The Cure

Chapter 31

The flat was quiet, dark when Nate got home, and he was quietly, dully resigned to writing out a notice to vacate to his landlord, ordering some food in and getting an early night.

Her absence had been unbearable. But being in her presence, that closed-down, thorny, barely-there presence, would surely be worse. God, how she had pulled him to orgasm without looking at him, leaving him shaking on hands and knees, then padded away, as if she could think of a thousand better things to do.

He had to go.

He hadn't even managed to work out his frustration at the pool; his arms had sliced, pounded through the water, and he had sought seeking refuge in the rhythm, solace in the subsequent chlorine-scented exhaustion.

But there was no fatigue. The gloom of sadness had melted into irritation, the hot smart of her indifference blowing the stinging embers of difficult silence into an insulted indignation.

He made his way to the bathroom, looking forward to a hot shower, ordering Japanese on his phone from his favourite restaurant; the soft sound of music coming from behind the bathroom door stopped him dead. He hesitated, his shoulders slumping as he leaned against the wall, listening to Lola singing softly along to a Leonard Cohen heartbreaker in the candle-lit bathroom.

The smell of jasmine and honey soap filtered into the loft.

The sadness was still there, then – just a little bit.

Nate swallowed, convincing himself with great restraint not to peer about the door, and pushed himself away from the wall at the same time as Lola pushed the bathroom door further ajar.

She gasped, clutching the small white towel closer to her, her damp hair curling slightly over her shoulders, half of her face cast in the dim golden glow of soothing candlelight in the bathroom; the other in the shadow of the loft.

'Shit, you scared me,' she said breathlessly, with a small laugh, squinting as her eyes accustomed to the dark room, trying to find his features in the shade.

His eyes flickered over her face – taking in the makeup-free face, the flushed cheeks – then trailed down her body, moving over the too-small towel, her breasts pressed tightly against the material, her hips barely covered; he drew in a quivering breath, dropping his head with a frustrated huff.

Nobody moved. The air crackled with anticipation; he stared fixedly at the floor, now, and sighed again, his breath shaking.

Lola was paralysed, her nerve endings electrified.

He wouldn't look at her.

Was he – was he saying goodbye?

She could almost hear it. Panic forked through her veins.

She took a tentative step forward, closing the already limited space between them, casting herself into his shadow. He rolled his shoulders, tightness clicking in his neck, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he tried to coax himself into submission.

Her thoughts raced, dared, denied, pleaded as he pursed his lips, his brow furrowing, evidently conflicted; then her whole body squeezed, tightened as she saw his shadow, in the corner of her eye, bending until the two heads became one, and his lips aligned with her ear which was hidden behind her hair.

He hesitated still, his face in line with hers, and turned his head infinitesimally so that his nose, his lips, brushed against her damp hair, and he sighed, secretly breathing in the smell of her, his eyes squeezed shut.

Her blood was heavy, now, stampeding around her body, pulsing in her lips, behind her eyes, flooding down to the pit of her stomach and aching, needing.