Page 52 of A Change of Location
Martin lay stretched out beside her, his right arm curved over his head, his hair sticking out in all directions. The sheet covered the lower portion of the body that had been fused to hers last night, and his bare chest was exposed. On several occasions, his jogging clothes had revealed most of his physique. Last night, she’d become familiar with the rest. His skin felt smooth under her fingers, his arms were firmly muscled, and she now knew the places he most liked to be stroked.
By opening herself to Martin in every possible way, she’d cast aside her protective shield of reserve. After so many weeks as the recipient of his generosity, she was a giver. Because he’d admitted his ulterior motive for twice luring her to Somerset, she felt confident that when he woke, he wouldn’t behave as though nothing meaningful had happened. She sank back against her pillow and stared up at the floral fabric canopy overhead, trying not to overthink. But she couldn’t suppress the persistent fluttering of delight in the region below her breasts and above her navel.
Martin turned towards her, leaning on one elbow. “What a perfect start to the day.” He stroked her shoulder, his hand sliding along her arm. He traced her fingers with his. “Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to be seen.”
“Let’s have breakfast on the terrace. When I was a boy, and meals were served there, the adults permitted me to join them. The dining room was off limits, until I was old enough to not drop my cutlery or make some sort of mess.”
“Where did you eat?”
“In the kitchen. Which wasn’t nearly as pleasant as it is now.”
“Were you aware that the estate would eventually be yours?”
“Not then. Or for years and years. There was the chance—admittedly remote—that Uncle Rufus might marry a title-seeking female willing to accept his sexuality and produce a son. He had his heart set on Dad inheriting. They were devoted to each other, as kids of divorcees can be, despite having so little in common. Our Stanwell weekends were infrequent, so they loom large in my memory.”
“I vividly recall visiting my grandparents in Portishead, when I was little. And during the study year I spent in Bristol.”
“Imagine if we’d met as teenagers. No chance I could’ve got you into bed.”
“How do you know?”
“I was a prat.”
“I was a film nerd.”
“My favorite type.” His hands were busy—stroking, squeezing. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Born on?”
“December sixth. You?”
“I turned thirty in April, the day you walked into Wincott & Sons. Best birthday present ever.”
“That’s amazing.” She pressed against him, reveling in the contact with his nakedness. Her lips traced the contours of his face—cheekbones, jaw, chin.
His arms encircled her waist, his torso straining against her. In the night hours they had learned much. He was aware of exactly how long to tease, and where a caress would evoke the most intense response. Despite his readiness he held back, waiting for her to sheathe his arousal with the condom and draw him inside. She wouldn’t have believed such pleasure existed, if she hadn’t already experienced it. Her entire body was overwhelmed, not just by sensation, but also by emotion.
After Martin gathered up his clothes and left the room, she took a speedy shower. She pointed the blow dryer at her hair, fluffing the curls, then applied just enough foundation to cover the faint abrasions his chin stubble had left along her jawline. Buoyed by adrenalin and happiness, she also required a caffeine infusion and sustenance.
She found Martin in the kitchen. He was brewing the coffee and had poured juice and toasted slices of Jan’s whole meal bread. Ariel and Jewel were watchful, alert to each item that emerged from refrigerator and cupboard.
“Scavengers,” he accused them.
Hannah cut up fresh strawberries and placed them in bowls, adding a generous dollop of crème fraiche.
He repeated his question about how they should spend the day. “You haven’t seen King Alfred’s Tower.”
“You’re related to him, too?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” He chewed his toast, and after swallowing, explained, “It’s a fairly easy climb up to Cadbury Castle. Not a royal residence, but an Iron Age hillfort to which King Arthur’s name was later appended without any basis whatsoever. We might take a picnic lunch. Or we could drive over to Montacute House. Same age and period as Stanwell, roughly.”
“I’m not a tourist,” she protested.
“If I don’t keep you occupied and entertained, you’ll buy an airplane ticket.”
