Belinda Missen - Lessons in Love

‘Or maybe she understands that a woman in her thirties is more than capable of getting home safely.’ I pointed in the general direction of home. ‘It’s six hundred metres, at the most,’ I said, before grumbling, ‘maybe a kilometre.’

‘It may surprise you, but the places you think are safe are not always so, and a beautiful woman walking home slightly tipsy may very well become a target.’

I glared at him. I didn’t know whether to feel patronised or touched by the gesture. Lady Justice was having a hard time weighing up her options, too. I think she was about to shake her Magic 8 Ball.

Reply hazy, try again.

‘So, after the day we’ve both had, if my worry makes me conceited, so be it. Conversely, I have tried no less than six times to talk to you tonight and, on each occasion, you’ve either turned away, or simply ignored me.’

‘You’ve been keeping count?’ I shrieked.

‘So, who’s conceited now?’ Marcus folded his arms across his chest and drummed his fingers. He really was quite attractive. And tall. And pretty.

‘Men can get attacked, too, you know,’ I sputtered. ‘And I’ve been here for years. I know the ways.’

‘So, walk me home instead.’

‘Why? You lost your way?’ I laughed, snapping my fingers in his face. ‘Hold on … did you call me beautiful?’

‘I believe I did, yes.’

‘Right, then,’ I said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

‘You know, I might even kiss you if you’d stop arguing with me for three minutes.’

‘I do not argue with you,’ I said. ‘Anyway, three minutes is quick.’

‘Exhibit A.’ He waved a hand towards me. ‘I can’t even—’

‘So, do it.’ I almost wanted to backtrack immediately. Almost.

‘What?’

‘Do it,’ I said. ‘You’re so sure, do it.’

Marcus shook his fists towards the sky and, with one fell swoop, stepped forward, took my face in his hands, and kissed me. As his thumbs drew against my cheekbones, all I could think was, Oh my God, oh my bloody God! We were the last two people to succeed at getting along with each other this week, so why were we chasing this so far up the hill I was about to fetch a pail of water?

And why the hell did it feel so unbearably good? Heat bloomed in my chest, sending any and all common sense fluttering towards the sun on a trajectory last seen by Icarus. Let’s not forget how well that all ended.

With fingers drawn through my hair, and a tug so gentle it barely registered, my ponytail unravelled and tangled through his fingers.

He drew breath. ‘Not bad for someone who’s always so wound up.’

‘And you’re so stuck up.’ I kissed him again. This time, I fumbled with the front of his shirt, the thick expensive fabric, the tiny translucent buttons that felt colder than the night air, and the soft silk of this tie. My fingers drew a line up his chest, past his collar, and came to rest at the nape of his neck.

‘You wanna just come home with me instead?’ he mumbled against my mouth.

‘Why, so you can save me from the dragons?’

‘Something like that.’

* * *

The Great Penis Drought ended exactly thirty-seven minutes ago.

‘Should we perhaps define this?’ I asked.

Marcus shifted his weight, rolling over to face me. His breath came in tiny puffs that tickled my cheeks. For a moment, I simply enjoyed looking at him, at the self-satisfied smile that barely registered, at the sleepy eyes, and the arms he folded across his chest. A lock of dark hair flopped down into his eyes. I pushed it back and waited.

‘Before I go home and we’re both still scratching our heads?’ I continued in the face of his silence.

There was no dictionary definition for what had just happened. All right, so maybe there was, and I’m sure the thesaurus would have something to say, too. Sex. Sex had just happened. Very sexy sex. I’d have jumped and run for the bathroom if it weren’t for the fact there was a distinct Haven’t Seen Use in a While pain tickling my hamstrings.

‘I suppose we probably should,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.

‘What do you want to call it?’ I asked.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he said.

I tucked hair behind my ear and curled further into the pillow. ‘Do you want a relationship from this? Is that what this is?’

‘How about we don’t call it anything?’ He propped himself up on an elbow. ‘Just … I don’t know right now. Whatever.’

Whatever? What kind of word is that to use in a situation like this? I detested it. Even my woozy brain, which was plummeting to Sober Land (Icarus, remember?), knew that was bad news. It was the word of choice whenever Dean wanted to dismiss my excitement or devalue me in front of his friends. The worst part about it? It worked every single time.

A beloved author popped in to the library for a quick visit? Whatever .

Great day at work today! Whatever .

I’m moving out. Whatever .

Apparently, I’d just slept with Coastal Edition Dean and, as much physical joy as his naked body may have brought, none of it was worth going through that kind of humiliation again.

I was so, so angry at myself.

‘I’m going to have a shower.’ Marcus rolled out of bed and strolled across the bedroom, everything on display, as if being intimate with each other were something we did regularly and not just at the end of a drunken night. His body was every inch the footballer, taut muscles, definition, and legs for miles.

‘Okay,’ I whispered, pulling the duvet up around my chin.

‘You all right?’ The corner of his mouth drew up into a smirk. ‘You don’t want to join me?’

I shook my head and, trying to look coolly casual, picked a clump of mascara from my eyelashes. ‘No, thank you.’

I watched him disappear behind a glass-doored en suite. Shifting, I tried to reconcile his words with a body whose muscles I hadn’t used in far too long, and lady parts that were feeling the aftereffects of a decent seeing to. Finally.

I sat up and took in my surroundings, a room I’d been too preoccupied to look at earlier.

A low-lit bedside lamp gave the room some decent ambiance at least, hiding all the lumps and bumps, and anything else nobody wanted to see. A box of condoms, which had been torn at in desperation, was doing its best impression of an origami flower on the bedside table, and my clothes were strewn from one end of the room to the other, though I was sure my dress was still on the bannister somewhere.

Mixed feelings were something I’d experienced a lot lately, but this was taking the cake and using a blowtorch to light the candles. Earlier, I was oozing confidence and full of those loose-limbed, sated, post-orgasmic feelings. Now, I was panicked. I was a ‘whatever’ again, and reality was coming home to roost. My head was set to wash, and my stomach was on tumble-dry. This was the dumbest idea in the history of my ideas. I had to work with this man. I had to look him in the eye and act as if we hadn’t just had the most incredible toe-curling, back-arching, name-screaming, hair-pulling sex ever.

And he wanted to define it as ‘whatever’.

I was a complete goose.

With the safety of Marcus in the shower, I ran. I threw back the sheets, shimmied back into my underwear, slipped on my shoes, and raced down the stairs for my dress. My handbag and coat had been discarded by the front door and, just as the water upstairs stopped running, the front door closed with a gentle click and I disappeared into the night.

Part of me expected Marcus to come racing out his front door, six-pack on display and towel wrapped around his waist, that finely carved V-shape shown off perfectly. The other part hoped like hell I made it home before he realised what had happened.