Forget Me Knot (30 page)

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve got to stop letting my imagination run away with me.” She managed a smile. “So, what film are we going to watch?”

“How about
It’s a Wonderful Life
?”

“Great. It had occurred to me that you were going to force me to sit through
The Godfather
. I’m not sure I could take three hours of mumbling.”

“Here we go again,” he said, shaking his head in mock despair. “Look, there’s absolutely no mumbling in
The Godfather.”

“Of course there is. It’s all mumbling.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Is.”

“Isn’t.”

“Is.”

“OK, now we absolutely have to watch it,” he said. “Just so that I can prove to you I’m right.”

“You’re on.”

FROM THE
outside, Dan’s flat was pretty much as she’d imagined: a basement in a white stucco house on one of Camden Town’s slightly less desirable streets. Inside, it smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. “Only been here a couple of months,” he explained. “Did all the decorating myself.”

She took in the white walls and light gray carpet, which gave the place a cool, contemporary feel.

“Of course, the furniture is all Ikea. Keep it simple, I thought. Can’t go wrong with black ash.”

She smiled to herself. With the exception of Martin and Toby—whose tastes in interior design were much more expensive and in Toby’s case distinctly “Byronic Man”—every man she knew decorated by going to Ikea with a rented van and coming home with umpteen flat packs of black ash furniture. This they considered to be suitably un-fussy and masculine. Dan was clearly of the same mind. The coffee table, dining table, desk and bookshelves were all black ash.

The man theme didn’t stop there. Surfaces were littered with old newspapers, car magazines and books. Then there were boy toys all over the place: an iPhone here, a Black-Berry there, a digital camera half buried behind a sofa cushion.

“Oh, this is great,” she said. Even though the place wasn’t to her taste, she really did love it. Toby’s flat had been
full of Persian rugs, heavy satin drapes, fainting couches and spectacularly expensive “objets,” which looked like they had been arranged with the aid of a T square. It had been stylish to the point of intimidation. By contrast, Dan’s place was so refreshingly blokey.

He took a packet of matches out of a
Santos for President
coffee mug that was sitting on the desk and knelt down in front of the pretty marble fireplace. She noticed that a fire had already been laid. He struck a match and waved the flame over a waxy fire-lighter cube, which lit up in an instant. Moments later the paper and wood began to spit and crackle.

Once the fire got going, he made his way to the bookcase. Three shelves were packed with DVDs. His fingers began sliding over the top row. When he couldn’t find
The Godfather
, they moved down to the middle shelf. Finally he turned to face her. “Found it,” he declared, waving the box in the air.

He put the DVD into the machine and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“OK, for ten bonus points,” he said, sitting down next to her on the black leather sofa, “do you know what word is never mentioned in this film?”

“Easy. Mafia.”

“Is the correct answer! Blimey, for somebody who hates this film, you’re not bad on the related trivia.”

She said she remembered it only because the week before it had been a question on
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

He poured them each a glass of rioja. Finally the titles ended and the action began. A few minutes went by. They sat sipping their wine in silence.

“Hear OK?” he asked her eventually. “No mumbling yet?”

“Not as such. I’m already bored, though.”

“Can I remind you that boredom is not the point at issue. We are here to consider whether or not mumbling occurs.”

“Ooh, sorry, Mr. Prosecuting Attorney, sir,” she said, giving him a gentle poke in the ribs. “I stand corrected.”

Another five minutes passed. In the background the fire spat and hissed.

“Anybody mumbled yet?” he asked.

“It’s all mumbling.”

“What do you mean? Who can’t you hear? What can’t you understand?”

“Marlon Brando sounds like he’s got a mouthful of marbles.”

“Yes, but can you hear him? Can you make out what he’s saying?”

“I suppose… but that’s not what I meant by mumbling.”

“It isn’t? You don’t define mumbling as quiet, indistinct speech?”

“Usually, yes. But to me, a mumbling film is one where the baddies sit around smoking cigars, drinking and scheming in the semidarkness and you have no idea what they’re talking about.”

“So, you’re having trouble following the plot?”

“You mean there’s an actual plot?” she teased.

“Your sarcasm displeases me,” he said, doing a perfect impression of Marlon Brando.

She started to giggle. “I love it when you make me laugh.”

“So, you’re laughing at me?” he said, still very much in character. “This offends me and it offends my family. I may have to teach you a lesson.”

“Really?”

“I am afraid so.” He put his wineglass down on the coffee table. Then he took hers and put it down, too.

The next thing she knew, he was kissing her.

“You know, I’m a very slow learner,” she said as they finally pulled away. “You might have to try that again.”

He held her face in his hands, drew her gently toward him. This time their kissing was harder, more urgent. Their mouths opened and his tongue found hers. At one point his hand went to her breast. She heard herself let out a soft murmur of desire, felt the moisture between her legs. Somewhere, far away, guests at the Corleone wedding were singing in Italian.

They carried on kissing intermittently as he undid the buttons on her blouse and eased it out of the waistband of her skirt. Finally his lips moved to the tops of her breasts. She placed her hand on his crotch and pressed. He was hard against her hand.

Still kissing, they moved onto the rug in front of the fire. As they went, Dan somehow managed to reach out and switch off the film. She trembled as his hand slid over her thigh and up toward her panties. “Open your legs,” he whispered. Her eyes were closed now and her breathing had become heavy. Helpless, she let her knees fall open. As he pulled the crotch of her panties to one side, she let out a soft whimper. His fingers traced the edges of her labia. Every so often he would plant a kiss on her breast.

“OK,” he said eventually, “let’s get these off.” She lifted her bottom and he pulled off her panties. She was aware
that it was a strange time to start being modest, but her knees were back together again. “Hey, come on, relax. It’s OK. Just let go.”

Her legs fell open. His fingers were teasing her labia again. Then, suddenly, he parted her. She gasped. His touch was frustratingly light. For the time being, he seemed to be avoiding her swollen, throbbing clitoris. By now she was practically weeping with frustration. “Touch me. Please.”

“Ssh. What’s your hurry?” The gentle grazing continued. When he did finally touch her, she let out a low, almost animal sound that she hardly recognized. He moved over her clitoris in a firm, circular motion. Once or twice he stopped and thrust two or maybe three fingers inside her. Each time he did this, it took her breath away and she cried out in startled pleasure.

She reached for his fly, yanked it down in one smooth movement. She caressed the tip of his penis, which had emerged from his underpants. A pearl of semen had formed there. She rubbed it gently with her finger. A few moments later he had taken off his jeans. His thick, hard penis sprang from his boxers.

He flipped her over onto her stomach. She felt his penis brush her buttocks. Soon she was on her knees, a cushion supporting her stomach.

“Oh, God, that’s amazing,” she whispered as he began spreading her moisture over her buttocks. Then he reached underneath her and did the same to her vulva. His strokes were firmer now. He was working on her, clearly determined to make her come. Just as she felt she might be about to, he pushed hard into her vagina. Again he had taken her by surprise, and she let out a whimper. His thrusts were fast and deep, almost painful, but he never stopped the circular
motions over her clitoris. Her breathing was slower and she felt herself drifting and floating. She was aware of nothing apart from the sensation between her legs. Finally his thrusts became faster, his grip on her shoulders tightened. Then the quivering inside her began and started to grow stronger.

Afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, watching the flames dance in the fire, she felt her eyes filling with tears.

“Hey, what’s up?” Dan said, wiping her cheek. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. You did absolutely nothing wrong. That was fantastic.” She began staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just that, all the time I was with Toby, I forgot what it feels like to really want somebody…”

“… and have them really want you back?”

She turned her face toward him and nodded.

“I know.” He kissed her wet cheek.

They made love twice more in front of the fire before they went to bed—to sleep. They spent the night nestled like spoons in Dan’s black ash bed.

SHE GOT
up just after seven, put the kettle on for coffee and had a shower. When she came back to the bedroom, Dan was lying on his back, still fast asleep. The duvet was down by his waist, exposing his chest and stomach. In the daylight, she could see that his torso was firm and toned— he clearly worked out. He moved in his sleep. The duvet slipped to reveal the line of dark hair that led down from his navel. She wanted him all over again. She let her towel drop. Then she burrowed under the duvet and ran her tongue along the length of his penis. Still half asleep, he let
out a murmur of pleasure. She did it again. His penis began to harden.

“Umm, Abby, that you?”

She poked her head up from under the cover. “Of course it’s me. Who else were you expecting?”

“Just checking I wasn’t dreaming,” he said, still groggy with sleep. “I thought I was doing something kinky with a wet dog.”

She told him she’d just had a shower and her hair was wet.

“In that case feel free to carry on.” She did, until his erection was quite rigid.

“Come up here,” he said eventually.

As she emerged from under the duvet, he rolled on top of her and kissed her. His body smelled deliciously of sweat and sleep. Suddenly his fingers were deep inside her, pushing and probing. After a little while, he maneuvered himself off the bed. Standing on the floor, he pulled her toward him. He bent her legs and gently forced them back onto her chest. The next thing she knew his tongue was all over her vulva, flicking, stroking, caressing. She was letting out tiny moans of delight. Then his fingers were inside her again. When he stopped, he began tantalizing her with his tongue all over again. By now she wanted to feel his penis inside her. She took hold of it and guided it toward her vagina. He pushed himself inside her. “Harder,” she pleaded. “Harder.” He obliged, all the time flicking her clitoris with his fingers. She could feel he was about to come, but he withdrew and gently but thoroughly worked on her until he was sure she was ready. He entered her again and they came together.

“I never ever thought that was possible,” she said, as
they lay breathless and sweaty in each other’s arms. “I always thought it was some fantasy cooked up by Hollywood.”

“Just takes supreme skill.” He grinned.

She bashed him playfully on the arm and he kissed her.

WHILE ABBY
got dressed, Dan went into the kitchen to finish making coffee. “Don’t suppose you own a hair dryer?” she called out.

“Bedside cabinet. Second drawer down.”

There were two bedside cabinets. The hair dryer turned out to be in the one on his side. She was closing the drawer when a magazine that had been lying on top of the cabinet slipped to the floor. She picked it up. It was called
Counter Intelligence
and appeared to be the S&M in-house magazine. She found herself flicking through the pages, her eyes coming to rest on photographs of new staff members, retirees receiving giant floral tributes, or grinning employees-of-the-month popping champagne corks.

“Coffee,” Dan announced, coming into the bedroom, carrying two steaming mugs and wearing nothing but his boxers. “Good, you found the hair dryer. Hope it still works. Haven’t used it since I had long hair. That has to be ten years ago.”

“Bet you looked gorgeous with long hair,” she said, taking a mug of coffee from him.

“I thought so, but my girlfriend at the time kept telling me I looked like Celine Dion.” He paused. “Maybe I should test out the dryer before you use it.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Probably, but you never know.” He picked up the dryer and pushed the plug into the wall socket.

“So,” she said, “how come you get the S&M staff mag?”

“Sorry?” He couldn’t hear her because he’d just switched on the hair dryer, which was now making a tremendous and distinctly unhealthy racket.

“I said—”

Just then there was a blue flash and a bang, followed by a
phut
. The hair dryer had stopped blasting out air.

“Well,” Dan began, “if you want my considered diagnosis, I’d say it’s knackered.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Abby giggled. She told him not to worry. She had a scrunchy in her bag. She would pull her hair back. As she went rummaging for the scrunchy, she forgot all about the S&M magazine.