itself wondering if I look fat in things seems to have died off altogether. I’ve resorted to moaning because my brain’s speech centre is clearly out of action too.
Leon’s hands dip under the waistline of my skirt, touching the silk of my underwear. I wore nice underwear, obviously. I may not have planned for this, but I hadn’t not planned for it.
I pull away and yank off the chemise – it’s only getting in the way now. I’m going to have to stop straddling him in order for either of us to remove any more clothes, but I really don’t want to. My brain makes a real effort at some long-term thinking, but that’s no use, obviously, so I abandon the problem and hope Leon has some sort of solution.
‘Bed?’ Leon says, his lips back up on my neck.
I nod, but when he shifts underneath me I mumble an objection, dipping my head to kiss him again. I can feel his smile against my lips.
‘Can’t get to bed without you moving,’ he reminds me, trying to shift again.
I make another incoherent objection. He chuckles, lips still pressed against mine.
‘Sofa?’