Chapters (28)
Emma wanted the sex over with now, she’d had enough. She wanted it all finished and to be in bed reading Hotel du Lac. But she and Si were always courteous with each other in that way; she knew he was going to wait for her to come. She’d better get on with it. She leant back, pushing him away a little so that she could slip her hand down between them and attempt to speed things along a bit on her own behalf. But it wasn’t working; her orgasm was proving elusive. Faster and faster she went, for God’s sake, come on, but now she knew for a fact that she was not going to come. And she certainly didn’t want to go through soothing explanations and new efforts so she had to do what was most expedient: her gasps crescendoed, she cried out, she froze, twitched and shuddered appropriately. She had as good as come; no observer would know the difference. That was her bit over with. Then, as she knew he would, Si climaxed almost immediately, crying out, pulling that strange expression with his mouth.
It was all done now. The end. She was quite keen to get off the kitchen island but that would be rude; she let his judders draw to a close while holding him close in a suitable fashion until it was permissible to show discomfort. Finito. They needn’t do that again for a while. Yes, that was great. They had a good sex life, one that anyone would be jealous of: after fifteen years they were still indulging in impulsive lovemaking on the kitchen island. Si and she were good.
However, in the sticky aftermath of intercourse, in that post-coital black hole, Emma didn’t get off the island. She sat there, bottom cheeks glued to the flint worktop, while Si went through to the hall to charge his phone. Everything was quiet; it was barely even raining any more, just a few taps on the roof, like feeble applause after a particularly poor production. And there she was, standing on an empty stage, alone, while the last members of the audience filed out with mumbles of disappointment. They could spot a fraud. Turns out we’re all avoiding something, aren’t we, Dr. Robinson?