No Regrets

‘You tell me,’ she said.

And with that he hailed a cab. ‘Your place. I want to see how you live.’

As they arrived at her little flat, she regretted leaving her sketches lying around the living room and the clothes crisis in her bedroom. She’d been certain that wherever they ended up, it wouldn’t be back at hers. At least she had wine. She always had wine, houmous and pitta bread in the fridge (otherwise it was empty).

She loved her flat. It was a pokey affair in the less desirable part of Chelsea, the other side of World’s End, but it was her safe place. Very few men had been so honoured, and only those acquired in that twilight after her memory had gone before she passed out. It was cozy and quiet and she’d taken years adding knick-knacks and bits-and-pieces from flea markets and boutiques. It was colourful and tiny, and it came with access to a small balcony where she would often go and sit day or night with a glass of wine and perhaps a consoling cigarette. She could sit unseen and watch the world go by.

‘Nice pad,’ said Freddie as he came up behind her, his hands idly wandering up her dress over her bottom.

‘Nice? I don’t do nice. IKEA is nice. This is not IKEA. If that’s what you want, you’re in the wrong place, fella.’

He kissed the back of her neck, while his hands continued their journey until they reached her breasts, where his fingers lingered over her nipples.

‘No. Not nice. Nothing flat-packed here. Everything feels made-to-measure and fit-for-purpose.’

He bit her neck once and backed off suddenly. ‘Some wine maybe?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, out of breath. ‘Sorry, the fridge.’ She was aching with excitement, she was wet, and her clitoris was swelling with anticipation. She worried what the hell would happen when he actually got her clothes off. She grabbed the white wine from the fridge and handed him a glass. He took a sip of the icy cold wine, pulled her towards him and kissed her, flooding her mouth with wine and his tongue, pushing his lean strong body against her. He lifted her onto the kitchen counter and pressed himself between her legs. They kissed and she lost awareness of everything else, enjoying him, nipping, nibbling, tasting; yes, she was hungry. But his hands didn’t move to touch her again. Just his tongue, his lips, the light stubble. And just when she thought she was going to have to beg him to fuck her, he undid his jeans and lifted her up to pull off her tights and now very wet knickers. There was no more foreplay. He just slid easily into her wetness, grabbing her waist for support. He was thicker and longer than she’d expected and the relief of feeling him inside her made her gasp. He was gentle but forceful, starting slowly, then getting faster, taking her with him.

And then he stopped.

He bent down to lick her, gently teasing her now-thick clitoris. She felt the climax coming and she wanted to share – she tried so hard to hold it back, she did, and just as she felt there was nothing more she could do, that she was helpless, he was back inside her, bigger than before, slamming her backwards as they came together. She heard herself cry out, and saw his head thrown back, his body bucking with pleasure. He collapsed with a laugh and kissed her as he retrieved his wine. They fell into a heap on the sofa, tangled up in one another, enjoying the moment of togetherness.

Dixie was surprised when Freddie stood up and straightened his clothes.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Dixie. Till next time.’ He turned to leave.

‘Oh,’ she said, trying hard to hide her disappointment. ‘You’re off? I can’t tempt you to stay?’ She let her legs fall apart.

‘Not this time, but thank you – I have an early start tomorrow, and I’m sure we could both do with a few hours’ sleep.’

‘Will I see you again soon?’ As she asked that, she hated herself, the neediness. She was not that sappy girl, who once fucked needed commitment and reassurance. She wasn’t.

‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ he answered. ‘Sleep well, my little redhead.’ He leaned down and kissed her and he was gone.

Ditched on my own sofa, thought Dixie. His sperm still wet on her thigh. That’s a new one! His glibness made her wonder how many women he’d slept with since his wife had died. Was this how he managed his grief? Using women for distraction? Or was she the first one?

She felt like they had shared so much in one evening. She’d loved every minute. He was different, but something about his need to wrong-foot her, to tease and withdraw, was dangerous, unpredictable. Being prepared for anything meant being prepared for disappointment, she counselled herself. But as she sat there, she found herself doodling a picture of the two of them at dinner, heads almost touching over the candle, like no one else in the world existed.