Folly (28 page)

At the sound of my pleasure, his arm tightened briefly around me before his hand slipped again between my legs, his fingertip tracing tiny circles of delight over my clitoris and sending pulses of white-hot pleasure through me. The feeling was so intense that I let out a small cry and rocked back against him to meet the increasing pace of his thrusts.

‘Don't worry,' he whispered breathlessly. ‘I won't come inside you without a condom. But I want you to come, Emma … to come hard for me, and I want to feel you when you do.'

I realised that, thanks to his proximity while we slept, my body had awoken long before I had. Incredibly, I found I had already reached the edge and the raw suggestiveness in his tone pushed me over it. My hands grabbed his arm, nails digging into his hot, slick skin, pulling him to me, feeling him as close and deep as it was possible to be.

Abruptly, everything inside me tightened and then blissfully unravelled, sensation boiling out from a molten core.

‘Oh God, that's good,' he groaned as his arms locked around me, his body soldered to mine. I could feel his cock throbbing within me, his breathing rough, as together we rode the waves of my orgasm.

I lay, breathless and tingling as he moved inside me. He was rock hard and pulsating with desire; on the edge himself, and I marvelled at the control he was showing in satisfying me.

When he withdrew, he eased himself out of me inch by inch, the slow caress over my tender flesh causing me to catch my breath.

Then his arm slid under my shoulders, turning me towards him. Pushing away the covers he guided me on top so that I found myself straddling him, moisture cooling on my skin. Shaking my hair back, I stared down at him. In the deep grey of the pre-dawn light, I could just make out his features, his expression intense, his eyes narrowed and his lips apart.

His hands gripped my hips. His hunger was tangible; infectious. I was trembling with arousal as he guided me down onto his hard shaft, and I pushed down, closing my eyes for a moment as I felt him parting and entering my swollen, needy depths.

‘Your turn,' I whispered to him, but he shook his head.

‘Yours again.'

‘I can't … No, I won't be able to, Simon. I don't ever come twice …'

Challenge flared in his eyes and I knew that, this time, my protests would be firmly and uncompromisingly overridden.

For a moment I tried to claw back the upper hand by imagining this man in my lacy panties and that badly fitting basque, but the thoughts of our fantasy play only served to remind me of the breadth of his imagination and the generosity of his power. It was astonishing how I'd forced myself to believe that he would be a tentative, insipid lover, addicted to his demeaning fantasies, worthy only of my whip and my scorn.

But this was no twisted fantasy. This was vanilla sex, and with a partner of breathtaking skill and passion. The finest vanilla, offering such intensity of pleasure that it made me realise that everything I'd had before him was the equivalent of tepid water.

I gasped as he shifted my position, then pushed inside me in such a way that the head of his cock stroked again and again over my most responsive nerve endings. The sweetness of the friction was unbearable, exquisite. It was shocking through me, making my palms tingle and my nipples become tight and hard.

My gaze locked with his and I found I could not look away. Then my own eyes widened as I felt him grasp my wrist and draw my hand down to my smooth and sodden cleft.

‘Touch yourself,' he encouraged me, his fingers gently covering mine.

With him watching? That was another no … but suddenly it wasn't. I was too aroused to refuse; so needy for him that my self-consciousness simply melted away.

‘Yes,' he groaned as I began stroking my clitoris in rhythm with his measured thrusts. I could hear my own fast breathing and the small noises I could not keep myself from making. I loved what he had made me become … this reckless creature, her inhibitions cast aside, pumping and writhing above him while she pleasured herself for his enjoyment and her own.

His hands grasped my breasts and his fingertips squeezed small pulses of ecstasy from my nipples. My ragged gasps matched his own and I called his name as I felt myself ascend once again to the highest peak of bliss, hovering for an endless moment on the brink of orgasm, then letting myself fall into a pleasure so intense that it felt as if I was flying.

It was earth-shattering and gorgeous and utterly satisfying. I moaned, closing my eyes as the contractions of delight seemed to melt my insides and dissolve every fibre of my being.

Holding me firmly by my hips, he slowed his rhythm again, moving sensually in time with the waves of my orgasm, prolonging my fulfilment, intensifying the contractions as my muscles gripped his cock and I actually sobbed with ecstasy.

‘Jesus, Emma … I can't … I can't hold back any longer.'

Swiftly, he pulled out and I collapsed on top of him. I tasted the sweat on his jaw, then felt his hands grasping my buttocks and his hips bucking powerfully under me as he came.

The next time I woke up, sunlight was streaming in through the curtains. I turned my head to look at Simon, wanting to see him asleep, but as I did he opened his eyes, saw me, smiled.

I smiled back and for a few moments we just lay there, beaming at each other idiotically. I don't think either of us was sure what to say – I know I certainly wasn't – but Simon found a safe subject.

‘Coffee?'

‘That'd be great,' I said, relieved.

Twenty minutes later I was showered and dressed and sitting at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. He poured my coffee from the jug in his filter machine, stirred in sugar and passed it over to me.

‘When do you need to be back home?'

I had no clients that day. I wasn't even planning on going to see Mark, since I would be seeing him tomorrow at the Caines' family hoopla. I had nothing to do except spend the day at home, thinking of Simon.

But I couldn't let him know that I would be spending the day alone, still less that I was besotted with him. So I opened my mouth, ready and prepared to tell him that I had something on that afternoon, and of course what came out was the truth. ‘Whenever. I'm not busy today.'

Mortified at what I'd implied, I actually felt my face start to burn, although the pleased smile he gave me went some way to alleviating my shame.

‘Good. So what would you like to do?'

‘I'll tell you what I'd love to do. Cook us some food and pack a picnic, and go for a long walk together. In a park, maybe.'

‘Excellent idea. We can go to Delta Park. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be ready.'

While Simon was showering, I checked the fridge to see what he had available. A quick perusal of the contents told me that he was a Woolworths shopper and a fairly healthy eater. I found a couple of fillets and some wholewheat rolls together with a few pre-prepared meals in the freezer. Salad ingredients in the vegetable drawer. Free-range eggs on one of the shelves. A couple of bottles of sauvignon Blanc and some sparkling water. And butter, not margarine. Looking in the kitchen cupboard I found spices, herbs, a tin of chickpeas, and other essentials like pasta and couscous.

I walked back into his bedroom and rummaged through my bag in search of a clip to keep the hair out of my eyes while I cooked. I could still hear the sound of the shower running. While he was in the bathroom, I found myself tempted to peek into his cupboards and see what was there. What was his life like behind the scenes? Would I see work clothes, casual wear, linen and luggage? Or would I open the door to a jumbled array of women's underwear, vibrators, bondage magazines and fetish gear?

Where did Simon hide the secrets of his sexuality, assuming he hid them at all?

In the end my curiosity won and I opened the nearest cupboard, only to find myself confronted by shelves and hangers full of brightly coloured, neatly folded cycling tops, rain jackets,
T
-shirts and jeans.

Then my attention was caught by a cardboard box at the back on the far right-hand side. Was that where his alter-ego lived? Peering closer I saw it was sealed up with brown packaging tape. And, with a tightening of my stomach, I saw that the name ‘Paula' was written in neat capital letters on the top.

Paula. The woman he'd fallen in love with while working in Dubai, the one who'd betrayed his trust, although I still didn't know why. So she'd visited him here in Johannesburg. She'd slept in his bed. She'd played his games.

I wondered what Paula would have chosen to do on a day like today. I had a feeling that a woman of the calibre that would attract Simon Nel's romantic attention would be both beautiful and cultured – broadminded, of course, would also be a given. Probably, she would have opted for a far more sophisticated outing. A visit to an art gallery followed by Champagne tasting, perhaps. And here I was, packing a picnic and taking him for a trek around a park.

Then, with a serpent of jealousy uncoiling inside me, I wondered what her stuff was doing here. Had he kept it out of hope she'd reconsider, or as a way to remember her? Had the conversation gone something like, ‘Let me send it back to you.' ‘No, no, I really don't need it. Give it away.' But he hadn't.

I realised that the shower had stopped and I shut the cupboard door and hurried back into the kitchen, firmly suppressing the thoughts I'd had and remembering that, given the terms of our relationship, I was neither entitled nor empowered to be jealous.

‘So what are we going to have for our picnic?' Simon asked, striding into the kitchen. His damp hair flopped over his forehead and his dark blue eyes were sparkling.

‘Roasted tomato and puff pastry tartlets, Greek salad, falafel, crumbed fillet strips, hummus and tzatziki, and double chocolate brownies,' I told him. ‘We need to buy pastry, French bread, cucumber, garlic, olives and some dark chocolate.'

‘Wow!'Simon exclaimed. ‘I had no idea you were a gourmet cook. That sounds wonderful.'

Half an hour later we were shopping for picnic stuff, and as we scoured the shelves for the right kind of olives and discussed the merits of different types of chocolate, I was struck by how harmonious this process was. Had there ever been a shopping trip with Mark where we hadn't ended up disagreeing about something? If we hadn't been quarrelling over what to buy, we'd been arguing about how much we should spend. Why had it always happened that way, even before we'd got married? I didn't know now.

I'd never wanted to fight with Mark, but I'd ended up having to stand up for myself or be steamrollered. I'd hated conflict, so why had I committed myself to a conflicted relationship?

I insisted on paying, and when we got back to Simon's place, I did what I'd been itching to do ever since I'd first seen his kitchen, which was to prepare a sumptuous picnic using his amazing, state-of-the-art stove.

Simon stood behind me while I sprinkled salt and sugar on the juicy halves of the plum tomatoes, readying them for the oven. He ran his hands around my shoulders and lightly caressed my breasts, and I caught my breath, leaning against him.

‘We're not going to get out of the kitchen at this rate,' I said.

‘I know,' he murmured. ‘I'm sorry.'

I lifted my hand towards his mouth, my fingers coated with translucent crystals, and felt his lips close around them as he licked the salt and sugar from my skin. The sensation tightened a cord of desire deep inside me, and for a burning moment I wanted nothing more than to turn, wrap my arms around his shoulders, hitch my hips onto the kitchen counter and let him take me as I dug my nails into his back and my teeth into his neck, crushing my lips against his as I felt him thrust inside me again …

‘Enough now,' I said, more harshly than I had intended, using my mistress's voice even though it didn't come out quite right. ‘You're taking liberties with the cook.'

‘A punishable offence?' He gave a breathless laugh and for a moment my brain reeled at the honesty of his delightful depravation, this wayward man who revelled in my discipline, who wore his scars like badges, and who in spite of this – or perhaps because of it – was the most perceptive and ardent lover I had ever known.

Suitably chastised, he moved away from me, but after a short pause to collect his wits, he hovered without touching me, being helpful and passing things and making comments like ‘This is smelling divine' and ‘You really love cooking, don't you?'.

As for me, I was in heaven. It had been more than a year since I'd used a proper stove. More than a year since I'd cooked using anything except a wok. It was a profoundly joyful process to smear the puff pastry squares with the rich, sweet, roasted tomato reduction I'd made and put them in the oven –
in the oven
– to bake. To be able to simultaneously deep-fry the falafel balls while braising the crumbed fillet to browned and tender perfection. To have a kitchen filling with the combined aromas that spoke of food, passion and love.

By half-past twelve everything was packed up and we set off for Delta Park. It was a perfect early-autumn day. The sky was deep blue and cloudless. The air was dry and the temperature mild. The intense heat of summer was ebbing, and it was pleasant to be outside even in the middle of the day. The grass was starting to dry, and the leaves were turning red, copper and gold.

Idyllic as the day was, I found I couldn't fully appreciate its magic. I was too distracted by the sense of deep regret that had settled over me. The relationship I desired so much with Simon would never happen – he'd told me as much – and after our night together I now felt I was about to lose what had become the most important part of my life. I stared out of the window and waited for the feeling to pass, but it didn't, and it was still there when I looked back at him.

If only, I thought … if only.

The truth was, though, that my life would never have been any different.