I must uphold my principles at some point this evening and even Louisa now realises that I have reached the point where she can push me no further. I watch her walk away without regret for a man is nothing unless he is in possession of a strong code of ethics; his integrity must be impeccable, his honour incorruptible. I remind her of my convictions, and she seems unsurprised, perhaps even accepting, as she glances back at me before disappearing into the crowd. Just like that, she is gone, and I find myself standing alone on the pavement, amongst a flood of Friday night revellers, alongside gutters littered with cigarette butts, discarded supermarket bags, and empty crisp packets that tumble along in the breeze, as tooting taxis and asphyxiating buses crawl along the crowded streets beside me.
After I'd hastily abandoned our doorway embrace, somewhat buoyantly she'd asked me if we could walk for a while, reaching for my arm and clinging to me as she bounced along beside me. Oddly, I'd felt little concern about either the distance we must cover or the physical contact she instigated; I suppose everything is relative really, admittedly having survived unscathed the bewildering and slightly terrifying experience of having her sit in my lap in public. As we'd walked, and she had maintained a pleasantly cheerful monologue, it had only reinforced to me that we were in no way conspicuous, in fact I started to realise that I'd never felt more ordinary in my life. We were just two people in a sea of coupledom, as Londoners young and old set out in search of what constitutes entertainment at the end of the working week.
However, though it was clear that Louisa was enjoying the bustle, the busy restaurants, the crowded bars, the loud cacophonies of competing piped music that assailed us as we walked, fatigue had begun to creep up on me. Though it isn't particularly late, my energy levels are somewhat depleted; I haven't eaten for several hours and, if I am honest, I have found the evening's experiences to be rather demanding, both in how completely foreign my behaviour has been to me, and in my grim determination to complete my assigned task to the best of my ability. I have spent most of the evening feeling as if I were walking a tightrope and now I find myself as, if not more, drained than I would be if I had spent a particularly long and complicated day in theatre.
However, as Bernard always says, smooth seas do not make skillful sailors and, as I stand there, some distance from where I last glimpsed her, I compare my evening's experiences, and the edification I am receiving, to my medical training. Simply put, the measurement of professional skill falls into two categories: surgical processes, and patient outcomes. It's a straightforward equation, an easily understood curve, a plotted path which determines at which point the level of training and experience is sufficient that a surgeon is deemed capable of performing a particular procedure safely. As a measure, it is rational and logical; to the participant it is coherent and clear: the surgeon knows he has the skills and experience and, for the patient themselves, they need never understand the criteria, as long as they not only survive, but the desired result is achieved.
On the other hand, measurement of learning related to piloting a mildly intoxicated Louisa, mercurial and high spirited, home to my flat after an evening of rather bacchanalian conviviality would tend more toward an experiential apprenticeship, undertaken in almost complete bewilderment. It is obvious to me that I am lacking the skills required although, admittedly, once or twice previously, I have found myself dragging a completely inebriated Chris Parsons out of some sorry social event and into a taxi, supervising his safe passage back to his dreadfully noisy hall of residence, my face set firmly with a frown of conspicuous disapproval. But nothing in my life to date has really prepared me for the role I find myself in, and now I must wait patiently for her to emerge from the premises of an American fast food chain that I steadfastly refuse to enter. I loiter uncomfortably on the street, while she is inside the gaudy, overhyped establishment, using their lavatory facilities. Apparently, according to Louisa, this is customary practice amongst her friends, though I find the idea rather perplexing and slightly disgusting, especially as I observe the calibre of individual that frequents the business rather erroneously known as a restaurant.
Eventually she emerges, flashing me a dazzling smile, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, and I have another one of those moments; a searing flash of abdominal warmth followed by a complete sense of incredulity, a feeling of total disbelief that anyone as beautiful and vivacious as Louisa would not only want to take my arm but also choose my flat, of all places, to go home to tonight.
"Sorry." She says, grimacing slightly, as she gazes up at me. "Bit of a queue."
I want to tell her that I'd wait forever, on the noisiest and most crowded streets in Christendom, if it meant that the warmth and encouragement of her smile was intended for me. I would kiss her in every shop doorway between Land's End and John O'Groats if it might somehow mean that she would be content to stay with me forever. She must understand, surely, that I would undergo almost any form of discomfort if it ensured that I might wake every morning wrapped in her arms. Even the most mundane of daily life seems to take on some sort of magnificence if Louisa is there with me. I open my mouth to reassure her, to try and express in some small way how devoted I am to her, how important she is to me, but I am incapable of any sound other than a pathetic sigh that catches in my throat. Say something Ellingham, I think to myself, in desperation.
"Did you...umm...did you wash your hands?" I hear myself mutter, and before the words are even out I cringe internally, dismayed at my own hopelessness.
Her expression is suddenly disbelieving and she stares at me for a moment, her jaw twisting as she clearly fights her desire to, probably justifiably, admonish me.
"Yes, Martin." She says haughtily, narrowing her eyes at me dangerously. "Thank you very much, I did wash my hands. I'm not five years old you know."
"Mmm..." I reply after a few seconds of indecision, unable to look away; as usual, a bumbling, inept snake transfixed by a volatile mongoose. "Yes."
And then, instinctively, I hold my arm out to her, as if to save myself; the reflex action of a desperate yet pathetically clueless man. To my inordinate relief she gives a hint of a smile, appearing now only slightly incredulous, taking my hand, threading her long slim fingers through mine and castigating me, mildly, under her breath. Reminding her of the dangers of Hepatitis, or even admitting that I know I am an idiot, exhibiting the language skills of a baboon with an orofacial cleft, seems somehow pointless and, at worst, inflammatory so we walk along in silence for a minute before she finds her voice once more, and begins to lament that she is hungry.
"We should go home then." I tell her. "I...ummm...I can prepare us some supper."
"Yes..." She replies thoughtfully. "Or there's a really good kebab shop not far from here. They do a great Lamb Shish..."
I slow my pace for an instant, as I process her suggestion, and my extreme degree of abhorrence suddenly seems to shackle me to the spot. I turn and look down on her, her face a picture of innocence as she gazes up at me, her hair gleaming like polished mahogany.
"Louisa, you do realise that kebab shops are disproportionally represented as a source when it comes to reported food poisonings in Greater London?"
"No, I didn't know that." She says, opening her eyes widely, blinking at me and biting on her lip.
"Mmm." I say knowingly, as if my statistic is a fait accompli.
"Oh, Martin, go on, one kebab won't kill you! Have a chicken doner if you don't want the lamb. They're delicious!" She replies with more than even her usual spirit, letting go of my hand as she does so, and sliding her arms defiantly across her chest.
"Any level of salmonella can be dangerous, Louisa!" I tell her firmly, frowning at her as if she were a contumacious patient who had ignored my post operative instructions. "If the bacteria is present in high enough levels it can make a person very ill...children especially, the elderly, the immunocompromised...in extreme cases, they may require hospitalisation, maybe even resulting in renal failure."
She sighs theatrically.
"For goodness sake, I've eaten here hundreds of times. I've never had so much as a tummy twinge." She says, rather vehemently. "Martin, why don't you just trust me? I mean, sometimes don't you ever just want to try something new?"
To say I'm horrified about her declaration of frequency of attendance is an understatement, appalling me as it does on so many levels. Hundreds of times? I really do fear for Britain's youth, the recklessness, the risk they seem to be prepared to take on just about everything, their avoidance of basic health and safety measures, not to mention their terrible dietary choices. How can I make her understand that, of course I trust her, it's the corner-cutting, fly-by-night vendors, with their ignorance of basic food hygiene practices that I adamantly don't trust, storing their raw meat with the cooked, allowing listeria to flourish in their sauces and cultivating Staphylococcus aureus on every kitchen surface.
"Thank you but I don't find the thought of infecting myself with E. coli or campylobacter particularly enticing when it comes to trying new things." I reply, more sharply than I intended, merely hoping for to impose finality on what seems like a completely ridiculous discussion.
She looks up at me briefly, with an expression that appears to mock my vigilance, ridiculing my efforts to avoid ingesting intracellular pathogens. She gazes airily around her, only then to glance back at me from the corner of her eye, her mouth twisted, a slight twitching of her cheeks becoming evident.
"You know what, let's get a kebab and take it back to my flat to eat." She says breathlessly. "That'd be nice, wouldn't it Martin? And we're actually quite handy...it's just around the corner..."
My head flies up and I stare at her, unable to in any way disguise my absolute disgust; honestly, she may as well have suggested we buy fish and chips and pop round to share them with my mother such is the disgust I feel. For a moment, she stares up at me, so sweetly, so full of hope, until, suddenly, she can't control herself any longer, and an impudent smile spreads across her face.
"Alright, you win." She says, reaching for my hand, her eyes shining mischievously, as usual, at my expense. "Take me back to your place then."
"Ah, you were joking." I say quietly, feeling equal parts relieved and embarrassed.
"Yes Martin. I was joking." She replies gently, squeezing my hand, and smiling at me, almost sympathetically now.
I am well aware that I am staid and humourless, and I'll admit to never being quite sure if she is sending me up. I'll even acknowledge how slow on the uptake I am, when it should be blatantly obvious that she is teasing me. The realisation niggles at me, a tiny insistent voice that warns me that I'm dry and dull, and lacking in spontaneity, and that it is inevitable that she will tire of me, sooner or later. Risk taking, and speculation have never been my nature and embracing change does not come easily to me. God knows I'm trying but sometimes the warp-speed at which my life has been turned inside out becomes somewhat overwhelming. Everything seems to entail trying something new, a step into the unknown, all accompanied by a rather terrifying sensation of enormous risk. But, in the here and now, with her arm through mine, glancing down at her as she talks so animatedly, using her smile as some sort of emphatic punctuation, a visual exclamation mark that enlivens her conversation and renders me almost helpless, I realise not only just how much I love her but, rather frighteningly, just how much I've come to depend on her.
There's too much competition for taxis here and so I suggest we walk further along the road but not before she has struck up a conversation with a random stranger, an over made-up woman in a dress that, at a glance, appears a few sizes too small for someone of her obviously high BMI. However, I come to understand rather quickly that Louisa admires the garment as something she refers to mysteriously as 'thirties couture' and so I stand impatiently, perplexed as they exchange compliments, each finding something to admire in the other's choice of clothing and, dare I say it, each as affected by alcohol as the other. When they start to scrutinise their respective shoes, I begin to waver and, just as Louisa begins a dissertation on the best vintage fashion shops in West London, I've had enough.
"Louisa!" I hiss in her ear. "Time to go. Please."
They both turn to look at me and Louisa flashes me a lopsided grin, apparently full of chagrin, but not apologetic enough that she might terminate the encounter and actually accompany me.
"Oops!" She says to no one in particular. "Sorry...lovely to chat with you...and try that new place in Camden. You'll love it!...upstairs next to the Chinese Takeaways that got closed down with cockroaches."
She glances at me slyly as we walk away, no doubt hoping for a horrified reaction but, this time, I ignore her and maintain my most implacable of expressions, grasping her elbow in one hand in an attempt to prevent her from wandering away, all the while trying to hail an oncoming taxi with my free arm.
"Mind your fella don't rip that lovely frock!" I hear from behind, accompanied by a screeching laugh that has the same excruciating effect on me as fingernails on a blackboard, clearly triggering my reticular activating system and making me grit my teeth rather unhappily.
Coarseness and suggestiveness seem to be rife everywhere one looks. There seems to be not only no place for discretion and confidentiality but declaring a preference for privacy seems to see one labelled as freakish and fusty. Appalled by her suggestion, I refrain from even dignifying it with a backward glance but Louisa, as always, must reply, grinning broadly as she does so, spinning around and leaning away from me as I make a desperate, and ultimately successful grab for her hand.
"I will!" She cries with breathless fervency. "See you later!"
To my inordinate relief, the approaching taxi slows and then stops, all engine fumes and squeaking brakes, and I open the door. Such is Louisa's exuberance, I feel as if I'm attempting to wrangle a kangaroo into the back seat as she pirouettes, rotating around me as if I am caught up in some sort human centrifuge. She is still exchanging conversation with the overweight woman in the drab, musty dress, calling out to her in a shrill voice, choking with laughter at something incomprehensible that was shouted at her from fifty yards away.
"Louisa! Please! Get in before some else does." I growl in her ear as I put my arm around her shoulders and guide her back towards the kerb, steering her around what appears to be a voluminous spilt milkshake on the pavement, no doubt thoughtlessly discarded by yet another selfish, thoughtless citizen.
"Yes, Martin! I am getting in! Just give me a minute will you, this dress is too tight to just go clambering about, willy-nilly."
"Yes." I reply quickly, glancing down and staring at her for a fraction too long, as she leans in through the door, her hands on the seat. Louisa is one of the fortunate few who does not have an unflattering angle that she might ever be viewed from. She is breathtaking from every perspective, including this one.
I watch with concern as she wobbles rather alarmingly on her ankles as she attempts to lift one knee and then the other onto the seat and I take a step forward, ready to steady her, sighing impatiently as she dissolves into yet another fit of giggling.
"You could help me!" She croaks.
I feel myself freeze, glancing rather wildly around me in case we are being observed but, as I am learning rather rapidly, inanity and indiscretion in the young barely warrants a second glance by the great British public. Tomfoolery and excess alcohol consumption are commonplace, no doubt culminating for some in an unplanned visit to A&E in the manner of their apparent hero, the disgraceful Bucky, but not for Louisa at least, if I can finally encourage her safely into the taxi. Tentatively, I place a hand on her hip as she shuffles forward and performs a complicated and gymnastic movement that sees her finally in a seated position, once more a model of elegance and decorum. Sliding in beside her, I growl my address at the cabbie and, weary and depleted, I close my eyes; squeezing them shut in inordinate relief.
As we move slowly along in the congestion, I'm aware that I can still feel the fabric of her dress against my palm, the tactile nature of the lace as it clung to her waist, the curve of her hips so firm and enticing beneath my hand. The element of texture is yet another unexpected delight, a previously unimagined feature, another heady layer to the softness and femininity that Louisa seems to exude. Once again, I'm surprised at myself, how only too aware I'd been, relishing the sensation of the fabric sliding across her well toned glutes during the unfortunate doorway embrace of earlier and, though the impression had been brief but most enjoyable, our discovery by her friends had most certainly not been. Though it seems disingenuous, I have no explanation for my lack of discretion, other than to ponder whether there might be a correlation with my rare consumption of alcohol. I can't think of any other plausible excuse for succumbing so feebly to my urges. To somehow deem it appropriate to fondle Louisa rather suggestively in the street, shamefully in full view of passers-by, seems rather peculiarly out of character for me.
However, I am not only rather appalled by my own licentiousness, but I am also completely perplexed by Louisa's reactions, and her apparent disinclination to feel fazed in the slightest. In fact, I would even go so far as to say she seems vaguely triumphant despite the residual embarrassment I am still experiencing. I'm especially floored by her response, her suggestion that being heckled on the street by a collection of flighty, mediocre half-wits was somehow brilliant and, suddenly, it seems rather important to me that I understand her reasoning, her apparent delight in our discovery.
"Tell me, the cat-calling, the jeering, when your...ummm...associates...happened upon us...I'm not sure I understand how being discovered and...umm...well, ridiculed could be, as I believe you termed it...brilliant."
"Not all teasing is malicious, Martin." She'd replied, frowning at me incredulously, as if I were trying to convince her the earth was flat. "It's just a bit of fun, you know, the wolf whistles, it's just what friends do."
Conceptually, I struggle with her assertion, so completely foreign was it to my experience but she'd nodded at me, and smiled reassuringly.
"No one meant anything horrible, you know. Libby's my best friend and she's known for a long time how...I...umm...she...umm...let's just say, it's her way of being supportive, Martin. Really it is."
I swivel around in my seat so I can look directly at her and I have no doubt that scepticism is written all over my face. However, I am struck immediately by her wide-eyed earnestness, how calm she is, how completely unaffected she appears, which goes some way in convincing me that she actually might be correct. After all, I know Louisa to be very emotional by nature and, occasionally, even over sensitive; I have seen her upset over the vague implications of a one hundred year old painting so to see her equanimity now is somehow reassuring. As spent as I feel, I am suddenly content to believe her. God knows, I've expended too much energy in my life on this sort of thing, years of aggravation and torment causing me to be justifiably suspicious of the intentions of others, constantly speculating at ulterior motives and trying to ascertain hidden agendas but, now, I find myself just so very desperate to trust her. To have one person with whom I could suspend the endless second guessing, placing my faith in Louisa, believing implicitly in the integrity of her intentions would be, admittedly, an enormous step but one that seems to offer such promise, a sort of calm serenity, a place of security in the maelstrom that is human nature.
To my amazement, I had actually been able to discount it, setting it rather easily aside as soon as the taxi gathered speed. I'd been distracted again of course. Louisa had slipped in under my arm and leant her head against my chest, seemingly eager to discuss the events of the evening, at bewildering speed, firing questions at me and changing the subject before I'd even had a chance to respond. As always, I was soon bewildered, and content to listen, making appropriate noises whenever a pause her in her commentary seemed to demand it, smiling to myself at her breathless enthusiasm, and feeling pleasantly soothed as her accent became more noticeable and her Cornish consonants rolled rather charmingly off her tongue. For someone as well drilled in suppressing emotion as I was, to hear her imbue even the most basic of conjunctions with such fervency and feeling was just so captivating; her enthusiasm becoming almost entrancing, filling me with both a reassuring warmth and a pleasant sense of anticipation.
It seems imperative that she convince me that my assumption is mistaken, and that most of tonight's shallow assemblage of painted lightweights were not her friends at all. I'm not ashamed to be relieved that Louisa seems more discerning than I'd initially given her credit for and that the confluence of vapid, over-powdered prima-donnas that shared our table this evening were as much strangers to her as they were to me.
"Yeah, well, you know, Libby got a holiday job at some fashion magazine I'd never heard of and so most of that lot are her summer friends." She says, somewhat archly.
I hadn't been tempted to query her further, to ask her to elaborate, because I could not have cared less about any of them, really. They are of absolutely no interest to me, unless, of course, they are prepped and laid out in front of me on the operating table, a not completely unlikely scenario when one considers their apparent obsession with moronic pseudo-musicians, their flaky desperation to follow trends, and taking into account the prevalence of pseudoaneurysms and ischemias resulting from recreational drug abuse. Add to that the endless self-inflicted injuries associated with rampant, terminal stupidity, and we begin to chart their course in life; and some highly plausible clinical scenarios where our paths might cross, considering that collectively they exhibited the discernment and problem solving ability of a petri dish's worth of microcephalic amoebas.
"Apart from Stephen..." She adds warmly, with a gentle smile, as if she is recalling a particularly pleasant childhood holiday. "He's lovely."
I recall his apparent fondness for Louisa now too, the vehemence of his apparent appreciation of her character, the lingering glance as she walked away, his long-sighted gaze fixed upon her until she had completely disappeared from sight. He was an interesting enough conversationalist for the purposes of filling in time but I clearly had not warmed to him with quite so much enthusiasm as Louisa and, with an intensity that does not really reflect well on me, I experience a flash of jealousy.
"Is he?" I reply rather coldly, turning my head to face the window, struggling with an unwelcome intrusion in the form of returning insecurity, a fiercely unpleasant sensation that defies both logic and rationality but nevertheless provides me with a desperately unwanted moment of torment.
"Oh, I thought you two might get on..." She says, and I can hear the disappointment in her voice. "I thought...well, you seemed to be having some sort of conversation..."
"Yes." I say quickly, unwillingly to reveal any feelings of that order in case she, too, begins to see my need for her as claustrophobic and restrictive. "Umm, and you didn't...you decided not to join them at the nightclub or wherever it was they were going?"
She shifts in her seat and I feel her hand running up my chest, smoothing my lapel absently as she speaks.
"Oh I don't know. Didn't seem all that appealing actually, when I compared the options..."
She reaches up, gazing at me with what seems like amused curiosity, and runs her index finger slowly across my bottom lip. It tickles, and my mouth twitches involuntarily, causing her more mirth, a deep throaty chuckle that she muffles by pressing her mouth to my neck. Despite the dull ache of jealousy that plagues me, the way she nuzzles my jaw, her hand in my hair, all becomes rather rapidly distracting. I feel her hot breath on my ear, and she says my name, biting at my earlobe, as if she knows how ridiculously susceptible I am to her touch, how quickly and overwhelmingly I respond.
"They're an erogenous zone." She says helpfully.
"Are they?" I hear myself croak as I flatten my arms against the back of the seat.
Despite the fact that her hands are all over me, I am determined not to repeat our earlier ill-advised and rather wanton public display.
"We're nearly home..." I say, in an attempt to remonstrate with her but she too seems suddenly devoid of inhibition, as if a viral wanton profligacy has spread through the city.
"Louisa!" I growl at her, reaching down into my lap and snatching her hand away, as a deep, searing blush overcomes me; an extreme vasodilation that feels as if my sympathetic nervous system has violently exploded every capillary in my skin.
From the first time I saw her in Auntie Joan's kitchen, it's been like this between us; Louisa searching for my soft underbelly, teasing me, taking delight in my discomfort. And my response is always the same; a pretence of aloofness, a cool imperturbability and occasionally, as I have just been forced to do, a firm reprimand delivered when she has simply gone too far. The problem for me is that now she knows me too well; she is so aware, so confident that, despite whatever words come out of my mouth, however my fears and emotional repression choose to vocalise themselves, my physical response is instant and, the way Louisa sees it, she is always rewarded for her efforts.
The taxi pulls up outside the wrong flat but I don't correct him. Instead I pass pass him a twenty pound note and clamber out rapidly, holding the door impatiently while Louisa thanks him profusely. I've never even been thanked with that sort of vehemence after I've unblocked a carotid and so I stand there, aghast as she bids him goodnight, using his Christian name with odd familiarity.
I look down at her, askance, as she passes in front of me but she merely returns my stare defiantly.
"It's on his licence, alright?" She says breezily, wandering off down the footpath purposefully, and leaving me standing in her wake.
"Are you hungry?" I ask her, as I punch in the door code, mindful that, once again, it's late and we haven't eaten.
"No." She says, lifting her chin and staring at me, a defiant gleam in her eyes. "Are you?"
"Umm..." I reply cautiously, caught miserably between my abhorrence of dishonesty and the fact we are less than a two minutes from my bed. "I could, ahhh...eat if you wanted to...or not. It's up to you."
She shrugs as I open the front door, and we walk up the stairs in silence. Whatever she decides about food, before I allow her to lay a finger on me, I am in desperate need of a shower. After a moment she declines my offer of nourishment, opting instead for a cup of tea and so I excuse myself and disappear into the bathroom, shedding my clothing hastily, pausing only long enough to ensure that my suit is returned to its hanging space and my favourite cuff links are placed securely in their box. I'm showered and half way through shaving when I see movement behind me in the mirror, and for a moment I watch her, unobserved, as she rummages through her things and wanders in and out of my field of vision.
There's no awkwardness with her at all, no feeling of contrivance or stage management; I can only presume that, as beautiful as she is, Louisa has not the impediment of shyness, nor reticence, nor the concept that she might be anything else other than rather breathlessly admired. As I come out of the en suite, she is hanging up her dress, on a wire hanger of all things, frowning in concentration as she appears to struggle, as first one shoulder strap then the other, slips from top of the useless object. As unfit for purpose as the damn thing is, I can't help but think there might be still a degree of alcohol-induced impairment involved in her lack of success.
"Would you like a proper hanger?" I mutter, after a moment of frustrated observation.
"You're the one who insists I put everything away the very minute I take it off." She retorts with spirit, glancing at me and taking her focus from her task for just long enough that her dress, once more, falls to the floor.
"That's hardly the point, is it?" I reply, in a slightly strangled voice, averting my eyes rather hastily as she bends over to retrieve the mistreated garment.
I recall only too well the fierce sense of embarrassment I'd experienced upon my accidental discovery, under her bed, of the very same silky, inky-blue undergarment that she now wears, not that wearing it even begins to describe either the action or the effect. More accurately, it adorns her, clinging to her like a second skin; serpentine, slinky, and metallic in its sheen, highlighting every curve and rendering me, as always, utterly captivated. I realise I've done without a lot more than just the purely physical over the past few years; for all my ideas of superiority and self control, I'm no different to any other man watching his spectacularly lithe, silken underwear-clad girlfriend walking blithely around their bedroom.
She may be unselfconscious and casual, wandering about contentedly but I am a still a very long way from that level of composure. To me, having her here is still somewhat surreal and my natural reactions are far from well controlled. She may be relaxed but I find myself either either staring at her too long, or averting my eyes rapidly, mildly panicked, as if I'd inadvertently looked at the sun. I reach into my wardrobe and fetch her one of my hangers; a deceptively simple combination of solid oak and stainless steel, wide, appropriately curved and completely fit for purpose, and I watch her, her face a mask of concentration, as she slips it into her dress and smirks at me, triumphant.
"Well done." I say, with only the merest hint of condescension, and she casts me a look of warning; an intense flash of spirit that causes my abdominal wall to contract.
I'd never tell her much I adore her expression of insolence; the defiant nod of her head, the set of her jaw, the way her eyes gleam dangerously. I can't explain the sensation I feel; some people feel an intense rush from facing danger, my thrill emanates from a different sort of challenge, and she's standing right in front of me now, one hand on her hip, the sensual curve of her mouth enough to make my heart race. If I anticipate her reaching up to kiss me, she means to defy me on that as well and, instead, we stand in silence, a moment of intense exquisite anticipation, each waiting for the other to cede, to give in to the unspoken need that enshrouds us.
Haltingly, I trace my fingers across the delicate lacework of the strap that passes over her beautiful shoulders, noting the intricacy of the pattern as it arches elegantly across the top of her breasts. There's such an incredible femininity about her, a welcoming softness, an enveloping warmth; a willingness to give herself to me entirely, to make love as if it were the only thing that mattered, wholeheartedly and with such honesty and openness that it is as if she completely bares her soul to me. Deftly and stealthily, she has become everything to me and even the gentle action of easing the strap from her shoulder, and pressing my lips to her smooth skin, seems like an act of worship.
My reticence, my inherent shyness, even my feeling of always being an outsider, all evaporates. There is just Louisa and me, and though I might be inarticulate, taciturn and dull, I have found a way to communicate; preferable to any stilted sentence or hackneyed phrase, and more meaningful than any woodenly delivered declaration of love I might manage to utter. She takes my hand and pulls me down onto the bed beside her. Laughingly she removes the damp towel from around my waist, discarding it on the floor and, in that moment, I couldn't care less, as breathless as I am, spellbound as she forces me onto my back. I'd dreamed about moments like this; weightless and ecstatic as I gazed up at her but, even in my most fevered moments, I'd never imagined the joy she'd exhibit, even the delight she'd have in every part of our love-making. I had never understood how important it was, how this perfect storm of emotional love and physical desire can foster such a deep intimacy between two such different people but, right now, nothing seems more important, more vital, more visceral.
I exhale deeply, closing my eyes and allowing myself simply to delight in the sensation of her hands running lightly over my skin, her mouth sliding across my chest, covering me in goosebumps as she takes my nipple lightly between her teeth, laughing at me as I writhe, and castigate her with complete insincerity. Somehow the tempo seems different tonight; she has an unhurried air as she traces my rib cage and trails her fingers across my stomach. Involuntarily, I stretch out, throwing my arms above my head and luxuriating in the transcendence of the moment, waiting for the feeling of exhilaration as she climbs across me, crushing my mouth with a ferocious intensity that leaves me dazed, breathless and inflamed. It seems, though, that this time Louisa has other ideas, startling me with a rather different approach, apparently having made an arbitrary decision on exactly how intimate we are going to be. I hold my breath for a minute before I can contain myself no longer, exhaling in a long shuddering gasp and clutching desperately at the sheet beneath me.
"Louisa...what are you doing?" I say, my voice emerging as nothing more than a strangled gasp.
The feeling is ethereal but it's no longer enough, and I tell her so, urging her to let me take her, breathless, and aching with my need to be inside her. And by some miracle she takes pity on me and it's just like I imagined it would be, heady, and intense and utterly divine, as she eases herself onto me, just as she did in my imagination. And, just like the fantasy that nearly drove me out of my mind, I cup her breasts through the silkiness of her slip and gaze into her dreamy, sparkling eyes as she brings us both to a shuddering and sweetly exquisite climax.