Hold Me Close

fall in love again

My longing has only been fuelled by earlier, and is worsened by the intimate confines of Alexia's car.

Oli yowls in the back, unhappy with being in the carrier, anxious for what is to come. He gets locked in the evil, white cage when I take him to the vet, or drop him off somewhere with someone new. Maybe María is his friend now. He seems to recognise her driveway, growing louder and more insistent.

Stopping the car is the worst idea Alexia has had, because the hand that has previously been nonchalantly resting on my thigh is now at liberty to do more. The reality of me leaving is uncomfortable – suffocating, even – and she leans over, guiding my lips to hers. She kisses me softly, more so than last night and this morning, but she is just as commanding.

It is easy to shift from this world to one of our own, and I climb over the console, onto her lap. She pulls a lever, moving the seat backwards. The steering wheel presses cumbersomely into my back anyway, and her legs must be incredibly cramped, but it doesn't stop her from slipping her tongue into my mouth, the wet heat not unwelcome despite the small gasp I let out. Her fingers grip my hips, digging into the coarse fabric of my jeans, until the wandering hand from earlier reappears, this time on its pursuit upwards, slithering against my stomach.

Alexia is a very good kisser, and I find myself completely at her mercy, allowing her to continue exploring every corner of my mouth with her tongue despite the niggling thought at the back of mind that points out how we are a) pressed for time and b) parked outside María's house.

I talk myself out of cancelling my plans for Ibiza altogether. I would happily drag Alexia to my bedroom this very moment, declaring to the world that they cannot have their darling footballer back until I have kissed, licked, and bitten every inch of her skin.

Hands resting on my bum, she urges me to grind against her, defying the car's lack of space. Her lips trail to my neck, sucking down on the resilient sweet spot behind my ear that remains hickey-less for now. We toe the line between completely making out and sharing a very heated kiss.

A knock on the window breaks us out of our trance. The glass is yet to fog, thankfully, though I decide it would have been preferable considering María's triumphant expression and our matching blushes. Alexia, for some reason, (probably the cockiness that I once declared I hated) simply presses down on a button, smirking as the window disappears.

"I'm happy for you," is what María says, her eyes holding a look that I know will have me explaining everything to her later. And probably enduring a lecture aimed at teenagers. "Oli is in the back?" I nod. She says no more, opening the door once Alexia has unlocked it.

"Thanks, Mamá," I mumble, hoping to soften her possible wrath.

She grins, teeth showing. "De nada, mija. Have fun in Ibiza, and, of course, the best of luck for the World Cup." And then she grows sterner, but it is not an emotion directed at me. Alexia shifts, intimidated. It's an odd sight to see, but a petty part of me is delighted. "Conduce con cuidado."

The warning holds more than the spoken words. Spanish is full of implications, making it ten times harder to understand.

María then opens the driver's door, beckoning for me to get out of the car. I oblige, clambering off Alexia's lap with the most dignity I can muster, pretending to ignore the fact that what had been going on lower down has been revealed to a woman I consider to be, well, mother-like. "When?" she whispers in my ear as I hug her goodbye, feeling the tug of my heart that tells me I am going to miss the home she has welcomed me into.

"Last night," I reply. "We argued. Jaimie's girlfriend talked some sense into me."

"Is it love?" Is this love? María seems to answer her own question. "No, no, of course it is. Please let yourself be happy, Fleur."