Ken Follett - Lie down with lions

"All right."

She held Chantal out to him. "Let me go and tell Fara." He took the baby and she went out into the courtyard. Fara was heating water for Chantal's bath. Jane tested the temperature with her elbow and found it just right. "Make bread for two people, please," she said in Dan. Fara's eyes widened, and Jane realized it was shocking for a woman alone to invite a man to supper. To hell with all that, she thought. She picked up the pot of water and carried it back into the house.

Ellis was sitting on the big cushion under the oil lamp, dandling Chantal on his knee, saying a rhyme in a low voice. His big hairy hands encircled her tiny pink body. She was looking up at him, gurgling happily and kicking her fat feet. Jane stopped hi the doorway, transfixed by the scene, and a thought came unbidden into her mind: Ellis should have been Quintal's father.

Is that true? she asked herself as she looked at them. Do I really wish it? Ellis finished the rhyme and looked up at her and smiled a little sheepishly, and she thought: Yes, I really do.

They walked up the mountainside at midnight, Jane leading the way, Ellis following with his big down sleeping bag under his arm. They had bathed Chantal, eaten their meager supper of bread and curds, fed Chantal again, and settled the baby down for the night on the roof, where she was now fast asleep beside Fara, who would protect her with her life. Ellis had wanted to take Jane away from the house where she had been someone else's wife, and Jane had felt the same, so she had said: "I know a place where we can go."

Now she turned off the mountain path and led Ellis across the sloping, stony ground to her secret retreat, the concealed ledge where she had sunbathed naked and oiled her tummy before Chantai was born. She found it easily in the moonlight. She looked down into the village, where the embers of cooking fires glowed in the courtyards and a few lamps still flickered behind glassless windows. She could just about make out the shape of her house. In a few hours, as soon as day began to break, she would be able to see the sleeping forms of Chantal and Fara on the roof. She would be glad: this was the first time she had left Chantal at night.

She turned around. Ellis had completely unzipped the sleeping bag and was spreading it on the ground like a blanket. Jane felt awkward and uncomfortable. The surge of warmth and lust which had overcome her in the house, when she watched him saying a nursery rhyme to her baby, had gone. All her old feelings had returned, momentarily: the urge to touch him, her love of the way he smiled when he felt self-conscious, the need to feel his big hands on her skin, the obsessive wish to see him naked. A few weeks before Chantal was born she had lost her desire for sex, and it had not come back until that moment. But that mood had been dissipated, bit by bit, in the succeeding hours, as they had made clumsy practical arrangements to be alone, for all the world like a pair of teenagers trying to get away from their parents for a petting session.

"Come and sit down," Ellis said.

She sat beside him on the sleeping bag. They both looked down at the darkened village. They were not touching. There was a moment of strained silence. "Nobody else has ever been here," Jane remarked, just for something to say.

"What did you use it for?"

"Oh, I just used to lie in the sun and think about nothing," she said, then she thought Oh, what the hell, and she said: "No, that's not quite true, I used to masturbate."

He laughed, then put his arm around her and hugged her. "I'm glad you still haven't learned to mince your words," he said.

She turned her face to him. He kissed her mouth softly.

He likes me for my faults, she thought: my tactlessness and my quick temper and my cursing, my willfulness and my being opinionated. "You don't want to change me," she said.

"Oh, Jane, I've missed you." He closed his eyes and spoke in a murmur. "Most of the time I didn't even realize that I was missing you." He lay back, pulling her with him, so that she ended up leaning over him. She kissed his face lightly. The awkward feeling was going rapidly. She thought: Last time I kissed him he had no beard. She felt his hands move: he was unbuttoning her shirt. She was not wearing a bra—she did not have one big enough—and her breasts felt very naked. She slipped her hand inside his shirt and touched the long hairs around his nipple. She had almost forgotten what men felt like. For months her life had been full of the soft voices and smooth faces of women and babies: now suddenly she wanted to feel rough skin and hard thighs and bristly cheeks. She twined her fingers in his beard and pushed his mouth open with her tongue. His hands found her swollen breasts, she felt a pang of pleasure—and then she knew what was going to happen and was powerless to stop it, for even as she pulled abruptly away from him, she felt both her nipples spurt warm milk over his hands, and she flushed with shame and said: "Oh, God, I'm sorry, how disgusting, I can't help it—"

He silenced her with a finger over her lips. "It's all right," he said. He caressed her breasts as he spoke, and they became slippery all over. "It's normal. It always happens. It's sexy."

It can't be sexy, she thought, but he shifted his position and brought his face to her chest and started to kiss her breasts and stroke them at the same time, and gradually she relaxed and started to enjoy the sensation. Eventually she felt another sharp pang of pleasure as they leaked again, but this time she did not mind. Ellis said: "Aaah," and the rough surface of his tongue touched her tender nipples, and she thought: If he sucks them I'll come.

It was as if he had read her mind. He closed his lips around one long nipple, pulled it into his mouth and sucked it while holding the other between finger and thumb, squeezing gently and rhythmically. Helplessly Jane yielded to the sensation. And as her breasts squirted milk, one into his hand and the other into his mouth, the feeling was so exquisite that she shuddered uncontrollably and moaned: "Oh God oh God oh God" until it died away and she slumped on top of him.

For a while there was nothing in her mind but what she could feel: his warm breath on her wet breasts, his beard scratching her skin, the cool night air wafting over her heated cheeks, the nylon sleeping bag and the hard ground beneath. After a while his muffled voice said: "I'm suffocating."

She rolled off him. "Are we weird?" she said.

"Yes."

She giggled. "Have you ever done that before?"

He hesitated, then said: "Yes."

"What . . ." She still felt faintly embarrassed. "What does it taste like?"

"Warm and sweet. Like canned milk. Did you come?"

"Didn't you notice?"

"I wasn't sure. It's hard to tell with girls, sometimes."

She kissed him. "I came. A little one, but unmistakable. A boobinal orgasm."

' 'I almost came.''

"Really?" She ran her hand down his body. He had on the thin cotton pajamalike shirt and trousers that Afghans all wore. She could feel his ribs and his hip bones: he had lost the soft underskin fat which all but the thinnest Westerners had. Her hand encountered his prick, standing upright inside the trousers, and she said: "Ahhh," and grasped it. "It feels good," she said.

"Also at this end."

She wanted to give him as much pleasure as he had given her. She sat upright, untied the drawstring of his trousers and took out his prick. Stroking it gently, she bent over and kissed the end. Then the imp of mischief seized her and she said: "How many girls have you had since me?"

"Just keep doing that and I'll tell you."

"Okay." She resumed stroking and kissing. He was silent. "Okay," she said after a minute, "how many?"

"Wait, I'm still counting."

"Bastard!" she said, and bit his prick.