Tainted Touch Page 21

“What…? Oh.” I roll my eyes. “He’s not here. I didn’t shag him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Vicky huffs to herself. Her wavy ponytail bounces as she loads bacon on to our plates. “Sounded like you were doing it up against the front door.”

  “We were saying goodnight. That’s all.”

  “So London went well, hmm?”

  “London was amazeballs.” I yank the fridge open to search for ketchup. For a minute, I’m tempted to tell Vicky about Aidan’s other profession, but it doesn’t feel like my secret to share. “He says…he wants to be my boyfriend, Vick.”

  The pan clatters into the sink, and Vicky does her Next Top Model slow turn. “You what? Already?”

  “I don’t think he meant–well. The way he said it, it sounded like he was just asking if there were other guys. Which there aren’t, obviously.”

  “Unless you count Dominic,” she says.

  “Ugh. I’ll get to that in a minute. But he keeps referring to himself as my boyfriend, like it just slips out.” The ketchup hides behind a jar of jam. I grab it, and pull out trays for our plates. “It doesn’t freak me out or anything, like I thought it might. I suppose I just think…how long until he realises he can do better, changes his mind, and leaves me in the same place I was last year?” It’s a relief to voice my fears, but they sound so flimsy out loud. The ramblings of a whiny little girl.

  Vicky plonks a plate of meat, eggs and buttered toast on my tray. It’s the ultimate Anti-Crap Breakfast. “What did I tell you about projecting?”

  “I know, I know. Also, thanks for breakfast.”

  “You cook for me often enough.” She takes her tray to the sofa, and I follow. Morning sunshine spills through the window to find gold highlights in her hair. “If you took any of those fears seriously, Cait, you’d never have a relationship again.”

  “I keep wondering if he’d be so interested in me if he saw me like I was, you know.” I tear off a chunk of toast. Stare at the ooze of butter. “Before.”

  “Because you were such a heifer.” Her voice is ripe with sarcasm.

  “I didn’t look the way I do now.” Oh, and the irony of having this conversation while I stuff my face with lard.

  “How would you test that theory, exactly? You can’t just hop in a flux capacitor, and there’s no sense putting on two stone just to see if he still wants to bone you.” She smiles around a mouthful of sausage. “Get a grip, Cait.”

  We eat in silence for a minute before she flicks on the TV. A silver-haired football commentator starts rabbiting on about how the team are really playing to win, and that they’re bringing their best game this afternoon. Which seems obvious. Why would you not play to win? I will never understand the subculture of football.

  “Dominic showed up last night,” I find myself saying, as if I’m talking about the weather.

  Vicky jerks up. “Now, you tell me?”

  “He was waiting in the car park after my shift. Got really agitated when I wouldn’t go for a drink with him.” My mouth goes dry, despite the influx of butter. “He grabbed my arm.”

  “Shit. Wasn’t there anyone with you?”

  “Art was picking me up, but he was late. And I thought he hadn’t seen it because he was parked out front…but I think he caught the tail end of the conversation. Scared Dominic off.”

  “Ah. So you told him everything?”

  “No.”

  Vicky gapes at me, her fork hovering inches from her mouth.

  “He said to tell me in my own time.” My shoulders go all stiff and defensive. “And we’ve only just started to get to know each other–I don’t want to put all that crap on him.”

  “What if Dominic does something worse? Because he was bad, but never like this. Never this creepy. Haven’t you thought about what happens if he doesn’t give up?”

  I tap my knife against the plate in a forlorn little song. No, I had not considered this–mainly because it used to be all I could do to get him to send a text message, let alone drive over here just so I could piss him off. “What am I meant to do, exactly?”

  “If he turns up in the car park again, I’d call the fucking police, for starters,” she fumes. “You tell him to back off, and he doesn’t? That’s harassment.”

  Dominic, harrassing me. Ahahahaha.

  I’ve had all the irony I can deal with for the day.

  ***

  Art told me to bring warm clothes for the cathedral, so after work, I soak in the Jacuzzi for ten minutes before showering off the chlorine and wrapping up in my most flattering fitted jumper.

  My back still disapproves of all vigorous activity, such as swimming. I told Vicky this earlier, and she said I’d better dose up on pills before I slept with Art. I’m not expecting that tonight–what with it only being our third date, and all–but now I’m waiting in the dark lobby with the pill box in hand, wondering if it’s better to be safe than sorry. The drugs make me woozy….not exactly my sexiest look. But if he decides it’s game on, as the commentators say, I’m playing to win. And the last thing I want is to howl in pain if he slams me too hard on the mattress.

  Assuming he’s a slammer, of course. Art appears to be a big fan of the up-against-the-door tackle, and he’s good at it, too. The mosaic tiles of the gym showers come to mind–what would it be like if he had me up against those? Hot water pumping down in bursts, tiles cold on my back, his mouth trailing warm kisses along my shoulder and then down to my–

  “All set?” Art asks, emerging from the men’s room with a black rucksack slung over his shoulder.

  I gesture to my coat and scarf. Please let me not be blushing. “Yep.”

  “I’ll just let Hazel know we’re leaving.” He darts behind the counter to the office. I watch the back of his head as he walks and remember how soft he is there. How smooth the skin feels.

  Voices drift from the direction of the lamp-lit office, and beneath them, Vicky’s words simmer quietly. What will you do if he doesn’t back off? There’s a chance that Dominic could be outside again–only a small one, but paranoia pokes at me because Vicky is right. Things could get serious…especially if Art doesn’t practise his aforementioned restraint. It’s stupid; what kind of arrogant bitch contemplates two guys coming to blows over her? Yet here I am. Universe, you fuck with me way too often of late.

  Fortunately, the only thing waiting for us outside is a fat, pale moon in a violet sky. It quivers behind clouds, ready to crack. Every time Art’s shadow overlaps mine on the pavement, my pulse slows to a purr. The town is silent tonight. Ours alone.

  “So.” I skip over a split in the concrete as we pass through the old town gate. “What exactly will we be doing at the cathedral?”

  He feigns a pout. “You want to ruin the surprise?”

  “Depends. Does it involve violating a gargoyle? Because that is not my favourite kind of surprise.”

  “Alas, didn’t pack my ladder. So unless you fancy a bit of abseiling…”

  “I’m good.” I poke at his rucksack. “I’m curious to see what’s in here though. Feels…” I grope around a bit, causing him to chuckle. “Hard. And heavy.”

  “You’re not allowed to say words like that, Cait. The date’s hardly started.”

  “Spoil sport.”

  Floodlights climb the walls of the cathedral, snaking around ornate patterns and crawling to light the stone kings’ eyes. Art leads me to a gap in the wrought iron fence, where we step through on tip toes before glancing about for cameras.

  “I Googled,” he says, peering into the cloisters, “couldn’t find any mention of them. But you never know.”

  I tut. “Jesus will know, Art.”

  “I wasn’t in his good books to start with.”

  “Is it all the porn?”

  He laughs, tugging me by the hand toward the farthest corner of the grounds. Every now and then, he says something that reminds me of smoke and punches and electric blue sparks; that’s all they are, instantaneous, but they stay with me. The mental stat
e I was in. I won’t be so fucking restrained. I wasn’t in his good books to start with. These admissions, they spill from him like balls of glass, smashing about his feet to cut anyone who gets too close.

  I want to be too close. The notion eats away at me.

  Once we’re settled between the far war of the cathedral and a privet hedge, Art unzips the rucksack and tugs out what appears to be a sleeping bag.

  “Now before you get any dodgy ideas,” he warns, “this is just for sitting on. But we could get inside if it gets too cold.”

  “If it’s too cold. Obviously.” I press my lips together, trying to stem my smile.

  “And this…” He pulls out a bottle of champagne. “This is just to prevent dehydration.”

  “I’m loving your work.”

  The bag also contains two long-stemmed champagne flutes, and a familiar plastic package. “I was going for real strawberries, but they’d get kinda crushed and sloppy in my rucksack. So…Haribo strawberries.” His eyes light up in the dark corner as he shakes the red and green bag. “Now you can tell your friends how classy I am.”

  “Haribo is the height of class among my friends.” And I’m not even lying. “Although if they were here, they’d probably already have a hashtag for this combination.” I wince. “#Charibo.”

  Art pauses in shaking out the sleeping bag. “Did you just hashtag our date?”

  “Only in theory.”

  He grins. “Ah. Well that’s okay.”

  I still love that he calls it a date, and that it’s the second time he’s done it. Like he luxuriates in the sound of the word.

  The tartan sleeping bag settles over the neatly trimmed lawn, and we sink down beside each other, leaning back against the hedge. Tiny branches prod at my back, but it’s not unpleasant–just strange. Natural acupuncture. Art mutters to himself as he opens the champagne; the pop echoes through the empty grounds, making us both giggle, and the cork bounces off the trunk of an ancient tree. Then he’s slopping froth into the glasses I clutch, swearing as half of it soaks into the sleeping bag. I tear open the strawberries and scoop one up to squish between my fingers. What is it about jelly sweets that makes them so pleasingly supple?

  Art takes a big sip of champagne, swallows, and sets his glass down. Then he twists to look at me. “You warm enough?”

  “I think so.” The breeze is light, and my coat is warm. When I’m this close to him, my nerves burn slow as embers; they heat me from the inside.

  We go a beat without speaking. He runs his tongue over his teeth.

  “Tell me why it’s special for you here,” he prompts.

  So I do. I run through the visits with my grandma, the endless summer afternoons with Mills. How we’d eat crushed cheese and cucumber sandwiches and drink lumpy orange juice from cartons, but it always felt like the world’s best picnic because my gran had made it. I tell him that the smell of sweet peas always reminds me of her, and in turn, of the cathedral; in July, willowy stems of the delicate flowers grow up against the fence. His face softens as he listens to me. His hand finds mine, and it feels like an act of complete intimacy because in this weather, only our fingers and faces are bare.

  “Now it’s your turn,” I say, swilling champagne around my glass.

  “Okay.” His gaze drifts to our entwined fingers, now sitting against his thigh. “At the risk of sounding all melodramatic…I went through a weird time a few years back. When I dropped out. I’m not religious, but I used to come here anyway, just sit in the pews and listen to the services they do in the afternoons. You know that table they have, the one full of sand where all the tourists light candles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I used to watch those candles for hours. Count the wax drips, study the flames. It gave me this sense of peace I couldn’t find in anything else.” His voice turns husky. “Or anyone.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I think I know what you mean.”

  “My school used to drag us here to sing, and I hated that. Didn’t get it at all. But after uni…I felt like a proper grown-up, you know? It’s funny. I didn’t really care what God thought of me.” He gives a single, sad little laugh. “But this place is old, and it’s seen so much. I figured it must have known worse. Wouldn’t judge me for what I’d done.”

  If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. And yet he doesn’t. Tension coils in the muscles of my legs, snaking up to grip my belly. Whatever it is, it coincided with him giving up boxing at a semi-professional level. Did he hurt someone? Make a mistake during a match?

  No answer beckons. Art’s lost expression is incongruous with the rest of him, melancholy against a solid, strong frame. I bring my free hand up to soothe the furrow in his brow.

  “Did people judge you?” I ask, my voice quiet.

  “No.” He catches the hand I use to stroke him, and brings it to sit with the other in his lap. “Because I lied.” He stares at me, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Not really selling myself, am I?”

  “Last night, you told me to tell you things in my own time.”

  He nods. The breeze dishevels his dark hair, nibbles it forward. He reaches for his glass. “Because the past is the past, Cait. And I don’t think you should talk about it until you’re ready.”

  I give him another squeeze. “And you aren’t.” He just wants me to know his past is there–this is his closest stab at honesty. All I see is a troubled, beautiful man who brought me to a cathedral to make his confession, and the trust inherent in that makes me swell. “Is this something I should be worried about?”

  “Probably not. Nothing…it’s complicated.”

  How to phrase this? “Have you, um, been to work with Aidan?”

  He nearly spits out his champagne. “Oh Christ, no. I mean, not that it’d be…I don’t have a problem with…but no.”

  “Art. It’ll be okay.”

  Clouds crowd the pale moon, floating to mist it in gossamer overlay.

  “I believe you.” He cuts a vague smile. “And I like that.”

  There’s only one way to sweeten a smile like that: kiss it. So I do. The movement takes him by surprise but only for a second, and then his hands are in my hair, pressing harder. He tastes like champagne, bursts like bubbles on my tongue, and the rough brush of his stubble on my cheeks is a chafing reminder of how real he is. In moments like this, I can’t believe that I was ever afraid of touching him.

  Before long, he scoops me into his lap. I slip one leg over to straddle him and settle my hips against his. Now we’re almost the same height and I can get at him from a new angle; his kiss tastes different with my arms draped around his neck and his hands pushing beneath my coat, reaching to cup my waist. We fall so easily into positions for making love–the ache between my thighs won’t let me forget that. Neither will the thick press of his cock through his jeans.

  “Is this you being restrained again?” I find myself murmuring.

  He breathes hot, damp air across my throat. “Kinda. I mean, you’re all hurt and everything. And I’m trying to be all gentlemanly and impress you because that’s what nice boys do.”

  “Right.” My brain is stuffed with dirty ideas involving a zipped-up sleeping bag and an undressed Art. I didn’t know wanting a man so much could translate to bravery, but I’m right in the middle of its tight fist–like I need to make the most of him before he fades away. “Maybe I’m done with the nice boy part.”

  His eyes find mine in the darkness, his pupils fat and black. “Sounds like a challenge.”

  “I–” The word morphs to a yelp as he rolls me over. I land on my back with a measured thwack–painless, but hardly soft–and he climbs over me, jaw set and lips curved mischievously. The sharp scent of grass blooms around us.

  “That better?” he asks.

  All I can manage is a nod.

  “Good.”

  His kiss is his real confession: the first slow tastes, the build of them, the gradual reveal of his tongue. Teeth come into play when I try to tease him; he grunts
a warning, catches my bottom lip, sucks before bestowing a tiny bite. It isn’t like his massage, where every touch is calculated. This is organic, unplanned. And raw. All the while, his bulk presses down on me, my hands now pinned above my head. He tries to be a control freak, Aidan told me. Maybe this is why Art likes the Cait I’ve become–I’m his, more than his, and he doesn’t have to try at all.

  “You know,” he mumbles, “you probably won’t believe me, but I brought you here so we could talk.”

  I grin up at him. “Don’t believe you for a second.”

  “I did, though. I was going to ask you…stuff…” He trails off, trailing kisses along my jaw.

  I tip my head back to give him better access. The feel of his mouth sends tingles over every exposed inch of me. “Stuff. Of course.”

  “I want to know everything about you.” He pauses to push the tip of his tongue behind my ear. “Like how you taste here…and maybe here…”

  I giggle. “I want to know your feelings on the Russian economy.”

  “Mostly vodka.” He drives one knee between my thighs, splaying them with blunt ease. “Now shut up.”

  I’ve never wanted to strip in public so badly. Or at all. But I long to give him more skin to savour, more flesh to stroke. I don’t know quite when it started, but his hips rock gently against mine and suddenly it’s all I can concentrate on–that staccato rhythm that builds during foreplay, unnoticed until you’re so stuffed with blood that you’re sore with it, inside. Grace pitied the spider, awaiting confidantes and first courses alike, but she didn’t know the bliss of being eaten. Being devoured.

  I have to find a way to get him home–a way that doesn’t make me seem too much like a whore, even though frankly, being Art’s whore sounds like the best fun ever.

  Thwack.

  Jagged, tiny hailstones collide with the old stone floor beneath us–just a few, but they bounce with little pops. Impossible to ignore.

  Art groans aloud. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  Faster they fall. I shuffle from under him, wincing as one hits me between the eyes–a frozen wasp, its sting poised and ready. And then the clouds rip open, hailstones rain down, and it sounds for all the world as if we just awoke a thousand grasshoppers.