The Last Letter from Your Lover(38)
Author: Jojo Moyes

“Then we should get some air.” He took her hand, and led her through the dancing couples. He could feel her laughing, reaching for the shirt at his back. They reached the comparative privacy of the corridor, where he stifled her laughter with kisses, his hands entwined in her hair, her warm mouth under his lips. She kissed him back with increasing fervor, not hesitating even when they heard footsteps pass. He felt her hands reach under his shirt, and the touch of her fingers was so intensely pleasurable that he briefly lost the power of thought. What to do? What to do? Their kisses grew deeper, more urgent. He knew that if he didn’t take her, he would explode. He broke off, his hands on her face, saw her eyes, heavy with longing. Her flushed skin was his answer.

He looked to his right. Sherrie was still deep in her book, the cloakroom redundant in the sticky September heat. She was blind to them after years of amorous fumblings around her. “Sherrie,” he said, pulling a ten-shilling note from his pocket, “how’d you fancy a tea break?”

She raised an eyebrow, then took the money and slid off her stool. “Ten minutes,” she said baldly. And then Jennifer, giggling, was following him into the cloakroom, breathless as he pulled the dark curtain as far across the little alcove as it would go.

Here the dark was soft and total, the scent of a thousand discarded coats lingering in the air. Wrapped around each other, they stumbled to the end of the coat rail, the wire hangers clashing around their heads like whispering cymbals. He couldn’t see her, but then she was facing him, her back against the wall, her lips on his, with a greater urgency now, murmuring his name.

Some part of him knew, even then, that she would be his undoing. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his hand on her breast, his breath thick in his throat, knowing this would be the only possible brake. “Tell me to stop.” The shake of her head was a mute refusal. “Oh, God,” he murmured. And then they were frantic, her breath coming in short gasps, her leg lifted around his. He slid his hands underneath her dress, palms sliding against the silk and lace of her underwear. He felt her fingers threaded in his hair, one hand reaching for his trousers, and he found he was mildly shocked, as if he had imagined her natural sense of decorum would preclude such an appetite.

Time slowed, the air became a vacuum around them, their breath mingling. Fabrics were pushed aside. Legs became damp, his braced to support her weight. And then—oh, God—he was finally inside her, and just for a moment everything stilled: her breath, movement, his heart. The world, possibly. He felt her open mouth against his, heard her intake of breath. And then they were moving, and he was one thing, could feel only one thing, deaf to the clashing hangers, the muffled music on the other side of the wall, the muted exclamation of someone greeting a friend in the corridor. It was he and Jennifer, moving slowly, then faster, her hold on him tighter, the laughter gone now, his lips on her skin, her breath in his ear. He felt the increasing violence of her movements, felt her disappear into some distant part of herself. He knew, with what remained of his sensibility, that she mustn’t make a sound. And as he heard the cry build at the back of her throat, as her head tipped back, he stopped it with his mouth, absorbing the sound, her pleasure, so surely that it became his own.

Vicariously.

And then they were stumbling, his legs cramping as he lowered her, and they were pressed together, holding each other, he feeling the tears on her cheeks as she shivered, limp in his arms. Afterward he couldn’t recall what he told her at that point. I love you. I love you. Never let me go. You are so beautiful. He remembered wiping the tears from her eyes tenderly, her whispered reassurances, half smiles, her kisses, her kisses, her kisses.

And then, as if at the end of a distant tunnel, they heard Sherrie’s conspicuous cough. Jennifer straightened her clothes, allowed him to smooth her skirt, and he felt the pressure of her hand as she led him the few feet back into the light, the real world, his legs still weak, his breathing not yet regular, already regretting leaving that dark heaven behind.

“Fifteen minutes,” Sherrie said into her paperback, as Jennifer stepped out into the corridor. Her dress was neat, but the flattening of the back of her hair hinted at what had transpired.

“If you say so.” He slipped the girl another note.

Jennifer turned to him, her face still flushed. “My shoe!” she exclaimed, holding up one stockinged foot. She burst out laughing, covered her mouth. He wanted to rejoice at her mischievous expression—he had feared she might be suddenly pensive or regretful.

“I’ll get it,” he said, ducking back in.

“Who says chivalry’s dead?” Sherrie muttered.

He fumbled in the dark for the emerald silk shoe, his free hand lifting to his hair, lest it should be as evidential as hers. He fancied he could smell the musty scent of sex now mingling with the traces of perfume. Oh, but he had never felt anything like that. He closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up the feel of her, the feel of . . .

“Well, hello, Mrs. Stirling!”

He located the shoe under an upturned chair, and heard Jennifer’s voice, a brief murmur of conversation.

As he emerged, a young man had stopped by the cloakroom. A cigarette was wedged in the corner of his mouth, and he had his arm around a dark-haired girl who was clapping enthusiastically in the direction of the music.

“How are you, Reggie?” Jennifer was holding out a hand, which he took briefly.

Anthony saw the young man’s eyes slide toward him. “I’m fine. Mr. Stirling with you?”

She barely missed a beat. “Laurence is away on business. This is Anthony, a friend of ours. He’s very kindly taking me out this evening.”

A hand snaked across. “How do you do?”

Anthony’s smile felt like a grimace.

Reggie stood there, his eyes lifting to Jennifer’s hair, the faint flush on her cheeks, something unpleasantly knowing in his gaze. He nodded toward her feet. “You seem to be . . . missing a shoe.”

“My dancing shoes. I checked them in and got a mixed pair back. Silly of me.” Her voice was cool, seamless.

Anthony held it out. “Found it,” he said. “I’ve put your outdoor shoes back under the coat.” Sherrie sat motionless beside him, her face buried in her book.

Reggie smirked, clearly enjoying the hiatus he had caused. Anthony wondered briefly whether he was waiting to be offered a drink or asked to join them, but he was damned if he’d do either.

Thankfully, Reggie’s female companion tugged at his arm. “Come on, Reggie. Look, Mel’s over there.”