This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Starter Seeds”
It was a hot summer night and I was at a party in a large, dark garden somewhere, nowhere in particular. The hosts might have called it London, only because they didn’t know what else to call it. But it wasn’t London. The garden was too big.
It was later summer, everything sighing and dying, the most lethargic and dreamy time of year. BMWs and Jags snoozed and purred on the gravel drive round the front, and round the back, light spilled out from the open windows and across the lawn and caught our champagne glasses as we stood around in the darkness, the air filled with murmurous insect voices. I couldn’t even be bothered to drink much, and I never did like champagne. Filled you up with gas, made you feel like you were about to take off. I was very bored.
Then I saw a girl stepping out of the french windows and coming across the lawn. She was striking rather than pretty, in red heels and a figure-hugging long red dress and very white arms and shoulders and long red hair. I hate that look. And despite the loud, loud color signals, she walked quite shyly, head down. It was obvious I had to go and talk to her.
“You don’t have a drink.”
“My boyfriend’s just getting me one,” she said, not even registering me, nodding back inside. Perfect.
She relented a little. “A cocktail of some sort, so he says.”
“Ah, so – is he a cocktail waiter by profession?”
She gave me a look and something inside me whimpered. I quite enjoyed it really. “No,” she said, very slowly. “He works in LA. Title credits.”
I was beginning to like her. “What, you mean the lettering? How to spell Nicole Kidman and things?”
She ignored that one entirely, looked away, and lit a cigarette. I was really beginning to like her. Then she looked back. “And if you dare to say I remind you of Nicole Kidman I’ll put my heel through your foot.”
“As if,” I said. “There’s nothing sexy about Nicole Kidman.” No response. “So he’s out there a lot, is he? In LA? Mixing his cocktails? Leaving you all alone?”
She looked very, very bored. I felt quite perky now. We stood a while longer in companionably mutual dislike, plus something else. Finally she muttered “fuck” and dropped her cigarette and went back inside. She came back with a glass in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.
“Seems he’s too busy,” she said. And then, ah! Like a little beam of light between a woman’s thighs, she looked up and smiled. Admittedly it was a smile made up about half and half of unhappiness and malevolence. But it would have to do.
There weren’t many guests left outside, and we were at the end of the garden in deep gloom, when the music changed. “When a Man Loves a Woman”, of all things. So I slipped my right arm round her waist and laid my left hand on her cool white shoulder and pulled her as close to me as I dared and we started swaying. She didn’t resist. Although the way she continued to swig from the bottle while we danced seemed to me kind of detached. I felt myself hardening already and pressed myself closer. She ignored it, continued to swig from the bottle.
Over her shoulder, the other guests all looked like they were in black. And as if they were frozen, not moving, unable to see us back here. I felt suddenly hot. Something was wrong, or very, very right. Something was out of control, anyhow. I leaned down and kissed her. She kissed me back. We were like figures in a painting coming mysteriously to life and beginning to move, while everyone else was still and silent, dressed in black. And so cold.
But her small waist was warm under my hands; hot, even. We kissed and revolved anti-clockwise and nobody saw us, noticed us. We would have been more subtle, teasing, educated in our kisses, if we had pulled back, taken breath, then kissed some more. But we couldn’t do that, couldn’t pull apart, remained caught; there was only one kiss between us and we couldn’t escape.
The first I knew of it, the pressure on the soles of my feet had gone. Like your health, it is not something you notice till it goes. There was no pressure there, just loose, bewildered blood. Her feet too were dangling free in the air, and kicked lightly against mine. We were six inches off the grass, a foot, two feet and rising. We were also drifting dangerously towards the house.
“Um . . .” she said, cautious, English. “Is this . . .?”
I was cool about it. “Gravity seems to have failed us.” I didn’t feel cool about it all. This was supposed to be a hollow seduction, nothing more. Not this, not now. Not this serious. I kissed her some more. She pulled back again.