Oh dear.
Chapter Ten
Fitz
Poppy’s nervous.
I suppose that was to be expected. I’m surprised, though. She’s thirty, and she told me she’s had a few partners, so even if she hasn’t had a one-night stand, I would’ve thought the notion of a fling wouldn’t have bothered her.
Most—if not all—of the women I’ve slept with have been sexually liberated, in the sense that they believe their pleasure is as important as the guy’s, and they expect the man they’re sleeping with to agree. They know how to touch themselves and are happy to pass that knowledge on to their partner, so for me sex has always been a two-way street. It’s not about me being an expert, but I’ve watched and learned, and I’ve never had any complaints.
If Poppy’s declaration about climaxing during sex wasn’t enough of a clue, her nervousness is beginning to suggest to me that her sex life has been far from satisfying. What’s sad is her conviction that her experience has been normal. How many women out there are in the same position? How many are with men who roll over after sex and fall asleep, leaving them aching for fulfilment?
I want to talk to her about it, but at the moment I’m worried that if I bring up the subject of us sleeping together, she’ll get to the stage where her anxiousness will develop into full-blown panic and she’ll make me sleep on the sofa, so instead I decide not to mention it, and instead to concentrate on helping her to relax.
It turns out Fiona was right, and the bar down the road produces some damn fine fish and seafood dishes. Poppy chooses a paella, and I go for citrus pan-fried snapper with lemon mash, although we share the dishes and end up eating half of each. It’s a beautiful spring evening; the sun is setting, and out to sea the ocean is turning dramatic shades of orange, red, and purple. Closer to shore, the waves break beneath us, and from our table by the window we can see the white spray painting the rocks.
The bar is basic and homely, with bare floorboards and wooden tables covered with checkered cloths, but there’s something romantic about the atmosphere. The waiter lights a candle and places it between us, love songs are playing softly in the background, and there are several other couples having dinner around us, holding hands and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes.
We don’t hold hands, but there’s something happening between us. Even though we don’t talk about what’s going to happen when we get back to the lighthouse, I know it’s on her mind, and it’s certainly on mine. She’s slipped off her jacket and hung it over the back of her chair, and the blouse she’s wearing is unbuttoned low enough that I catch a glimpse of cleavage. The skin there is pale and unblemished, and I know it’s going to be warm, and touched with the scent of her light, flowery perfume.
Her neck is smooth, and I keep thinking about kissing up to her ear and nuzzling there. Would she like that? I want to find out. I want to discover what makes her tick. What makes her sigh. I want to see what she smells like, what she tastes like, what sounds she makes when she comes. Will she be silent during sex, or will she sigh my name? I like the way she uses my name when everyone else calls me Fitz; it’s as if she’s discovered a secret, as if our relationship is private, special. Even Mel always called me Fitz.
I want to take the elastic from the end of her braid and unravel it, spread it across her shoulders, bury my face in it. I want to kiss her, and see whether I can persuade her to use her tongue. I want to slide inside her. God, I want to be inside her.
She has a sip of her wine and lifts her green eyes to mine. “Stop it,” she scolds.
I lift my eyebrows. “What?”
“Looking at me as if you’re thinking about me with no clothes on.”
It’s the first time either of us has mentioned sex. I’ve kept the conversation on movies and music and traveling, determined to get her to relax.
“I’m not gonna lie,” I tell her. “It has entered my head once or twice.”
She gives me a wry look and pushes her plate to the side. “Once or twice?”
“All right, I’ve barely thought about anything else. Can I help it when you’re so gorgeous?”