Rachel's Holiday
Page 65

I got the impression he wouldn’t include Daryl under the heading of ‘men’.
As my skin flushed and prickled, I forced myself to put a few fingers on the buckle of his belt. Then found I couldn’t go any further. I could feel something building within me and I had to stop before I became overwhelmed by it.
This time, Luke didn’t tell or force me to do anything. I could hear the hoarse sound of his breathing above me and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my scalp.
We were both marking time, waiting, for I don’t know what. I had the sensation that we were both in a kind of siding, holding on for something to pass. Then he slid one of his arms around my waist in an oddly protective gesture. The feel of the skin of his arm on the skin of my back made me jump.
Slowly, unable to look at him, I began to undo his belt. His thick, black leather belt – even that seemed grownup-man-scary – slid out with a faint, evocative slapping sound. And hung, the heavy buckle on one side of his flies, the length of leather on the other.
I could hear him trying to keep his breathing normal but I knew he was struggling hard.
Then it was time to start on the buttons of his jeans. I can’t, I can’t I thought, gripped with panic.
‘Rachel,’ I heard Luke say, hoarsely. ‘Don’t stop…’
Holding my breath, I popped open the first button. Then the next one. Then the next.
When they were all done I stood still, waiting for him to tell me what to do next.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
Reluctantly, I lifted my eyes and when we finally looked at each other something burst open within me, something I could see mirrored in his face.
I stared at him in fear and wonder, longing for him. For his touch, his tenderness, his kisses, the rasp of his jaw on my cheek, the scent of his skin in my face. I lifted a trembling hand and lightly touched his silky hair.
The moment I touched him, the dam burst. This time we didn’t wait for the madness to pass. We fell on each other, pulling, tearing, kissing, scratching.
Panting, I tore at his shirt, trying to get it off him so that I could smooth my hands over the silky skin of his back, the line of hair on his stomach.
His arms were around me, he was caressing me, biting me. He tangled his fingers up in my hair and pulled my head back and kissed me so hard it hurt.
‘I want you,’ he panted.
His jeans were around his knees, his shirt was open but he was still wearing it. We were on the floor, the tiles cold against my back. He was on top of me, his weight forcing me down. I was on top of him, pulling his jeans off, then sliding his boxers down so slowly he groaned and said ‘Jesus, Rachel, just do it, for fuck’s sake!’
I greedily watched his eyes that were dilated dark with desire.
His jeans were off, my knickers were halfway down my thighs, my nipples were raw from where he’d bitten me, my shoes were still on, we were both panting as if we’d been running.
I couldn’t wait anymore.
‘Condom,’ I murmured feverishly.
‘OK,’ he gasped, rummaging round in his jacket.
‘Here,’ he handed the little foil packet to me. ‘I want you to do it.’
Frustrated that my shaking hands wouldn’t move faster, I tore it open and put it on the glistening tip.
Then reverentially – while he gave a moan – I smoothed it the long, hard length.
‘Oh God,’ I panted. ‘You’re so sexy’
He paused for a moment and gave me an unexpected grin that nearly made me come.
‘That, Rachel Walsh,’ he smiled, ‘is fine talk coming from you.’
*
I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted to go to sleep in my own bed with Luke’s arms around me. I didn’t know what it was about him. Was it because I hadn’t had a boyfriend since I came to New York? I wondered. Maybe, I thought doubtfully. After all, a woman has needs.
But it wasn’t just that. In all the seduction/rejection fracas I’d forgotten how entertaining he’d been that first night in the Rickshaw Rooms. And so he was again.
‘OK, babe,’ he said, the minute he got into my bedroom. ‘What does this room tell me about Rachel Walsh?
‘First off, I can tell you’re not what they call an anal retentive, are you?’ he said, surveying my bomb-site boudoir. ‘You’ve been mercifully spared a terrible neurotic obsession with tidiness.’
‘If I’d known you were coming I’d have redecorated,’ I said good-humouredly, as I lay on my bed, resplendent in Brigit’s good dressing-gown.
‘Now, that’s nice,’ he said, taking in a poster advertising the Kandinsky exhibition at the Guggenheim.
‘Fond of the visual arts, are you?’
‘No,’ I said, surprised to hear someone like Luke saying words like ‘visual arts’. ‘I stole it from work. It’s covering a hole in the wall where a load of plaster fell off.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, equably. ‘Just as long as I know. Give us a look at your books,’ he said, bearing down on them. Luckily he’d wrapped a towel around his dangly bits so I wasn’t too distracted by him moving around the room. ‘What kind of person are you really? Good, there’s your Collected Works of Patrick Kavanagh, just like you told me the first night I met you; nice to know the girl doesn’t tell lies.’
‘Come away from them,’ I ordered. ‘Leave them alone, they’re not used to visitors, you’ll upset them and they won’t lay for weeks.’
I was embarrassed by my book ‘collection’ – eight books don’t really amount to a collection. But the thing was I didn’t need any more. I rarely found a book that spoke to me and even when I did it took me about a year to read it. And then I reread it. And then I read it again. Then I read another of the ones I’d already read a million times. And then I came back to the first one. And read it again. I knew this wasn’t the usual approach to literature, but I couldn’t help it.
‘The Bell Jar, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Trial, Alice in Wonderland, Collected Works of PG Wodehouse and not one but two Dostoyevsky books.’
He smiled at me admiringly. ‘You’re no eejit, are you, babe?’
I wondered if he was being sarcastic, and couldn’t decide. So I just shrugged vaguely.
I was especially mortified by my Dostoyevsky books. ‘What’s wrong with John Grisham?’ Brigit demanded every time she caught me with them. ‘Why do you read all that up-its-own-bum stuff?’