was still the very handsome man she had married. She reached out to him.
‘So what kind of sex have you got in mind, signora?’ His hands were undoing the buttons of her blouse.
‘For the book or for now?’ She undid his belt and reached for his zip.
‘Why not both?’ He stripped the blouse off her. Her nipples were pressing hard against the white lace of her bra.
‘It’s really supposed to be kinky sex for the book. We haven’t done a lot of that.’ She stretched an arm around his neck and pulled his face down so she could kiss him.
‘I’m not averse to a bit of kinky.’
She felt his hands on her body. ‘How kinky is kinky?’ She was purring now.
‘How about this?’ His free hand slapped her hard on the buttocks, twice.
‘Ouch.’ She felt the sharp impact. It snapped her out of her delicious sense of dreamy pleasure. Annoyed, she pulled herself away from him, but he tightened his grip, holding her to him. He swung his hand again and again, the pain increasing each time. After six blows he stopped, and released his hold on her. She stumbled and would have fallen. He took her hand and sat her down on the sofa. Pushing her backwards, he stood up, tore off his remaining clothes, then stepped towards her. She clenched her teeth to stop herself from screaming with pleasure. This was definitely not the time to wake the kids.
He thrust at her powerfully, pushing her back against the cushions until she could hold on no longer. Reaching up, she caught his chest hair in her fingers. She tugged him down towards her until her mouth reached his. Spearing him with her tongue, she climaxed more violently than she had for months, years, maybe ever.
Seconds later she felt him shudder. Her hands slid round to his buttocks, gripping him firmly, his muscles tensing against her fingers. She held him as he climaxed in his turn. They remained like that for some minutes. Then, slowly, he leant forward and pressed a soft kiss onto her lips. He slumped down onto the sofa beside her, one hand cupping her breast.
‘Wow.’ She could barely speak.
‘Wow, indeed.’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
They lay together for quite some time, before she roused herself, sat up and took stock. Her neck was aching from the pressure against the back of the sofa. Her nipples were stinging, and her buttocks hurt. But it didn’t matter one jot. What they had just experienced had been amazing.
‘Did I hurt you?’ He sounded subdued, apologetic even. She looked over at him, flopped on his back, still bathed in sweat. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable.
‘Of course you did. I feel as if I’ve just been run over.’ Seeing the concern on his face, she slid across towards him. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
He hugged her to him.
‘Well, I think that maybe answers the “encounter” question. Now all you need is a historic period of time and a place.’
She returned her mind to the question in hand. She felt sure that if she could reproduce in words what had just happened between them, she would be chosen to write the book. But what about the where and when?
Any further discussion of the writing project was interrupted by a plaintive little voice from the hall.
‘Mummy, Ben’s taken Mr Ted and he won’t give him back.’ There was a muffled sniff. ‘And the lounge door won’t open. Mummy, are you there?’
Luca caught her eye as she dropped onto her knees and started to collect her clothes from the floor. He gave her a broad wink.
‘It’s all right, Milly. Mummy’s coming right out.’
Chapter Seven
‘Post! There’s a big envelope for a Ms Penelope Grainger. It doesn’t look like a bill.’
It was Scott. The clock on her desk said almost four o’clock. He must have ducked out of his three o’clock lecture. She folded the corner of page 342 of Germinal and clicked off the reading lamp. She had been at it for a good four hours. No wonder she was feeling a bit stiff. And hungry. She stepped over the laundry basket and made her way out onto the landing.
‘You making tea, Pen?’ Jamie’s hearing was phenomenal. He had heard the creaky top step even with headphones on.
‘I am now. I’ll bring one up.’
‘You’ll make somebody a wonderful wife one day.’
‘Bugger off, Jamie.’
She picked up her letters at the bottom of the staircase. Scott had got as far as shouting about them but he hadn’t avoided them with his wet feet. Nottingham, like the rest of the UK, was enjoying its longest spell of uninterrupted rain for a century. Everywhere was soaked. The weekly letter from her mother looked decidedly soggy. Under it was a big white envelope. She turned it over in her hands. Her name and address had been handwritten. She took it into the kitchen to open it. Scott was in there, drying out.
‘Hi, Pen. Kettle’s just boiled. Want tea?’
‘Thanks, Scotty, that’ll be great. And make one for the doctor, will you?’
She took the envelope over to the window. The wind had got up. The rain was being blown against the glass. Although it was only mid-afternoon it would be dark before long. She shivered and stamped her feet to restore some circulation. With all the increases in energy costs, they were trying to economise on heating. Even with tights under her jeans and two jumpers, she was still cold.
‘How was it today, Scott? I see you skived off your three o’clock. Who was that? Professor Tate?’
‘The very same. I couldn’t face another dose of Professor Twat murdering contract and tort. Some people can be boring some of the time. Some can be boring most of the time, but only Twatters can be boring all the bloody time.’ He shared one tea bag between the three cups. After squeezing the very life out of it he dropped it in the bin. He passed the darkest-looking infusion across to her. She gave him a smile.
‘Jamie’s is looking a bit weak.’
‘Next time he can come down and make it himself. I’ll take it up to him.’ As he squeezed past, she smelt his deodorant. Not an unpleasant smell and very familiar. After two years sharing the house with the boys, she would know them both with her eyes closed. She found a knife and slit the envelope open. She took out the letter and read it. She was just starting on the second sheet when Scott came back down.
‘Good news?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. You remember I told you I had applied for a writing job? Well, I’ve been shortlisted.’
‘Well done, Pen. Mind you, with a dissertation to finish, you aren’t going to have too much free time, are you?’
The same thought had occurred to her. Still, the dissertation was pretty much written, apart from the last chapter and all the footnotes. If she got the job she would manage somehow. She read to the bottom of the page and sat back, deep in thought.
