Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field put his lips to her skin. He sank to his knees, feeling the curve of the breast with his hand, her nipple hard but supple as he took it gently into his mouth.

She breathed in again, arching her back. Her fingers massaged his scalp and pressed him closer.

Natasha pushed him lower, his lips brushing her ribs and then her smooth, flat stomach, her hands gripping him harder as his own ran up her thighs and over her hips. She guided him firmly, until his lips touched the soft hairs between her legs.

He kissed her harder and she leaned back, lowering her body, holding the frame behind her with one hand and his head with the other.

Each movement of his tongue within her was matched by the swaying of her hips, her breathing punctuated by almost inaudible gasps. Her fingers ran slowly through his hair, before again gripping his skull.

And then she was pushing him back and tearing at his clothes, pulling off his jacket and fumbling at the buttons of his shirt as he struggled to remove his trousers. She gave up and tore his shirt off as he tumbled onto the bed and she kissed him again, her lips on his cheek and his neck, his shoulder and the center of his chest, her warm, soft body flattened against him.

Natasha was slower now, more gentle, her lips on his, her long fingers caressing his face and neck and chest and arms.

She slipped off him, lay back, taking his right hand and inviting him to raise himself above her. She parted her legs, light from the racetrack illuminating the length of her, from the hair that spilled onto the white sheet beneath them to the round curve of her breasts to the darkness at the base of her belly. She brought him gently forward, guiding him, never taking her eyes from his as she let him slip silently inside her.

They were slow. Natasha shut her eyes, her arms above her head, her face tipped to the side, her mouth parted. She raised her legs and brushed them against his hips before opening her eyes and looking at him again. She touched his face.

She hardened her grip on his hips, clasped her legs behind him, then sat up, kissing him, passionately, on the mouth, then the cheek, breathing into his ear. His hand sought the contours of her ribs and her breast as they tumbled across the bed, parting for a moment, before she raised a leg to his waist and slipped him back inside her. She was laughing now, smiling at him, teasing him with her lips. “Richard Field,” she said quietly, testing the sound of his name. She laughed again.

She rolled on top of him. He cupped the curve of her buttocks with his palms as she pressed down on him, her breathing low and rhythmic.

Natasha slipped off him, gliding onto his stomach. She pressed herself against his chest, then lay back and pulled him gently above her again, filling herself with him once more.

They lay entwined together in silence, their bodies covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Her head was in the crook of his neck, a hand on his chest, her face by his ear, so that he could listen to her breathing.

The rain still hammered against the window.

“It is so comforting, the rain,” she said.

Field did not answer. Her hand caressed his chest and then found his, her fingers playing with his own. She hugged him, her leg over his waist and groin.

“When I was a child,” she said, “we used to lie in bed and listen to the rain, all warm and safe.”

“With your mother?”

“My sister.” She lifted her head so that she could look at him. “Did you like to listen to the rain, Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have someone to listen with?”

“No.”

“You have no sister, or brother?”

“I have a sister.”

“What is her name?”

“Edith.”

“You are not close?”

Field stared at the ceiling. “I think we were close.”

Natasha hugged him again. She ran her hand through his hair, ruffled it. “Now you are always smiling!” She laughed.

“So are you.”

She held his hand and they lay still. Natasha examined his fingers, running her own along each and then placing her hand over his. “How only think so?” she asked.

“Think so what?”

“How do you only think you were close to your sister?”

Field stared at the ceiling. He tried to pick out mosquitoes in the gloom but could not see any. Her nets worked. “It was a different life. It’s confused. Everything back home is confused.” Field tried to recall home clearly, but it was hard to think about anything while looking at her. She nodded, to encourage him. “It’s almost as though I have only been alive since I’ve been here and everything that went before is…” He stopped. “Did your family come?”

She put a finger to his lips and rolled off the bed, her long hair hanging down her back as she moved toward the bathroom.

Natasha returned, unashamedly naked, and knelt on the end of the bed.

She slipped from her knees onto her hip, arching her back so that her hair hung back over his toes.

Field leaned forward and touched the flesh above her knee.

Natasha pushed him gently back onto the pillow, her lips warm, the smell of her still more intense, her nipples against his chest, the skin of her neck soft, her legs across his.

The urgency had gone, her touch now more deeply satisfying. She ran her fingers across his chin and through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. Her tongue ran around his lips and then slipped between them, finding his own and withdrawing.

She smiled and leaned back onto her left leg, moving the other up beside his face. As he touched her ankle and ran his hand up her knee and then along her thigh, he watched her put the fingers of her right hand in her mouth.

She reached down between Field’s legs, making a ring of her thumb and finger. She bent down to kiss him.

Field’s muscles were tense, his arms straining.

She released him, straddling his waist, taking his hand and guiding it. Her breathing quickened as she pressed down onto him, and he groaned as he slid into her once more.

Natasha threw herself back, her breasts high in the half-light, her legs pressing against his thighs, her hands resting on his stomach. She pushed down harder, raising herself so that she was teasing the end of him, before forcing herself back down.

She closed her eyes and, just for a moment, unease at the contrast between her expertise and his inexperience crept into the corner of Field’s mind, before she leaned forward once more, her hair tumbling into his face, her mouth warm, and he lost himself in the curve of her thighs.

Afterward, they lay in almost exactly the same position, Natasha’s heart hammering against his chest.

Field listened to it, and his own, slowing.

“Have you always been a fighter, Richard?” she said, looking at him, resting on her elbow. “I think somebody once hurt you very badly.”

He frowned.

“So determined and yet so vulnerable.” Natasha stood and shook her head. “I can imagine you as a little boy.” Without waiting for him to answer, she walked to the bathroom, her hands on her slim hips.

He listened as she ran the tap and brushed her teeth and then turned on the shower.

“Tu arrives?” she asked.

Field stood and walked into the bathroom. She was half-visible through a glass screen.

He opened the door of the shower. She put her arms around his middle and drew him in, her body slippery and cool.

Natasha looked younger with wet, straggled hair across her face, her nipples hardened by the water. She was smiling at him, as if she were enjoying a private joke.

She pushed him gently away and stepped out of the stream of water. She lathered the soap in her hands and began to wash him. She started with his neck, then worked under his arms, before pushing him back so that she could wash his chest and stomach.