I know it's him immediately. Just The Two of Us shattering the pleasurable silence. Could it be anyone else? It's so fucking cliched I almost want to laugh. But it's not funny. Nothing about this is funny.

Then I try and think what our ringtone would be.

She jerks back from me, whipping her head round to where her phone's ringing on the small table by the couch. My body seems to sag even though I'm already lying down.

She turns back to me, clearly debating something. Whether to answer it I presume. Of course, I want her to ignore it. No, actually, I need her to ignore it. It means something if she ignores it. 

Means even more if she leaves me to go to him.

"I have to get that. It's... I have to, " she explains, badly. I feel my fists curl and I have to bite my tongue so I don't say something I know I'll regret. A first I'm sure. "I won't be long," she smiles apologetically as she stands up.

As she steps over me, I cover my eyes with my hand and take a few deep breaths. With a growl of frustration, I tuck myself back into my jeans and zip them up just as I hear her slide open the large glass door to the patio. She steps outside and pulls it closed behind her. I can't decide if I'm pissed off she doesn't want to talk to him in front of me or not. Or if I'm grateful. Do I really want to sit here and listen to her be his wife? The dinner party had been bad enough. But now, here? Fuck no.

But Christ, the need to know what she's saying is almost suffocating. I can't think about it. I'm likely to smash something if I give it any considerable thought.

Was it that she loved him? Missed him? Wished he was here?  Fucking stop it.

I turn my head back to stare out at her, but since her back's turned all I can see is her dancing slightly on her feet, rubbing her arms to warm herself up. She must be fucking freezing out there. She's naked except for my T-shirt. With a tired groan, I haul my body up from the floor and cross over to turn up the fire before grabbing the furry white blanket she was wearing earlier.

As I near the door, I hesitate slightly, wondering whether to knock on the glass or not, but in the end, I decide against it. I slide the door open as quietly as I can but she still whips around, panicked, before her expression changes and she looks strangely calm.

".... a nice bath and an early night and try and get started first thing," she tells him, eyes locked on mine. I step outside and move behind her to wrap the blanket around her shoulders. "Freestanding. And hot tub too," she says. I can hear the faint crackle of his cunt voice from this distance though words are indecipherable. The nasal up-his-own-arse tone is still audible.

I come around to the front and adjust the blanket so she can hold it against her body with her free hand.  She looks up at me as I run my hands over her shoulders and I feel a sudden desperate competitiveness overtake me. I've never been a particularly competitive person. Right now I wanted to win her attention. Right now I want her eyes and her mind on me and I want to disappear him completely. 

As she stares up at me with a strange, lost look on her face, I wonder what she'd do if I kissed her right now. In the end, my cowardice takes over and I give her an awkward smile before stepping back inside the house and closing the door behind me.

To take my mind off what she might be saying, I decide to tidy away the leftovers, empty plates, and cushions from the living room floor. Something tells me we won't be finishing off where we left it when she comes back in. It takes me a few tries of randomly opening cupboard doors until I find the dishwasher, then I load and stack it neatly while trying to not to count the minutes she's been out there. About ten I'm thinking.

I'm gulping my wine and singing quietly to myself when I hear the door slide open and close again, the sound of her bare feet padding across the hardwood floor. I feel her eyes on me from behind for what seems like a long time before she speaks.

"You're very domesticated. I'm impressed," she says.

I don't turn around straight away, instead, I take a minute to consider my tone and my words as I finish the rest of my wine. Then I turn to face her. She's leaning forward on the kitchen worktop, the blanket gone from her shoulders, as she sips at her own half-empty glass. Her gaze is soft but a little tense as she smiles at me.

"Not really. I just find loading the dishwasher a good substitute for a blow job." My tone is casual but she still flinches from it.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't be. You had more important things to attend to, I get it," I shrug.

"I had to get his call, Aidan."

"Oh, I know you did, Eloise." I lift the bottle to refill my glass, suddenly feeling the need to get pissed, suddenly feeling like I could deal with all of this far easier if I was pissed. But then, I deal with most things far easier when I'm pissed.

She comes around into the kitchen and walks toward me. She looks confused and a little hurt. How is that fair? How is she the injured party here?

"Then why are you making me feel guilty about it?" she asks.

"Am I? Do you feel guilty about it?"

"No."

I lift my glass to my mouth and take a generous sip. "And what about when we're fucking? Do you feel guilty then?"

She thinks about this a little longer but not much. "No," she says again.

Something weird happens in my chest at her admission. Relief. Curiosity. It does fuck all to diminish my anger though, which seems to have come from nowhere and snowballed.

"Tell him you missed him then?" I ask as I take another sip. "That you wished he was here?"

Her eyes turning cold and hard instantly. "Stop it, Aidan."

"Stop what?" I continue drinking as she glares at me.

She lets out a deep breath. "You act like a bloody child sometimes do you know that?"

I say nothing and then her face softens again, her gorgeous blue eyes lightening again. From where I'm standing I can see the outline of her perfect body through the soft thin fabric of my T-shirt. She looks so small in it. I always think that when I see her in my clothes. She looks so small and so delicate, like a fucking doll. 

Suddenly I've the notion to bend her over the dining table behind her and fuck her harder than she's ever been fucked in her life.

"I'm here with you aren't I?" she says, her voice soft, pleading. "I asked you to come here with me because I wanted to be with you."

"Yeah, and now I'm wondering why. Was it because he was out of town for a few days and you needed someone to carry your bags?" My tone is way too harsh, yet through the fog of wine and anger, it feels justified. 

She had to know how this felt for me. Standing on the sidelines watching her play the happy loving wife with him. Watching her pretend she wasn't with me. She has to know. I had to tell her.

"Oh, for Christ sake grow up, Aidan," she snaps before turning on her heel and stalking out of the kitchen. "Why don't you do us both a favour and sleep down here tonight?" She shouts over her shoulder as she storms up the large wooden stairs.

The view I get as she goes is painful. Perfect. Lithe, pale legs leading up to her perfect naked arse. I have to bite down on my cheek to stop from growling in frustration. I consider shouting something after her but I have fuck all to throw back at her.  Plus, I'm still reeling slightly from her words. Grow up? Grow up? Yeah, I should get right on that.

I scrape a hand over my face and let out a long tired breath. Then I lift the half-empty bottle of Ted's finest Italian red and carry it with me out onto the patio. The moon is so bright that I don't need a light on to see my way to the rocking chair or to refill my glass, emptying the rest of the bottle. I'd already decided that this red isn't going to give me a hangover, but since I'd necked most of this second bottle by myself I'm definitely tempting fate.

My head is eerily quiet; wide-open darkness stretching for miles. Until all of a sudden, it isn't quiet. Everything seems to come rushing in at once like a dam's just burst inside it. How is it that she can't see my fucking point here? How is it that she can't see how answering the phone was her choosing him over me when it came right down to it. Instantly too. She hadn't even had to think about it. He'd called and she'd run. And when it came down to it, she would always choose him. How else did she think I was going to react exactly?

I'm not entirely sure what causes the tide to turn in my head, but it happens almost the next instant, the realisation loud and clear.

She hadn't chosen yet. Course there would be little battles for her attention and her thoughts that I might lose, but there would come a point when she would have to pick a winner. She'd have to choose between us for the last time. She'd already chosen me once. Yesterday when she'd spent the day in my bed. She'd chosen me over him then because she wanted me more than him. More than her marriage.

Am I actually sitting outside feeling sorry for myself because she took a single fucking phone call? Of course, she'd had to take the call. Because at this point in time he was still her husband. She hadn't promised me a fucking thing. She hadn't once alluded to me that she might leave him, or that this thing between us was anything more than sex. Startling too is the realisation that she's right, I am behaving like a fucking child. And since these days with her here were a chance for me to show her why she should choose me when the time came, I needed to act like a fucking man. The kind of man she might be able to imagine herself with. The kind of man she might leave her husband for.

The wooden stairs are sturdy but they still give a creak as I take them two at a time. I pass a few stylishly decorated bedrooms as I head along to the master she had pointed at earlier from the couch. The room is large, with wooden shuttered windows and a huge balcony looking out onto the lake on one side opposite the bed. The bedside lamps are on giving it a warm, cosy, glow and the large oak four-poster looks solid yet comfortable.

The door to the en-suite is closed but not all the way, and as I get closer I hear the sound of water being splashed. I knock softly before pushing open the door into a large bathroom which is lit only by a low light over the mirror and a few candles. She's lying back in a large roll-top bath, her head resting on a makeshift pillow in the form of a towel. Her hair is knotted high on top of her head and her cheeks are red, as the steam lifts off from the bath around her body.

She turns her head and gives me a long indecipherable look and sits up, lifting her wine glass and drinking deeply. She keeps her eyes on mine as she savours the taste. I offer her a small reserved smile before crossing the room and taking a seat on the closed toilet lid.

We stare at each other for a long time, a hot tense silence that isn't nearly as uncomfortable as I'd feared. "Need a hand washing your hair?" I ask finally.

She doesn't answer right away, her eyes continuing to drink me in, making me feel guilty and stupid and very childish. She sets her glass down on the ledge next to her and slides deeper into the water, turning her head away from me and back to dip it under the water. The absence of her eyes makes me feel useless and desperate.

"Is that your attempt at an apology?" She says as she sits up. Her tone is surprisingly soft. Softer than I deserve.

"If you want," I offer. She rolls her eyes and stretches out her legs, touching her foot against the lower end of the large metal bath. Her toes are small and painted a dark red colour and it occurs to me then that I haven't had them in my mouth yet. Why not? I want them in my mouth. I draw my eyes back to her face. "Ok, I acted like a prick. I'm sorry." She raises an eyebrow. "But can you blame me? His timing is a fucking joke," I say, the corners of my mouth curling slightly.

She tries hard to hold back a smile, casting her eyes down downwards as she shakes her head. She's pale and pink and I can just see the tips of her nipples floating beneath the water. I run a hand over my mouth as she lets out a breath.

"It felt like it was about a lot more than his timing, Aidan." She gives me a serious look.

I look down at my hands and nod, guiltily. Course it fucking was. She knows it too. "Well, that was the main sticking point."

"I was supposed to call him when I arrived. I didn't do that. So if I hadn't answered that call he'd have worried, then he'd likely have gotten on a plane and come straight here. He didn't want me to come on my own in the first place," she explains.

I nod again. I wouldn't have let her come on her own either. "Well, there are plenty of bedrooms. He could have taken his pick. Long as he knows the space next to you is taken."

"He might have had something to say about that."

"What? So you don't think it would turn him on to watch you with me?" I pretend to look confused.

"Oh I don't know, would it turn you on watching me with him?" She counters.

My fists curl and my spine turns to steel. Watching her sit next to him at that dinner party two nights ago had been fucking torture. Watching him wrap his fingers around hers and stroke the skin of her back as he came off looking like husband of the fucking year. She astounds me every day.

I mean I'd respected him for having no qualms about saying that in a room full of people - I still wanted to punch him in the smug prick face - but I'd respected him for that. He'd almost looked like the perfect husband on Friday night. Not the cheating, arrogant prick I know him to be.

"No, it wouldn't," I say finally.

"Well I doubt Oliver would enjoy it either," she says lifting her wine again. I say nothing else as she drinks. I don't want to fucking talk about him anymore.

I draw my eyes down her body and try and ignore the urgent throbbing between my legs. My unused hard-on had faded a little as I sat outside feeling sorry for myself but it appeared to be back with a vengeance.

Neither of us speaks for what seems like hours, while I sit here and try and work out if she's forgiven me yet, or if she still wants me to sleep downstairs.

"Well, are you getting in or not?" she asks suddenly. 

I blink in surprise before I stand up, unbutton my jeans, and step out of them. The look on her face as she glances at my body is desire and nothing else and it softens and heats up the cold parts of me. Parts which had felt even colder the last half hour.

I hold her eyes as I lift my leg up and over and step into the bath. It's not burning hot but it still has enough heat to make my feet tingle as I step into it. Eloise shifts to the other end to let me in and I sit down in her spot, spreading my legs as I lean back against the soft towel. She doesn't come between my legs like I want her to, instead, she sits facing me and drinks the last of her wine before reaching over to place her empty glass back on the ledge near my head.

"Last time I washed a woman's hair was my sisters when she was fifteen - she'd dyed it purple. Any big changes I should know about? " I ask. She smiles but then her expression turns serious again. Aroused and serious.

"I actually had something else in mind," she says as she moves toward me. She slides her arms behind my neck as she climbs on top of me, kneeling on either side of my thighs. The groan that comes from my mouth as she settles on my lap makes it sound like I'm in pain, but I'm not. I can feel the wet silky heat between her legs graze against me as she settles down onto my body. "I want you inside me," she tells me.

I slide my hand over her breasts and lower to the space beneath our bodies and stroke my fingers against her, causing her to moan softly. Then I grip hold of my cock and guide myself into her body. Jesus fucking christ. Like always, she's a hot tight fit around me, and as I enter her, she gasps, sitting back ever so slightly. She watches my face intently as she lowers herself all the way, taking me as deep inside her as it's possible for me to be. I groan low from the back of my throat and tilt my hips upwards pushing into her.

As I go deeper the noise from her throat changes and she whispers my name as digs her fingers into the back of my neck. I know the deeper I am the more she seems to lose herself and that's what I want. I want her so lost with me that she might never find her way back to him.

She grips my hair hard and lowers her head to kiss me as she begins to rock back and forward. Her movements are slow and graceful and I know I'm not going to last long.   Not like this. She feels too fucking good; warm and soothing around me like the water. I grit my teeth and pull her closer to me, biting down soft on her damp shoulder to suck at the water there. When I feel her squeeze my cock from the inside, my whole body comes utterly alive, every nerve bursting into flame.

"Eloise... fucking hell, I'm going to come..."

She grips me harder. "No, don't. Not yet, please Aidan, I'm so close," she pleads against my ear as she starts to ride me deeper, harder, faster. Like always, my body desperately wants to obey her and so I grit my teeth harder and squeeze my eyes shut and pull her closer. I need to make her come now.  

I slide my hands into the water and grip her arse, spreading her wide as I thrust my hips upwards with some force. Then I lower my head and suck hard on her nipple which I know drives her insane. When I bite it softly, flicking my tongue back and forth, she throws her head back and moans my name, her body spasming and clenching around me tighter than it had a moment ago.   

The hot intimate part of her grabs onto me from the inside, massaging and squeezing as she orgasms and trembles around me. The noises she makes close to my ear as she comes make it impossible for me to hold on to it any longer.

My own orgasm comes in great hot spasms, tensing my back and my thighs, and making my heart feel likes it's about to pound its way out of my chest.   She lifts her head from my neck and places both hands on the side of my face to look into my eyes as I continue to finish inside her. It's like she's trying to tell me something but I don't know what it is - why do I never know what it is? I know what I hope it is. I want her to be telling me she's not going to leave me. That when the time finally comes to choose, she's going to choose me.

***

I wonder who told her she fidgeted and talked in her sleep? Him? If it was he's a liar because I'd been watching her for about an hour and she hasn't fidgeted or spoken once. At least I think it's been an hour. Time seemed weirdly abstract here. We'd only been here a night but it was like I couldn't remember a time before this, and I can't really seem to imagine a time after. I don't want to imagine it.

She's naked, the white sheet covering part of one perfect breast, her hands resting by her sides as she sleeps deeply. I'd had a deep sleep too but I'd woken up thirsty, disorientated and confused, with the fur from last night's red wine coating my tongue. Careful not to wake her, I'd gotten up, scrubbed my teeth and tongue, then drank a gallon of water before coming back to bed to find her in exactly the same position I'd left her.

The luxury of sleeping with her was to be savoured. I felt lucky again. Only she could do that. Make me feel lucky. Though right now I feel deprived of her; I miss her voice and her eyes and how I feel when they're on me. All of which is ridiculous since she's fucking asleep, not dead.  So now I'm competing with sleep for her attention? I almost laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?

It's eerily silent here. No traffic or people noises whatsoever, which when I think back is something I've never experienced. I'd grown up in Belfast, then moved to London, and I've spent the last five weeks living in New York. Apart from going camping when I was 15, I'd never woken up in a place that was this quiet. Yet, it feels alive; this quiet, still, secluded place by the lake, it smells alive. I feel alive.

Eloise moans softly and shifts, stretching her legs out and kicking the sheet a little further off her body to expose her right leg and hip. The thought that enters my head at the sight of her long pale legs is filthy and desperate. But I can't get rid of it once it's in there. I want to spread them and bury my mouth between them. I want to wake her up with my tongue. I glance back to her sleeping face.

To your mouth down there? I think you know how I'd react.

I move, shifting my body down the bed until I'm parallel with her hip then I peel the sheet back from her body gently to expose her a little more. Her legs are open slightly and the small strawberry blonde triangle leading down between her legs makes my tongue itch. My tongue felt useless most of the time - it was rarely ever able to perform it's primary function of talking - so it's just keen to get back to something it's good at I guess.

As I think about how I'm going to do this without waking her she moves again, toward me this time, turning herself into a much better position and settling with her knee pulled up slightly giving me far better access. I move onto my elbows and lean over her to lower my head between her legs. I inhale deeply before touching the tip of my tongue to the soft folds between her legs.

Fucking hell.

That smell. Her smell. It's fucking incendiary. I open my mouth to capture her with my tongue. Sweet and warm and soothing to my dry itchy tongue. Pushing my tongue inside a little, I feel her body twitch but her eyes stay closed. I move my hands to grip her upper thighs and angle myself better before sliding my tongue deep inside her.  She makes a soft feminine moaning noise and her legs open a little wider as a tremble runs down over her body. My eyes close over as I inhale the clean scent of her skin again and she begins to move against my mouth.

When I open my eyes and look up, I see her staring down at me with a dazed and aroused look her face, her cheeks reddening with the flush she gets whenever she's turned on. She bites her lip and gasps loudly as I move my tongue faster, tilting my head to lick and suck on her sensitive spot, which feels burning hot on my lips.

"Aidan..." she pants.  I feel her legs begin to tremble as her thighs tighten and clench around me. She fists the sheets hard as her body levers up off the bed.  An instant later she spills into my mouth, over my lips, and I groan and pant against her while I suck her orgasm onto my tongue. It's the shortest amount of time it's taken me to make her come with my mouth. Am I getting better at it?

When her body stops moving and all that's left is the slight tremble in her legs, I slowly kiss my way up her body starting at her thigh. Then to her stomach and up to the valley between her breasts, moving my mouth across to suck softly and loudly on each nipple. From there I lick my way up to her throat where I suck and bite her soft warm skin.

As I do all of this she makes soft pleasured, noises and strokes her fingers tenderly across over my shoulders. I drag my mouth up to her chin until I reach her lips where I kiss her deep and soft, stroking her tongue with my own. Her arms move around me and she kisses me back hard, moaning as she presses her soft body into mine.

"Mmmm... I thought I was dreaming that at first," she whispers when I move away from her mouth. I pull my head up and touch my nose to hers.

"Dream about me a lot do you?"

She smiles. "Just once actually,"

"Oh really? When?" I nuzzle my face in her neck, biting softly.

"It was after the day in the park after I kissed you."

"Mhmm.... Tell me more..." I place another kiss then another bite on her jaw. Yeah, that was a good day. It hadn't ended how I want it to but that didn't matter anymore.

"We were in the park and it was raining like it did that day. We were lost. We kept walking around it trying to find the way out but we couldn't. It was empty except for us, and I think after a while we just stopped looking for the way out and kept walking.  Eventually, it stopped raining but we could see it was still raining outside the park. Strange," her voice is deep and heavy with sleep.

I pull up to frown at her. "Ok and at what point did we have sex?"

She smiles. "We didn't. Nothing sexual happened whatsoever."

"Your dreams are fucking terrible," I tell her with a shake of my head.

She hits me softly on the arm. "I thought it was sweet."

"I don't want fucking sweet, I want pornographic. I want filthy." I press myself into her and she rolls her eyes, smiling still.

"Do you ever think of anything other than sex?"

"Lots of things."

"Name one."

I have to think about it. "James Bond."

She looks confused and then a small laugh breaks from her throat. "James Bond?"

I nod and move off her so that we're lying side by side, me flat on my back and her on her side facing me. She moves closer, pressing herself into the side of my body as she begins to run her fingers through the hair on the top of my head. It's comforting.

"He was such a fucking dick. How did he manage to get so many women to fall into bed with him? I never understood it. I mean he was the ultimate chauvinist wanker.

She places her other hand on my chest and begins to trace her fingers in a circle over the small patch of pointless hair. Her touches are light and delicate and almost ticklish.

"I'm not sure... he sort of had something," she muses.

"Seriously?" I turn to her. "Like what? What did he have? And don't say the car?"

She frowns. "You think I'm into cars?"

"Not really. So what then?"

She thinks about it for a moment while she watches the movement of her hand on my chest. "Charisma," she states.

"Charisma?"

"Yes. You know, confidence, self-assuredness - charisma. Women like that."

"You mean arrogance?"

She shakes her head. "No, there's a difference between being arrogant and having charisma," she informs me.

"There is?" I don't know that I agree. Then something occurs to me. "So that's what you like? Charisma? Confidence? Self-assuredness?" I ask, increasingly aware that I have none of these things. That these are all things her husband has. Arrogant prick.

"What woman doesn't?" she shrugs.

"Ok, then what the fuck are you doing here, with me?" My voice is light but I'm genuinely curious.

She thinks about it a minute and then a small smile peeks out the side of her mouth. "Because I needed someone to carry my bags," she says, smiling wider.

I smile back at her before nodding. "I totally fucking deserved that,"

She nods and moves to sit up, the sheet falling from her to expose her perfect, edible breasts and delicate pink nipples. Her mouth is soft and her eyes hot and hungry.

"Yep. You did," she says. "But you also deserve an apology," she adds.

"Apology for what?"

"For what I started last night and never finished," she glances down to where I'm getting harder by the second and I feel a tremor echo over my whole body. Yes, I fucking need an apology all right.

"Apology accepted," I say as I spread my legs. I pull my knee up a little before moving the sheet back from my body. She shifts herself down the bed, stopping when she's parallel to my hips. She locks her eyes on mine as she runs her hands softly across my stomach and the tops of my thighs, scraping her nails softly over the skin, tickling me, teasing me.

The second she takes me firmly in her hands I groan, my eyes closing over in bliss. When her tongue touches it my back lifts up off the bed and I reach out to catch some of her hair in my hand. As she runs her thumb and then her tongue over the tip, I grit my teeth and tilt myself up into her. She looks up at me and smiles wickedly before running her tongue the entire length of it, base to tip. Jesus fucking Christ.

"I swear to god if your mobile goes right now I will fucking kill something," I manage through my teeth. She smiles once more and closes her mouth over it, taking it deep into the back of her throat and I lose all rational thought.

***

I feel nervous for some reason, a tightness across my chest and a churning in my stomach that might just be hunger. I knock quietly on the door and a moment later I hear movement across the room behind it.

Since I don't do dates I wonder if I'm wearing the right clothes and the right look on my face. Though do I really want that look to be one that says, 'I've dreamt about taking you on a date my entire life?' I need to fucking relax a bit.

Eloise has her hair pulled up at the top of her head and a large red towel wrapped around her body. She smiles at me and then a surprised look comes over her face.

"You trimmed your beard?" Is what she says first. The look on her face makes me run my hand over it self-consciously.

"Thought I should make an effort. Do I look weird? I always feel weird when I shave it. Which is why I never shave it," I explain, smiling nervously.

I hadn't shaved it, I'd used a pair of vanity scissors I'd found in the drawer of the main bathroom to trim it back slightly. It had crossed the line from basic beard to year-in-the-wilderness about Wednesday.

She steps forward and lifts her hand to run her fingertips over it, skimming the contours of my face. "You don't look weird. It looks... good. I can see your mouth and jaw properly," she smiles, awed.

"And how do they look?"

"Kissable," she smiles.

"Thank fuck."

She looks like she might reach across and kiss me but she doesn't. Instead, she casts a look down my body. "And you're dressed." She sounds and looks impressed.

"I do have clothes on." I glance down at my white shirt, brown jeans and scuffed brown boots. Should probably have given them a quick clean. I cut a gaze down her body. "You don't," I say.

"Not yet. It takes me a little longer than you to get ready. Which is unfair because I won't look as good as you when I'm done."

"You trying to get me into bed on the first date?" I smirk.

She smiles and looks down my body again, a look that tells me I did ok. Her eyes look hot and pleased and I wonder suddenly why I thought going out tonight was such a brilliant idea. We could have stayed here. Naked.

I'd gone into town this afternoon to get some food and leave her to write when I'd passed the quaint-looking restaurant. So I'd impulsively gone in and reserved a table for us for dinner. Taking her out on a date was something I'd fantasised about for years, and at least here we could do it without her being paranoid about getting caught. I would happily have taken her out back in New York but something told me she wouldn't be so keen. So, while I had the chance before she had to choose, we were going on a fucking date.

"I actually think you look great right now," I remark, giving her my most perverted look as I run my hand over my mouth.

She giggles softly. "I'll be 10 minutes max, promise. I know I look hours away but I'm really not."

Did she fuck look hours away? She looked perfect. In fact, I'd happily go to dinner with her wearing just that red towel, but the idea of other men seeing an inch of her skin made me feel violent. Best do this the normal way. With her dressed.

"I'll wait downstairs then."

She nods and closes the door, and I trudge back downstairs to the kitchen, deciding to have a beer as I wait for her. I'm not sure if she's longer than ten minutes or not because I sort of lose track of time as I draw and sip at my ice-cold beer. When I hear the door open above I glance up and see her emerge from along the corridor above.

She's wearing a short (too short) sleeveless black dress and carrying a cardigan and a small rectangular bag as she comes down the stairs. Yep, it's definitely too short. Cut way above her knee to the top of her thigh, her pale flawless legs seeming to stretch for miles. Even though I hate that she's showing that much skin she looks incredible. But then, she always does. The fact that she'll be with me tonight in public looking like that makes something inside me settle into place. I rip the sheet out of my sketchpad and fold it over once as she comes toward me.

"Sorry, I took so long," she says, smiling.

I shake my head. "You didn't. You look amazing." She looks more than that but I can't think of the right words. Her smile deepens and she looks down almost shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear. A strange nervous silence settles over us and I hand her the piece of paper to fill it. "It was supposed to be ironic. Post-modern," I say by way of explanation.

She looks confused for a second as she takes the paper from me and gently unfolds it, curious. A soft noise escapes her throat and when she looks back up at me I think she might cry. I'm probably imagining it. Why would she cry? She clearly doesn't see the joke. She glances back down at the piece of paper and smiles.

"Ironic, post-modern and.... almost romantic," she says.

"Almost?" I gaze down at the hand-drawn bunch of flowers I sketched badly and tilt my head. "Need to do better next time then, that what you're saying?"

She steps forward to press her mouth to mine. Her light touch isn't nearly enough but it still makes me moan as I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into me. She smells of dark fruits and spice, coconut and clean cotton.

"You don't need to do anything next time. These are perfect," she whispers.

"You're welcome. Good thing about those ones is that they never die. And when I die you might be able to sell them for a few quid or something, Morley prize-winning artist and all that. I've signed it at the bottom," I say, pointing at the bottom corner. She steps back from my body and frowns. "What? I was kidding. Fifty quid at least."

She scowls harder. "You're ruining our date night with your morbid death talk."

"Shit, am I? Sorry." I hold my hands up. "Death chat not allowed on dates. Got it. Honestly didn't know, first time for me."

Her expression changes, eyes narrowing. "You've never been on a date?"

"Not one," I confirm. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. "I know what you're thinking. Handsome fucker like me should've had women battering the door down to take him out. It's a travesty. Oh, wait, I have been on one date. Sort of, a blind one, I guess. With Pat," I nod. Her face softens and she giggles, the bridge of her nose crinkling in that way it does.

"Well, I have big shoes to fill then," she says, smiling still. "No pressure."

"Yeah, he's a tough act to follow. Almost drunk me under the table. But not quite."

I watch as she slides the piece of paper into her small grey velvet bag and clasps it closed. "Yes, but you have that whole Irish thing going on — he had no chance," she says, as we walk towards the door.

"Oh, so you think since all we Irish do is drink we're professionals at it?" I say. She turns back and I keep my frown for a few more seconds before softening it. "To be fair it's literally one of the only four things I do."

"Four?? Hmmm.... Should I try and guess the other three?" She sounds excited as I open the porch door to let her out first.

"Go for it."

I step outside behind her and she locks the door before handing me the chunky set of keys, which I put in my pocket. We take the steps down towards the path which goes around the side of the house and takes us the through the woods and into town. It's a warm night and the air feels dry and hot but smells earthy and fresh. The sun hangs low in the sky through the trees behind us as it gets close to setting.

"Music," she says confidently. I smile and nod, impressed. Then I gaze down at her hand and wonder what she'd do if I held it. "And surely your art has to be another one?"

"I do spend a ridiculous amount of time taking shit pictures, wasting paper, canvas and acrylic paint so I'll give you that," I say. She hits me lightly on the arm.

"How many other artists did you beat to win The Morley Prize again?" She scowls.

"A couple," I say.

"Five. You beat five really talented people. You beat them because you're more talented —that's how it works. You do not take shit pictures, or waste paper or canvas or paint so stop being so bloody self-deprecating or whatever it is you're doing when you say things like that," she says, her voice heated.

"Thought you didn't know anything about art?"

"I don't, but that's what google told me."

"You googled me?" A grin breaks out over my face.

"I might have," she looks a little embarrassed.

"When?"

"Never mind when."

I stop walking completely. "I want to know when you googled me. Tell me."

She stops walking and turns around to face me. "This is so embarrassing,"

"It really is," I nod. "Tell me."

She shakes her head. "Fine, fine. After the day at your loft."

"Which day?"

"The first day. The day I came to see you and you were being all," she waves her hand in front of her face towards me, pouting slightly. "moody/sexy. I was intrigued," she shrugs her shoulders.

I bite my bottom lip hard to keep from grinning like a fucking clown. 

"You thought I was sexy???" It definitely wasn't an adjective I'd used heard to describe me before. Charming maybe, cocky, I'd even had rogue-ish from a journalist once. Sexy had never been used, not once. At least to my knowledge.

She smiles and shrugs her shoulders again before turning from me and walking on. I have to skip a little to reach her side again. She twists her head to give me a small but warm smile, which I return.

"It didn't return that much info about you anyway," she says. "Just a few articles about The Morley, your work, and an exhibition you had in London. No pictures of you at all." There's something else she wants to say or ask but she doesn't. I know what it is but I pretend that I don't.

"Well, that's comforting," I nod, genuinely relieved. I wonder then if I should tell her I googled her too. That the image of her smiling on her wedding day was branded onto my memory as some sort of life goal. I want to make her smile like that. I want to make her that happy. But then if I tell her that then I'd be as well telling her everything else while I was at it. That she'd been branded onto my memory for the last 13 years and that I'd loved her for as long.

Jerking me from my thoughts is the feel of her hand as she very gently slides it into mine. My heart rate quickens for a few seconds, before settling down and I slide my fingers between her colder smaller ones. I twist my head to the side to smile at her and she returns it, squeezing my hand tight twice as though to communicate something to me. Again, I wish I knew what it was.

We walk the rest of the way to the restaurant in a warm and comfortable silence, and the smile stays on my face the entire way there.