Run To You

I think my whole world lights up to suddenly feel him. My skin bristles all over, so sharply aware of that one innocuous touch. That one nothing touch. He doesn’t even cup my waist or linger for a while, and somehow I’m feverish over it. I’m flaming hot and hardly able to stand it – though I suspect the reason why.

The very casualness of the gesture is what makes it so very potent. Only intimate acquaintances would touch each other like that, with some unspoken hint of all the years between them. Somehow, I think, we have years between us, even though we’ve never actually and properly met.

This is the first time, and despite those years it feels like it. I’m shaking in the semi-shelter of his arm, afraid to meet his gaze but dying to do it anyway. Will he be as magnetic as I remember? It seems impossible, and yet I know the answer before I look. I don’t have to see those eyes. I can feel them on the side of my face: a slow caress.

And when I finally turn my head he’s even better than I expected.

I do it in increments, starting at his stubble-roughened throat, before moving onto his muscular jaw. There’s something so fist-like about his face, so brutal … until you get to the centre. Until you get to that mouth like melted butter and those eyes, oh, those eyes. Had they seemed so alive before? I would have called them hooded and sultry, I think, but I can’t quite call them that now.

They still are, but it’s different. It’s like he’s searching for something; I can see the restless pacing behind that gaze. I can feel him wandering through my insides, trying to find something I don’t know how to give. I’m sorry, I think at him, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Once he’s done with this looking, his mouth lifts a little at the corner. Just faintly, hardly anything at all.

But I recognise it for what it is.

This is the same smile I heard in his words – only now it comes with confirmation of its warmth, of its affection. I can see it in his eyes. I can feel it in the hand he raises to brush aside an errant strand of my insane hair.

And most of all, I can hear it in his words.

‘Hello, my Alissa,’ he says.

* * *

The room is just as I remember it: opulent, and filled with the kind of awed hush people usually find in museums. It makes me want to be very, very quiet, in case I accidentally breathe and disrespect the drapes. I almost fail at following him inside, for fear my shoes will dirty the quicksand carpet.

And for other reasons, too. Now that he’s not holding me and caressing me and saying the one word that turns my insides upside down – ‘my’, I think, mine, my own – I’m not quite sure how to behave. I feel as though I’m trailing in the wake of an enormous dark ship, and if I draw too much attention to myself I’ll be crushed by its jagged edges.

He could definitely crush me, if he wanted to. He’s much taller than I remember. Perhaps six foot two or three, though his overall size makes it seem like more. He really is built like a boxer or a rugby player, which probably explains why I jump back when he suddenly turns to face me. I just wasn’t expecting him to move. I was quite content following a couple of steps behind, and in one abrupt movement he closes that gap too quickly.

It isn’t a shock that I slam into the door behind me.

But it is a shock to him. He raises one eyebrow, which I suppose is his version of that feeling. It’s measured and a little amused, and it makes the corner of his mouth lift a little.

‘You’re not afraid, are you?’ he asks, though I think he knows I am. He just wants to show me how silly that is, how bemused it makes him. He isn’t going to do anything horrid to me, so why did I almost barge my way back out into the corridor?

Because he’s big? Because he’s a prowling, dangerous predator? He certainly walks like one, all from his hips and with the minimum of excess movement. It’s almost like his upper body remains completely still and ready to lunge, while his legs do all the work. It’s impossible to describe fully and so insanely masculine.

But it doesn’t explain why I wanted to run.

No, what he says next explains why I wanted to run.

‘You do understand that I’m not going to suddenly perform strange perverted acts on your innocent young body, don’t you?’

‘Of course I understand that,’ I snort, but I’m still standing by the door. And he’s still raising that one eyebrow. We both know I’m not fooling anyone. ‘All right, maybe I didn’t completely understand that.’

He turns to the drinks cabinet by the window, that great broad back now to me. It doesn’t make any difference, however. I could no more read his face than I can his shoulder blades. They’re both a blank slate.

‘Then let me be very clear: I didn’t bring you here to do anything you don’t want.’

‘So what did you bring me here for?’

He glances over his shoulder at me, smile now as sharp as a shark’s.

‘To find out what you do want, of course.’

‘Don’t you already know?’

‘I told you. I’m not a mind-reader.’

He has a glass of what looks like Scotch in his hand when he turns, and for a moment I think he’s going to give it to me. Instead he simply sits down by the table in front of the window, free hand working the buttons on his jacket until the whole thing hangs loose. One big leg jutting in my direction, the other tucked back.

It’s neither a relaxed pose nor an aggressive one.

It just is. He’s just himself, utterly contained and totally compelling.

‘I suppose the other women are pretty clear.’

‘The rules of the assignation are pretty clear. We always know beforehand what particular game we might be playing, though we never see each other more than once. Everything relies on an unspoken understanding between participants. But you and I don’t have that understanding.’

‘So what do we do now, then?’

He rolls the liquid around inside the glass, but doesn’t drink.

He speaks instead.

‘We do it the old-fashioned way. I ask, and you tell me.’

‘Can’t you just guess?’

‘I could, but that would make it ever so easy on you.’

‘I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He sets the glass down on the table, and I know something’s coming. He’s gearing up to it, if he even needs to do anything like that – which I doubt. He seems to have two settings: bristling silence and sudden action. And I think I’m about to get some sudden action now. ‘Perhaps we could play that way for a little while.’

Oh, God, I should never have asked for guessing. I was wrong, I take it back. Guessing is for people who understand everything about themselves. I do not understand everything about myself. I don’t even understand why I jerk when he stands up, because he doesn’t do it in an aggressive way.

He doesn’t do anything in an aggressive way, really. His voice is soft; his movements are measured and precise. And when he starts circling me, he does it in such a slow, casual manner it’s almost like he’s not doing it at all.

I doubt I’d notice, if I wasn’t so completely tuned into him. My body hums the moment he gets close, and even after he’s stepped behind me I’m aware he’s still there. I’m almost leaning towards him, in fact, as though he’s a magnet and I’m made of metal.

And of course he notices.

‘I could, for example, intuit from the sway of your body that you like it when I draw close, and don’t when I step away. Am I correct?’

He’s so correct it’s painful. I think he’s starting to pull my fillings out.

‘Yes.’

‘And when I do this …’ he begins, but naturally he doesn’t have to finish. The back of his hand against my cheek is enough. It’s more than enough. It’s a sort of bliss I’ve never really known before. ‘I can tell how much you like it by the way you lean into it.’