Not Next Week

Niall told me there wouldn't be a fourth date while I was still holding the whisky he'd just poured me.

He didn't make a ceremony of it. That was one of the things I liked about him, which was unfortunate in the circumstances.

We were in his sitting room in Polwarth, twenty minutes after dinner and ten minutes after I'd taken off my shoes because the left one had begun rubbing the back of my heel. My feet were tucked under me on one end of his sofa. Niall was in the armchair opposite, glass balanced on one knee, looking faintly annoyed with himself.

"I don't think we're after the same thing," he said.

I looked at him over the rim of my glass. "That's a grim opening line after buying somebody pudding."

"You bought pudding."

"Then I resent it even more."

He smiled, but only briefly. Niall wasn't bad at jokes. He just didn't use them as emergency exits.

He was forty-four, broad through the shoulders without looking as though he had arranged his week around it, with dark blond hair cut shorter than I preferred and a face that became much better when he stopped trying to look pleasant. There was a small fold between his eyebrows when he concentrated. I'd noticed it on our first date because he had spent several minutes trying to understand why I thought a restaurant menu describing carrots as "soil-roasted" was an act of aggression.

On our second date he'd kissed me outside the Filmhouse, slowly enough to make me miss a bus I hadn't intended to catch.

Tonight we'd kissed in the close before coming upstairs. I could still feel the slight roughness of his jaw at the corner of my mouth.

"What are you after?" I asked.

He looked down at his whisky. "Something that might become serious. Not immediately. I'm not proposing a shared calendar. But if I keep seeing someone, I'm hoping it's going somewhere."

"And you think I'm not."

"I think you're enjoying dating me."

"I am."

"That's not quite the same answer."

It irritated me because it was true, and because he had said it without accusation.

I put my glass on the table. "I haven't lied to you."

"I know."

"I haven't promised casual either."

"I know that too."

"Then what exactly are we disagreeing about?"

He rubbed his thumb once over the edge of his glass. "Timing, maybe. Inclination. I can see myself wanting more. I don't think you can."

He wasn't wrong. Nothing about Niall put me off. I liked the steadiness of him, the absence of theatre, the fact that if he said he'd ring on Thursday he rang on Thursday. But when he wasn't there I didn't find myself making room for him in the rest of my life.

There was enough professional language available in my head to make that sentence very complicated. I ignored all of it.

"Not with you," I said.

His mouth tightened.

I hadn't meant it cruelly. It was simply the shortest honest version.

"Right," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That's useful information."

"You look delighted."

"I'm not delighted."

"Good. I'd have been offended."

He looked at me then, properly, and the expression on his face made something low in my body tighten despite the conversation we were having.

That was the other unfortunate thing about Niall. I fancied him enormously.

He had changed after dinner, not theatrically, just taken off the dark jacket he'd worn to the restaurant and rolled his shirt sleeves to his forearms. His hands were large, square-palmed, the nails clean and short. On the first date I'd watched him use those hands to tear a piece of bread in half and had thought about them doing something less civilised before I knew his surname.

Attraction isn't improved by good judgement. It merely becomes more inconvenient.

Niall put his glass down as well.

"Do you want to go?" he asked.

"Probably."

"That's not yes."

"No."

Neither of us moved.

There was rain at the windows, not dramatic rain, just the steady Edinburgh sort that makes the glass look permanently tired. His flat was warm. My shoes were under the coffee table. My coat was hanging in the hall. The practical route out of the room was obvious.

Niall leaned back and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

"This is going to sound stupid."

"You've set quite a standard already."

He ignored that. "I still want to sleep with you."

I said, "I still want to sleep with you too."

He nodded once, almost to himself.

"That doesn't fix the other thing," he said.

"No."

"I'm not asking it to."

"Neither am I."

He was quiet for a few seconds.

"And I'm not interested in pretending tonight means we'll try again next week."

"There isn't a next week."

"Right."

I got up from the sofa.

Niall watched me cross the space between us. I stopped between his knees and put one hand on his shoulder.

"I don't want a consolation shag," he said.

"Neither do I."

"I don't do quick very well."

"That sounds less like a warning than you think."

His hand came to the back of my thigh, warm through my tights.

"Kate."

The way he said my name removed the joke from the room.

I bent and kissed him.

He put both hands on my hips and drew me closer. His mouth was warm from the whisky. The kiss was nothing like the careful one outside the cinema. He opened his mouth under mine and held me firmly enough that my knees touched the sides of the chair. I put one hand into his hair and the other against his neck.

When I straightened, he looked up at me.

"Still yes?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Bedroom?"

"Yes."

He stood. I had to step back quickly to make room, and he caught my waist before I walked into the coffee table.

"Elegant," he said.

"That was your furniture."

The humour lasted exactly as far as the hall.

His bedroom was small and warmer than the sitting room. One bedside lamp was on. There was a book face-down on the duvet and a shirt hanging from the wardrobe door. Nothing about the room had been prepared for me, which I liked more than I expected.

Niall stopped beside the bed and kissed me again.

I unbuttoned his shirt while he had one hand under my hair at the back of my neck. He didn't hurry me. When the last button came free I pushed the shirt from his shoulders and looked at him.

He had the body of a man who used it without thinking much about how it photographed. Thick chest, pale skin, a little softness at his stomach, hair across his chest and narrowing down. There was an old white scar beside his ribs, no more than an inch long. I touched it with one finger.

"Kitchen knife," he said.

"I wasn't going to ask."

"You were looking at it."

"I was looking at all of you."

His expression changed.

That was enough talking for a while.

He pulled my top over my head. My hair caught under the neckline and I had to free it with both hands. He waited, close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek but without trying to help. When the top was gone he put his hands around my waist and kissed my shoulder, then the upper curve of my breast above the bra.

I reached for his belt.

His hard-on was obvious before I had the trousers open. I slipped my hand inside his underwear and wrapped my fingers around him.

Niall shut his eyes for a second.

"Don't stop," he said.

I didn't.

He was thick in my hand, hot and hard, the skin shifting under my grip when I moved. I watched his face because he didn't perform his response for me. His jaw tightened. His hand stayed at my waist, fingers pressing into the softer flesh there. When my thumb moved over the head of his cock he opened his eyes and looked straight at me.

"Slower," he said.

I slowed.

"Like that."

There was nothing polished in his voice. It made me wetter.

He reached behind me and opened my bra. I let it fall between us. His eyes went to my breasts immediately, not with the astonished reverence younger men sometimes think mature women require, but with straightforward appetite.

"Come here," he said.

I was already there, but I understood him.

He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. His hand closed over the other breast, lifting and squeezing it. I kept my hand around his cock and felt his hips shift once against my grip.

"Fuck," I said.

He sucked harder.

I pushed my fingers into his hair. His mouth moved from one breast to the other, tongue circling, teeth catching lightly enough to make me tense. He noticed.

"Too much?"

"No. Again."

He did it again.

The bluntness of it suited us better than the conversation in the sitting room had. There was no need to explain what a sensation meant or whether it was a sensible decision. I wanted his mouth there. He wanted my hand moving on him. We could manage those facts.

Niall straightened and unfastened my skirt.

"Turn round."

I did.

He slid the zip down and pushed the skirt over my hips. It dropped to the floor. His hands moved over my backside through the tights, palms spreading, then squeezing. I leaned back against him. His erection pressed between us through his trousers.

"These off," he said, hooking two fingers into the waistband of the tights.

"Yes."

He crouched behind me and drew them down slowly. I stepped out of them, then out of my knickers when he pulled those down too. The carpet was warm under my feet.

For a moment he stayed crouched. His mouth touched the back of my thigh, then higher. I felt his hand between my legs from behind, two fingers sliding through wetness that had already made a mess of any pretence at restraint.

"Christ," he said quietly.

I turned my head. "What?"

"Nothing bad."

His fingers moved again, parting me, finding my clit and circling once.

I put a hand against the wardrobe door.

"Do that again."

He did.

The second circle was firmer. I pressed back towards his hand.

"More."

He gave me more, fingers moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth stayed against the back of my thigh. I felt the pleasure begin to concentrate too quickly and reached behind me for his wrist.

"Stop."

He stopped immediately.

I turned around.

"Not because I don't like it," I said.

"I know."

"I want you in me before I come."

His eyes moved over my face. "All right."

I unfastened his trousers the rest of the way and pushed them down with his underwear. He stepped out of both.

For a few seconds we simply looked at one another.

There is a point in new sex when imagination becomes specific. Niall was no longer a body I had assembled from clothes and kissing. I could see the pale line where his waistband usually sat, the dark hair on his thighs, the shape and weight of his cock, the slight bend of it when he was fully hard. He was looking at me with the same concentration.

I felt no urge to cover myself.

"Bed," I said.

He lay back and I climbed over him.

I kissed him first, then sat up astride his hips. His hands settled on my thighs. I could have lowered myself onto him then. Instead I rubbed myself against his cock, wet enough that it slid easily between us.

Niall exhaled through his nose and gripped my thighs more firmly.

"You're making that difficult."

"I know."

I rocked once more, then reached down and held him in my hand.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I don't."

I guided him into me slowly.

The first stretch made me pause. I stayed there, only partway down, letting my body adjust.

Niall's hands loosened on my thighs.

"All right?"

"Yes. Don't move."

He didn't.

I lowered myself the rest of the way when I was ready. The pressure settled deep and full. I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

Niall was watching me.

"Still slow?" I asked.

"Please."

I moved.

Not much at first. I lifted a little and lowered again, keeping most of the contact between us. His hands came to my waist. I found a rhythm that made his cock drag slowly through me without losing the fullness at the bottom of each movement.

His face changed by degrees. The fold between his eyebrows deepened. His mouth opened. He looked less composed than he had at dinner, less careful than he had been while ending something that had barely started.

I liked him better like that too.

The thought was inconvenient enough that I pushed it away.

"Touch me," I said.

"Where?"

I took his right hand and put it on my breast.

"There. Don't be gentle because you think you should be."

His fingers closed around me.

"Like that?"

"Harder."

He squeezed harder, thumb moving over my nipple while I continued the slow rise and fall above him.

"Yes."

Niall's other hand slid from my waist to my hip. He didn't speed me up. That surprised me. Men who say they like slow sex often mean they like starting slowly before reverting to the same three minutes as everybody else.

Niall meant it.

I leaned forward until my breasts were close to his face. He took one nipple into his mouth while his other hand continued working the other, and the shift in my angle changed the pressure inside me. I made a sound I hadn't intended.

His mouth stayed where it was.

"Fuck me like this," I said.

He put both feet flat on the bed and began to move up into me, still measured, still refusing the easy acceleration. Each thrust met my downward movement and ended with his mouth or hand on my breasts. The combination made it difficult to think about anything except the next one.

I lost the rhythm first.

Niall stopped moving.

"Why did you stop?"

"You changed."

"I changed because it was good. Keep fucking me."

A small smile appeared and vanished.

He resumed.

The pace stayed slow, but the force increased. I felt it in my thighs and in the soft impact of my body against his. His mouth left my breast. He looked up at me, breathing harder now.

"Turn round," he said.

I hesitated only because I wanted to understand what he meant.

"On me," he said. "Facing away."

"You said you liked slow."

"I do."

"Good."

I lifted off him, turned carefully on my knees and lowered myself back with my back to his chest.

The angle was different enough to make me swear.

"All right?"

"Yes. Give me a second."

His hands rested on my hips. I put mine on his thighs for balance and began moving again.

I couldn't see his face now. That changed something. The conversation in the sitting room had been almost painfully face-to-face, two adults stating what they wanted and discovering it didn't match. With my back to him, I could stop reading his expression and simply feel what he did.

He followed my pace for several movements, then one hand slid around my waist and down between my legs.

His fingers found my clit.

"Oh, fuck. Yes."

He kept the touch steady while I moved on him. It made my balance worse. I leaned back, letting more of my weight rest against his thighs.

Niall's other hand came up into my hair.

At first he only gathered it away from the back of my neck.

"Pull it," I said.

His hand tightened.

"More."

He pulled harder, enough to tip my head back without hurting me. The sensation ran down my neck and across my scalp, sharp and clean against the slower pressure inside me.

"That's it."

He held my hair like that while his other hand worked between my legs.

I stopped trying to maintain a graceful rhythm. I moved because I needed the friction, because his cock felt good inside me and his fingers were exactly where I wanted them and the pull at the roots of my hair had turned my whole body more alert.

"Niall."

"What?"

"Don't speed up."

"I won't."

"And don't stop touching my pussy."

His answer was a low sound against my shoulder.

He didn't stop.

The pleasure built without the usual rush. It collected slowly, making each movement feel more deliberate. My thighs began to tire. I shifted my knees wider and lowered myself more fully onto him.

Niall's hand in my hair eased.

"No," I said. "Keep it."

His grip tightened again.

The combination was almost too much now, not because any one thing was extreme but because nothing was being allowed to fade into background. I could feel the full length of him with each movement, the firm circle of his fingers, the pull at my scalp, his chest against my back whenever I leaned far enough into him.

My orgasm arrived in a long, uneven wave rather than a sudden break. I stopped moving for a second and then couldn't stay still. My hips jerked once against his hand. I heard myself say his name and something less articulate after it. He held me through it without forcing the pace faster.

When the strongest part passed, I bent forward and put both hands on the bed.

"Let go of my hair."

He did at once.

I stayed where I was, breathing, his cock still inside me.

Niall's hands came to my hips.

"You all right?"

"Very."

"Do you want to stop?"

I considered it honestly.

"No. Lie back."

He did.

I lifted off him and turned again, then lay on my back. My legs felt loose and heavy. Niall knelt between them.

I reached for him and guided him back inside me.

He began to move, still slow.

I laughed once, not because anything was funny but because I couldn't quite believe his commitment to the principle.

He paused.

"What?"

"Nothing. Keep going."

"You're laughing at me."

"I'm impressed."

"That's worse."

"Niall."

He looked at me.

"Fuck me."

That ended the conversation.

He put one hand under my left knee and lifted my leg higher. I raised the other myself. He shifted closer, my legs bent and lifted, and the next thrust went deeper enough that my mouth opened without sound.

"That?" he asked.

"Yes. Stay there."

He did.

The position changed his movement from long to shorter and deeper. He kept the pace measured but there was more force behind it now. My breasts moved with each thrust. Niall watched them for a moment, then leaned forward and took one in his hand.

His thumb rubbed over the nipple while he fucked me.

"Both," I said.

He bent lower, mouth closing over the other breast while his hand kept working the first.

I held the backs of my thighs to keep my legs raised. The effort made them tremble. His mouth was hot, his stubble rough against the softer skin of my breast, his cock pressing deep with the same stubborn patience as before.

I was sensitive after coming. Not painfully, but enough that every movement registered too clearly.

"Softer with your mouth," I said.

He softened immediately.

"There."

He kept the nipple between his lips and changed the pressure. His hand on the other breast remained firm.

I watched him. The top of his hair, the movement of his shoulders, the concentration in the line of his body. He had stopped looking careful. There was only the pressure of his hand, his mouth and the next measured movement.

Niall lifted his head.

"I'm close."

"Good."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No. I want you to come."

He moved a little faster then, not much. The control in him finally began to fray. His hand left my breast and braced beside my shoulder. I lowered one leg and wrapped it around his hip, keeping the other raised for another few movements until the angle became too much for my thigh.

"Leg," I said.

He understood and helped lower it.

The last part was less elegant. His pace lost its evenness. I held his shoulders. He kissed me once, missed my mouth the second time and swore under his breath.

"Don't worry about kissing me," I said.

His forehead pressed briefly against mine.

Then his body tightened over me. I felt the change before he stopped controlling it: the shorter, uneven thrusts, the firmer drive of his hips, the tremor through his abdomen where it pressed against me. I was still sensitive enough from coming that each broken movement registered sharply. I drew him closer with the leg around his hip and held on. There was a private satisfaction in feeling that careful steadiness finally give way.

The next few movements shortened and faltered before he stopped, breathing hard against my cheek. I kept one hand between his shoulder blades while the tension slowly left him.

He stayed there for several seconds.

"All right?" I asked.

"Yes."

I ran a hand down his back.

He gave a short laugh into my shoulder.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm trying not to say something stupid."

"Now would be the traditional time."

He lifted his head. "I thought we weren't having a fourth date."

"We aren't."

"Good."

"You sound disappointed."

"I am disappointed."

"So am I."

He looked at me for another second, then eased away and rolled onto his back beside me.

There was no revelation in the ceiling.

I lay still while my body settled. My breasts felt tender from his mouth and hands. My scalp still had a faint pleasant ache where he'd held my hair. Between my legs I was warm, wet and oversensitive. I could feel the ordinary aftermath of sex beginning to replace the intensity of it.

Niall reached for the duvet and pulled it over both of us.

"You cold?"

"Not yet."

He left his hand on top of the duvet between us.

For perhaps a minute neither of us spoke.

Then he said, "That was not helpful."

I turned my head. "In what sense?"

"I liked you before."

"Ah."

"And now I've had very good sex with you."

"You poor man."

"Don't."

There was no sharpness in it, but I stopped.

He looked at the ceiling.

"This is the bit where I'm meant to decide I was wrong, isn't it?"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Neither am I."

He nodded.

I was relieved, which was not quite the same as happy.

Niall turned onto his side to face me. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask."

"What would make you want what I want?"

It was the sort of question I could have answered for somebody else for an hour.

"I don't know exactly," I said. "That's the irritating part. I like you. I like being with you. I just don't feel myself reaching for the next part."

"The next part."

"Yes."

He looked away for a moment. "I was hoping for something more specific."

"So was I."

He rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"That doesn't mean you're lacking something," I said.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Kate, I spend half my week with people demanding to know whose fault a broken lift is. Half the time it's nobody's." He frowned at the ceiling. "It's still broken."

I laughed once.

"That sounded better in my head," he said.

"Did it?"

"Not much."

He reached out and moved a strand of hair away from my mouth.

"And you?" I asked. "What would make you happy with something casual?"

He thought for a moment. "Wanting something casual, I suppose."

"Annoyingly consistent."

"That's the answer. Doesn't mean I'm enjoying it."

"I know."

We were quiet again.

I could have stayed the night. Nothing in the conversation prohibited it. But I didn't want to wake beside him and begin a fourth date by accident.

I sat up.

"I'm going home."

Niall nodded. "All right."

He didn't ask me to stay. He didn't make a point of not asking.

We dressed without much conversation. My tights had twisted into themselves on the floor and took longer than dignity allowed to sort out. Niall pulled on his underwear and trousers, then sat on the edge of the bed while I fastened my bra.

"Your hair's a state," he said.

"That's partly your fault."

"You told me to pull it."

"I know. I said partly."

He found my top near the wardrobe and handed it to me.

In the hall I put my shoes back on and immediately regretted the left one.

Niall noticed me wince.

"Blister?"

"Developing grievance."

He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a small plaster.

"Sit down."

"You're very commanding for a man who's just been rejected."

"Sit down or limp home."

I sat on the bottom stair.

He crouched and handed me the plaster rather than applying it himself. I peeled off the backing and stuck it over the raw patch on my heel.

Niall leaned his shoulders against the wall opposite me.

"You know this is still a terrible idea," he said.

"Which bit?"

"The sex."

"Too late."

"I noticed."

I stood and put on my coat.

He opened the front door. Rain whispered in the stairwell from somewhere below.

"Message me when you're home," he said.

"That's dangerously close to caring."

"I do care. I'm not dead. I just don't want to spend six months pretending we're heading somewhere when we're not."

"I know."

"Good."

I kissed him once. It wasn't a rehearsal for anything. It was softer than the first kiss in the chair and shorter than the ones in bed.

When I stepped into the stairwell, he said, "Night, Kate."

"Night."

He shut the door.

The plaster held until the second landing. I stopped, pressed one corner back down against my heel and went on.