Bound by Ivy (8 page)

22

‘Marc,’ I gasp. ‘You can’t be serious. In the car?’

‘You’re ready f
or this,’ says Marc. ‘And from where I’m sitting, you’re not in much of a position to argue.’

‘I
f I did argue, would you listen?’

Marc frowns. ‘You know I would. Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.’

I bite my lip, and feel my buttocks throb at the thought of him inside me.

‘
Don’t stop.’

Marc moves in closer, widening my buttocks with his hands and sliding himself between them.
‘I’ll pull out if it gets too much.’

‘
Ooohh
,’ I moan as he begins to work his way inside, little by little.

‘Feels good?’

‘Y—yes.’

Marc
’s eyes begin to close as he inches in further.

‘Oh
god. Oh Sophia, I can’t—’ He hesitates, breathing hard. ‘Wait,’ he says, more to himself than me. Then after a moment, he says, ‘Okay. Okay.’ He begins inching further inside so slowly and carefully that, although it’s a little tight and sore, it mainly feels good.

Marc mov
es his thumb between my legs, where his tongue was a few moments ago, and begins pressing and circling until I’m absolutely out of my mind with pleasure.

‘Oh.
Oh
. Marc. Oh.
Oh
.’

W
hen he begins to slide in and out of me, I can’t take any more.

‘Oh Marc. I’m coming. I’m coming.’

I come in places I never knew I could come, and the pleasure that washes over my body is like nothing I’ve ever known in my life.

I feel like I’ve been dipped in syrup, and
the intimacy of what we’re sharing … it makes me feel closer to Marc than ever.

Marc groans and gives one last little push inside me, moaning into my ear, shouting my name and wrapping my hair around his hand
s.

‘Sophia
. Oh Sophia,’ he shouts, as my body throbs all around him and warmth spreads from my neck all the way down to my toes.

‘I
love you,’ I manage to say, my voice soft and deep.

‘
God
. I love you too,’ says Marc.

We stay like that for a moment, clinging to each other. Then
I feel him loosen inside me and slide free.

Marc
reaches up and, in one swift movement, frees my hands, taking hold of my wrists and rubbing them to get the circulation going.

He kisses the red skin and strokes my
wrists. Then he scoops a hand down and removes the condom. He places it in a paper cup and slots it into a little bin fitted below one of the seats. Then he takes me in his arms and holds me close.

‘
I never thought I could be any closer to you. But just then, I lost myself a little bit more.’

‘I know
,’ I whisper into his neck, loving his warmth and his strong arms. ‘I felt closer to you than ever just then.’

After a moment, Marc helps me back into my panties and j
eans, and does up his trousers. Then he threads the tie effortlessly around his neck in the most casual way, as if it had been hanging innocently in his wardrobe this whole time.

I laugh. ‘You’re really going to wear that tie now?’

‘Of course I am. It’s just become my favourite tie.’ Marc sits beside me and pulls me close. ‘Are you okay? I didn’t take things too far?’

‘No, it was just like always,’ I say, a smile creeping onto my face. ‘Alm
ost too far, but in the end, just far enough.’

‘With you, going just far enough is getting harder and harder,’ says Marc. ‘I worry that one day, I won’t be able to stop myself.’

‘
I’m
not worried,’ I say. ‘I trust you.’

Marc’s eyes fix on mine. ‘How did I deserve someone so perfect?
’

The car drives on into central London, and we stay
wrapped up in each other’s arms, watching London rush past.

23

The limo eventually comes to a stop at a beautiful stone square with a fountain at the centre, right in the heart of West London. The square is lined with tall trees, their feathery branches hung with elegant red jack-o-lanterns and white fairy lights.

‘Where are we?’ I ask Marc, as he helps me out of the car and into my coat.

‘Sloane Square.’

‘
That’s Chelsea, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely correct.’

I remember seeing a documentary about Sloane Square once. It talked about women called ‘Sloane Rangers’ – girls who live in posh Chelsea flats and hang around Sloane Square buying designer clothes and looking for rich husbands.

I
look around the square. Perfectly groomed women in Vogue-magazine clothes walk purposefully along, swinging their gorgeous, shiny hair and designer handbags. Instinctively, my hand goes to my unruly waves and I twiddle and tug.

‘It’s okay,’ says Marc, slipping an arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t be nervous.’

‘Do I look nervous?’

‘A little.’

‘I guess I just feel a bit out of place.’

‘You’re not out of place. You’re very much in place.’

‘I don’t know about that.
It’s … the people around here are very stylish. Beautiful. Classy. And here I am in my jeans …’

‘Believe me. You have more class and beauty than any
of these women.’

We walk past a huge Christmas tree, hung with ceramic gingerbread men and twinkling lights.
It’s beautiful, but it’s had its roots cut off and the sawn tree stump sits in icy water.

‘I a
lways get sad when I see real trees without their roots,’ I tell Marc. ‘In our family, we buy the whole tree and replant it in the garden or the woods when Christmas is over. Well. Except Dad didn’t have time to get a tree this year. It’s a shame. I would have liked you to see the cottage all Christmassed up. It looks cosy.’

‘As long as
you’re
in the cottage, I couldn’t care less about the decorations.’

Marc
steers me off the main square, down a narrower side road buzzing with black cabs.

‘Where are
we going?’ I ask.

‘A friend of mine owns a shop here. A toy shop. I thought you could help me choose something for Sammy.’

We come to a stop by a glossy window full of beautiful, handcrafted wooden toys. The window is set into a tall, red-brick building, and a gold coloured veranda hangs from the wall with the words ‘Peter’s Toys’ printed onto it.

I stare at the window display. There’s something truly magical about the toys here.
They’re all made of solid wood, and I can tell they’ve been crafted by someone who loves what they do. There are dolls houses, push trolleys, building blocks, a wooden tricycle … even a logging truck, complete with hand-painted logs on the back. I know Sam will
love
pushing that around.

‘T
his shop is just perfect for Sammy,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to go inside.’

‘You like it?’ Marc asks, as I gaze through the window
. ‘Peter makes most of the toys himself. It’s a real labour of love.’

‘
And I love it,’ I say.

‘Good. Let’s go inside
.’

24

The bell jangles overhead as we enter the shop, and inside there’s the most gorgeous smell of apple wood and sawdust. The floor is strewn with red wood peelings, and toys are arranged on carved wooden tiers and sliced tree-trunk shelves, complete with bark. It’s like walking inside a hollowed out tree.

A tall, thin man with white hair and round gla
sses comes striding towards us, pushing up the sleeves of his striped shirt. ‘Marc. How the devil are you?’

‘Peter,’
Marc replies, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Great to see you.’

Marc
keeps one arm around my shoulder, which causes Peter to look at me with interest.

‘Well I never. Marc Blackwell out in daylight hours with a young lady.
You
must be someone very special.’

‘This is Sophia Rose,’ says Ma
rc, tightening his arm around my shoulder. ‘And yes – she is very special to me. Very special indeed.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’
says Peter. ‘It’s about time you found a good woman.’

‘There’s no better
woman than Sophia.’

‘
Good, good. Well, let me get you both a sherry. Celebrate the season.’ Peter goes to the back of the shop and returns with a bottle of Lustau sherry and three crystal tumblers.

Placing
the tumblers by the cash register, he pours generous measures in each and hands glasses to Marc and I.

‘Good stuff isn’t it?’ he declares, taking a swig of his own. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to open that bottle since November.’

‘Delighted to give you the opportunity,’ says Marc, taking a sharp sip.

‘Thank you
.’ I take a sip of mine and it’s delicious. Dry and crisp and incredibly warming on a winter’s day. It rolls down my throat so smoothly that I’d hardly know it was alcoholic, but the heat that follows tells me otherwise.

‘Well. How can I help you today?’
Peter asks, taking another swig of sherry. ‘Something for the nephew again? Or are we furnishing a nursery?’ He gives me a sideways glance and a wink.

I sneak a look at Marc
, and am relieved to see he’s smiling.

‘Not just yet,’ he says.
‘We’re after a toy for a one year old.’

‘I think I already know what he’d like,’ I say, casting my eye around the shop. The intricacy of some of the toys is just stunning. It kind of makes me wish I was
a little girl again, so I could play with the doll’s house and the beautiful hand-carved furniture suite inside.

‘T
hat logging truck in the window,’ I say. ‘It’s just perfect. He’ll love pushing it along, then taking the wood off the back and chewing on it.’

‘He can chew away
,’ says Peter proudly, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets and rocking back and forth. ‘All natural dyes. Non toxic.’

‘You make such beautiful things,’ I say, looking around the shop again. ‘It must h
ave taken you a lifetime to carve all these toys.’

‘Years
,’ says Peter, putting his sherry glass on a shelf and walking to the window. He plucks the logging truck from the window display, holding it with two hands. ‘This is one of my favourites. I’ll be pleased to send it to a good home.’

He carries it
carefully to the wrapping area, and lovingly folds sheet after sheet of brown tissue paper around it. Then he pulls free a sheet of gold wrapping paper decorated with holly leaves, and expertly gift wraps the truck, sticking a real sprig of holly to the paper.

‘It’s young holly,’ he explains, passing Marc the parcel. ‘So the little one won’t prick himself on the leaves.’

Marc takes the parcel in one hand and places his sherry by the cash register. Then he takes out his wallet.

‘No, no, put your money away,’ says Peter. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.
’

‘Peter, giving to your charity is entirely different from buying things from your shop.’

‘Not when you donate thousands of pounds it isn’t.’ Peter turns to me. ‘Marc has been
very
generous to Woodlands. Very generous indeed.’

‘Woodlands?’ I ask Marc, raising a curious eyebrow.

‘Peter’s charity,’ says Marc, in a voice that tells me he wants to end this conversation as soon as possible.

‘It supports
the tree farmers who supply my wood,’ says Peter. ‘Makes sure they get a fair rate of pay, good housing, that sort of thing.’

‘Sounds like a good
cause,’ I say.

‘It
is
a good cause,’ says Marc. ‘Which is why Peter and I always have this argument when I come in here.’

‘Marc wins every time,’ says Peter, with a little wink. ‘But what he doesn’t k
now is that whatever he pays me I put straight into the charity bucket.’

‘In that case, I’m going to have to pay you double
,’ says Marc, with a smile.

Peter slaps his forehead. ‘Fine, fine. You win as usual.’ He takes the handf
ul of notes that Marc passes him, then hands him back his sherry. ‘How’s Denise?’

‘Good
. Enjoying life at the college.’

‘But?’

‘But nothing.’ Marc takes another sip of sherry. ‘A woman of her years and experience is allowed to choose the lifestyle that suits her.’

‘And you think it suits her? Living alone?’

‘That’s what she tells me.’

‘And you believe her?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Denise’s choices are hers and hers alone to make.’

‘Well
I
think Denise is a wonderful woman and it’s criminal that she never remarried.’

‘
She’s never expressed any interest in finding someone new.’

‘Not to you, but you’re like the son she never had,’ says Peter, wiggling his white eyebrows. ‘Parents don’t tend to talk to their children about their dating affairs.
Would you like me to play matchmaker? I know a friend of Valerie’s who lost his wife a few years ago. A lovely fellow. Plays the violin. Likes the theatre. What do you say, shall we match them up?’

‘I’d say we
’d be interfering in Denise’s life,’ says Marc.

‘Shame,’ says Peter, draining his sherry glass. ‘I do like a bit of interfering from time to time.’ He gives Marc a wicked grin.

‘Denise will find someone when she’s ready,’ says Marc. ‘Until then, she seems perfectly happy. Or at least if not happy, then content.’ Marc finishes up his sherry, and I drink the last of mine too.

‘Nothing wrong with content,’ says Peter.

Marc places his empty glass by the cash register and shakes Peter’s hand. ‘It’s been great to see you again. We should catch up soon.’

‘Always a pleasure,’ says Peter, shaking Marc’s hand heartily.

‘Have a wonderful Christmas.’

Peter looks
bewildered. ‘Have a wonderful Christmas? What have you done to him Sophia? He usually pretends Christmas doesn’t exist. Does everything he can to avoid talking about it.’

‘I didn’t know
that
.’ I throw Marc a playful smile.

‘There are still plenty of things you don’t know about me Miss Rose
.’