Seduction (12 page)

Legs parted, she slipped her fingers between her lips, delving inside herself. Her back arched further, without her knowing, as she pushed down on herself, responding to the pressure from her own hand. Like a fish flipping on the end of a line, trying to free itself, she bucked up and down, hips rising to meet her hand as it moved in and out of her, faster and faster as her orgasm began to make itself felt, mounting somewhere deep inside of her, in the blackest part of her, so hidden and secret she couldn't locate or even describe it. It was the place in her that was beyond words, barely accessible. Was that why it had been closed off for so long?

She opened her eyes. Beyond the window a summer haze had swathed the hills, made them dreamier still. A sense of unreality took hold of her as she felt her climax hit and carry her away, and it was as if from far away that she heard herself cry out, mindless of the window being open and of the possibility of any of the cool staff or her fellow guests being privy to her rapture.

When Nick got back, she was still slumbering, enveloped in post-orgasmic numbness. The first she knew of him was the light kiss on her forehead, like a butterfly alighting on her skin. Although she was still naked beneath the spread folds of her robe, he didn't try to take advantage, didn't make a move on her, and she was surprised and grateful. A burn did start up between her legs, where the ripples of her recent orgasm had barely subsided, but there was an anger inside her too, more
powerful, simmering away somewhere beyond reach or reason, that made her resist even her own impulses. Denying herself was an inevitable side-effect of denying him.

Standing over her, he smiled down, a little ruefully it seemed to her. ‘I've booked us a table for eight,' he said. ‘I know it's early but I thought you'd be tired after the journey. I know I am.'

She nodded up at him. ‘That's fine,' she said. ‘Did you look at the menu?'

‘It's posted outside the dining room. Pricey, but that's what you get with a Michelin star. There's a tasting menu with lots of seafood. Seven courses, I think. We should go for it, whack it on the credit card. We have come all this way, after all. No sense in being stingy.'

She sat up, enfolding herself in the soft robe. ‘And the pools? Did you take a look?'

‘They're even more beautiful than they look on the website. The main one – with the nude sculpture at the end – has incredible views over the valley. I may go for a swim right now, in fact. Fancy it?'

She shook her head. She was tempted by the thought of cool water on her skin again, even after her recent bath. But she wanted to be alone once more. Not, this time, to masturbate, but to think about what she was doing here. What
they
were doing here, and what they had expected this long weekend to produce. She needed to understand why it was that she had travelled so far with him only to want to be so utterly alone.

Not long after Nick had left, she went up to the second, smaller pool – the one without the racy modern sculpture or the views. Surrounded by umbrella pines and olive trees, it had a small wooden pavilion with fresh towels and a choice of fashion and news magazines and daily newspapers both French and English. She leafed idly through a copy of
Newsweek
and then, a little guiltily, through French
Vogue
, before helping herself to
a couple of towels and turning around to decide which lounger to occupy. They were all currently free, as was the pool – the larger, glitzier one was probably more popular. But that suited her just fine. Solitude had become disturbingly desirable.

It wasn't to last: within a few minutes of her settling on her lounger with her book, a linen-suited waiter had appeared beside her, an empty tray dangling from one hand, and was asking if she wanted a drink brought out from the bar. She looked up at him, shielding her eyes; the glare of the sun behind him, despite the lateness of the hour, made it difficult to see his face. But she could tell he was smiling, and this smile unnerved her. She felt naked – as naked as she had been in her hotel room half an hour or so before, pleasuring herself. She had the impression that he knew what she had been doing back there, and that his smile was ironic, knowing. It was as if he had seen her in action, although she knew that was impossible – their first-floor room wasn't overlooked from any angle and she hadn't made
that
much noise.

‘
Madame
?' he repeated, and she decided that his slightly supercilious air was more to do with his sense of himself and his own delectability than with anything she had done, or that he suspected her to have done. Her eyes were now adjusted to the light, and she saw in his chiselled face a model's angular beauty. The cheekbones jutted, the jawbone strong and wide. The eyes were a piercing blue. Chestnut hair flopped insouciantly down over his brow. He seemed to have stepped from the pages of the
Vogue
she had just been flicking through.

‘
Un vodka tonique
,' she managed at last. It was early still, but perhaps a stiff drink would help her to relax. She was on holiday after all. For so long, she realised – ever since booking this trip – she had been thinking of it as a kind of test, an exam that needed to be passed if her marriage were to continue. Her entire future, and that of her family, seemed to hinge on this weekend and its outcome. How could she not feel pressure?

The waiter bowed slightly; she watched as he retreated, circling the pool on his way down to the bar to fulfil her order. A restlessness overcame her as she followed him with her eyes; like the porter, this man – this
boy
– was too young and clean and perfect for her. They just didn't do it for her. Yet something inside her was stirring her, reawakening unexpectedly. Something that, sadly, didn't seem to have anything to do with her husband, and hence made this trip something of a joke. A very bad joke.

She swam directly after the waiter had gone, not wanting to risk a plunge after having a drink; when he returned, she barely accorded him a glance, continuing to notch up the lengths as he placed the tray with her iced glass and nibbles on the table beside her lounger. Only after he had gone did she climb out, shaking her head to rid it of water, and sit down to enjoy her drink, imagining Nick by the other pool. What did he do when she wasn't there? The question had never presented itself to her before, and she suddenly asked herself whether she knew her husband at all. He certainly didn't look at other women when they were together, but what about when they were apart? Would he feast his eyes on beautiful silky brown flesh around him if he knew she wouldn't find out, or was he faithful to her even in his fantasies?

The sudden thought of him gazing at semi-naked women by the pool brought a throb to her pussy; she was shocked by how much the prospect aroused her, and by how something that by rights should have aroused her jealousy and ire shed a fresh light on her husband. A Nick staring at other women was, she realised, much more attractive to her than a Nick sitting primly by the water, reading the latest Jeffrey Archer, averting his eyes on principle – because he was married, because he loved his wife, because he
shouldn't
. A Nick with appetite – appetite for something other than her.

Dried by the sun, unable to flee the whirl and tumble of her thoughts by escaping in her book, she finished her drink, slung
her silk sarong around her hips, slipped her feet into her flip-flops and made her way back to the room, wondering if Nick had beaten her to it. Her question was answered by the sound of music as she swiped her card and pushed open the door: a Santana CD that she recognised as one of her husband's old favourites was emanating from the Bang & Olufsen on top of the mahogany writing bureau. The music was accompanied by a low, laid-back whistling from the bathroom, the door to which stood wide open.

She approached, silently, heart in her throat. Nick was soaping himself in the same mellow way as he was whistling, his muscles no doubt softened by a vigorous swim, the last vestiges of city stress dissipated by the water and the sun on his naked limbs. He was on holiday now: that was clear from the slow sweep of the loofah over his thighs and buttocks, by the way his hand hesitated on his prick while his eyes remained closed, his face turned up towards the oversized head of the raindance shower.

She envied him for his ability to relax, to relocate his physicality so quickly. It had been what she had been seeking to do by masturbating, by swimming, but the relentless buzz of her brain had sent her indoors again, out of the sun, away from the pool. Why did she have to think so damn much? Why couldn't she just lose herself?

A rap on the door interrupted her reverie. She turned back in to the room and strode over to the door, checking her watch as she did so. It said five o'clock, but consulting it reminded her that she hadn't brought it a hour forwards since arriving in France, and she turned the little side dial to reset it as with the other hand she reached to open the door.

She looked up to see a man in the doorway, smiling at her, and her belly flipped over. This wasn't one of the movie-idol waiting staff, smiling deferentially while all the time thinking they were better than you. This was a real man – tousled, a
little weather-worn, with a network of fine lines that bunched up around his eyes as the smile went on.

‘
Bonsoir
?' she managed, after a pause.

‘
Service du soir, Madame
,' he countered, and between her legs she turned to liquid.

She must have raised her eyebrows questioningly at the same time, for with one of his hands he gestured to a stack of clean towels balanced on the other. ‘Fresh towels?' he went on, and his strong accent when he spoke in English had her legs and knees quivering.

She held his gaze, knowing that she must look quite insane. Without consciously thinking about it, she gauged his age at about forty, forty-five tops. Like the waiting staff, he was tanned, but unlike them there was an outdoor feel to him, something rugged and real. They reeked of the beauty salon, of
eau de Cologne
and expensive face creams. He seemed to come from the landscape around them: he was raw, as redolent of the rich red earth as he was of lemons, almonds, cedar, eucalyptus. Though she couldn't see them, she imagined the palms of his hands were slightly gnarled, roughened by contact with nature, honest.

All this came to her in seconds, as a tumble of fleeting half-thoughts, like water passing through a narrow canyon. Finally, as if awaking from a dream, she looked back confusedly towards the bathroom door. Did they need clean towels or not, she thought, more panicky than she would have been about the issue had she been thinking rationally. Nick would have used two at the most. One had to think about the environment these days.

She realised that the sound of the shower had died away, and was thinking to call out to Nick to ask about the need for towels when the sound of the man shuffling in the doorway made her turn her face back to him. His green eyes were fast on her; in them she saw a trace of friendly bemusement, as if
he knew the thoughts that were going through her mind. As if he knew how much she wanted him.

‘
Service du soir
?' came a voice from behind her, in an English accent this time, and she started at Nick's hand on her shoulder. ‘Why, of course,' he went on. ‘It would be rude not to.'

She felt her husband's teeth on one shoulder, risking a nibble, and swooned. He knew exactly how to get her going, knew that this was her erogenous zone. So why didn't he do that more often?

The man was still in the doorway, eyes flashing, full of a kind of well-intentioned mischief.

‘Well?' said Nick. ‘Ask him in. That's what you want, isn't it?'

She nodded dumbly, backing into the room, into Nick, who guided her with his hands, now looser on her shoulders.

‘Where do you want to go?' he said, and she gestured towards the bed, feeling that she would pass out if she had to stand up any longer.

He freed her then, like a bird from a cage, and she half-fell onto the bed, forwards, excited and yet fearful. For a moment she remained frozen, hair hanging down on either side of her face, forming curtains shielding her from what was happening, for whatever was going to happen, affording her a reprieve. Then she inhaled deeply, and, turning over, lay on the bed, ready to confront her desires.

Nick was right. She did want this man. She wanted him more than she had wanted anyone in such a long time, even Nick. And Nick was making a gift to her of this stranger who had appeared on their doorstep: was that out of love or indifference? Was this his way of telling her he no longer cared, that he had had it?

The man himself seemed unquestioning, and the thought flitted through her mind that this might happen to him often – guests inviting him into their room, seduced by his ease, his unforced charm. Yet rather than feel revolted
by such promiscuity on his part, this notion, too, aroused her. The idea of instinct, both on his part and that of other hotel guests, was enormously exciting.

Nick turned away momentarily, and she realised from the sounds coming from the other side of the room that he was pouring them some drinks. She looked back at the man, and something in his sea-green eyes made her reach to her side to loosen the knot on her sarong. Peeling the still-damp fabric away from her flesh like an insect casting off a skin, she slipped her hand into her bikini bottoms and let out a moan when she felt the dampness there. Holding the man's stare, she slid two fingers between her sodden lips and into her juicy core.

He reacted by pulling his white short-sleeved shirt up over his head, revealing a tanned chest and midriff covered with hair. She reached up for him with her free hand, and he climbed onto the bed, inching forwards until he knelt astride her. She let her free hand trail down him, from his neck to his lower belly: the hair was as soft and springy as it looked, something familiar and comforting. A place, she thought, of refuge. Already she could imagine cuddling up with this man when all the sex was done, finding peace in the feel and smell of him.