He slowly unbuttons my blouse and we lie on the bed, his hands gently stroking my waist. I reach up to pull off his shirt, desperate to feel his bare body against mine. He leans forward and I feel the thrust of him beneath his jeans. A shiver of anticipation arcs through me. I want to be in control, so I roll over, straddling him, rolling my hips against his, pressing his hands above his head.
“Where did you come from?” he says, his voice heavy, his eyes following mine, as though marveling at me. I bend down to kiss his chest, wanting to lay claim to every inch of him. “I haven’t—I haven’t done this in a while,” he says, sounding as though he is desperately trying to stay in control.
“I’m sure you’ll remember what to do,” I say with a breathy laugh as I start unbuttoning his jeans. Wow, Ted is definitely no Ken doll.
He reaches both his arms beneath mine and pulls me up to his eye level.
“I want to see your face—” he murmurs, as his body presses against mine, removing any air between us.
Then, even though there aren’t any cameras, we have the movie sex. You know that bit where you see a close-up of a man kissing a woman’s neck, and it’s all low lighting and dewy skin; that happens. The shot of the man’s rippling back muscles tensing as the woman’s hands clasp around his whole body with her fingers spread wide; that happens. The part where the woman’s toes stretch out and curl in orgasmic bliss; that happens, three times. We even move to the shower and do that scene where you see a hand press against the glass and then it swipes down the steam, because, you know, the shower is steamy but so is what’s happening inside. If I died this second, I’d want my gravestone to read: Died happy having the movie sex.
Afterward, as we lie there entangled in each other’s arms, glowing with perspiration, I say, “That was pretty awesome, right? It’s not just me?”
Ted laughs and kisses my head. “That was, indeed, awesome.”
“Is that how you usually do it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you always that good?”
Ted takes his hand from behind my head and sits up; his forehead furrows into single line. “I don’t know, Laura, it’s not a competition.”
“No, I didn’t mean for you to compare, I just meant—maybe you’re just really good at sex, and I’m the one who’s been doing it wrong all these years.”
Ted gives me a friendly scowl and reaches out to lay his hand on top of mine. “I don’t think that’s possible.” Then he turns onto his side, leans over and lays a trail of hot kisses up my neck before whispering in my ear, “You are spectacular. You have woken me up, and I never want to be asleep again.”
Chapter 30
I think he was talking metaphorically, because he does sleep—spooned against my back, while I struggle to drift off. I could never sleep with someone spooning me, but I don’t want to let go of him, so I just lie there, awake, a giant grin plastered on my face, wondering how long I have to wait before I can wake him up by kissing his neck. In the morning, after we’ve indulged in another extremely satisfying movie marathon, showered, and dressed, Ted cooks up the meal he bought us last night. I’m not convinced I’m going to fancy lobster for breakfast, but when he presents it on toast with eggs on the side, it turns out I’m ravenous.
Ted points out the fisheries on the headland, visible from the house, a converted bunker built for war but now the site of fresh fish barbecues and rosé by the sea. I think of the history that bunker has seen, and I feel briefly disappointed that I won’t be writing my foodie mini-break article for Love Life now. Food is clearly taken seriously here, and so much history seasons every plate.
Ted and I sit at the patio table and between mouthfuls just gaze at each other as though if we blink, the other person might disappear.
I glance over to the next-door garden.
“This is where Sandy comes out and says ‘Morning!’ in that voice she does,” I say.
He nods. “The number of times I’ve had Sandy give me that knowing ‘Morning,’ I should put up a higher wall.”
“You’ve cooked lobster breakfasts for a lot of lady friends, have you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.
“I doubt there would have been a cooked breakfast when we were teenagers,” he says. “My culinary skills are pretty limited now, let alone back then.”
“Your parents were fine with you having girls sleep over? Growing up, Mum never let me have a guy in my room with the door closed, even when I brought boyfriends home from university.”