The Flatshare: A Novel

Me: It’s probably not the right time.

Tiffy: I sincerely hope you’re joking.

Me: Not joking, but definitely hoping you’ll tell me I’m wrong.

Tiffy: You are wrong. Now is the perfect time. We are alone, in our flat, together. It literally does not get better than this.

We stare at each other. She’s still wearing that incredible dress. Looks like it would tip off her shoulders to the floor with one tug. I’m desperate to try it. I resist, though – she says she’s ready, but it’s not been the sort of day for tear-my-clothes-off sex. Slow, lovely, clothes-staying-on-for-tantalisingly-long-time sex, maybe.

Tiffy: Bed?

That voice – exactly like Richie described it. Deep and sexy. Much sexier when it says things like ‘bed’, too.

We stand at the foot of the bed and turn to face one another again. I lean to take her face between my hands and kiss her. Feel her body melt against mine as we kiss, feel the tension leave her, and pull back to see her eyes have gone fiery behind the blue. The desire is instant, on the moment our lips touch, and it takes enormous effort just to rest my hands on her bare shoulders.

She reaches to loosen my tie and shrug off my jacket. Unbuttons my shirt slowly, kissing me as her fingers move. There’s still air between us now, like we’re keeping a respectful distance, despite the kissing.

Tiffy turns, holding her hair out of the way so I can unzip her dress. I take her hair into my hands instead, pulling a little as I twist the bunch around my wrist, and she moans. Can’t handle that sound. Close that space between us, kissing along her shoulders, up her neck to where her hair meets her skin, pressing as close as I can until she shifts to loosen her own zip.

Tiffy: Leon. Focus. Dress.

I take the zip from between her fingers and pull it down slowly, slower than she wants. She wriggles, impatient. Backs up into me until my legs hit the bed and we’re pressed close again, bare skin and silk.

Eventually the dress falls to the floor. It’s almost cinematic – a shimmer of silk, then she’s there, black underwear and nothing else. She turns in my arms, her eyes still fiery, and I hold her away to look at her.

Tiffy, smiling: You always do that.

Me: Do what?

Tiffy: Look at me like that. When I . . . take something off.

Me: Want to see everything. It’s too important for rushing.

Tiffy quirks an eyebrow, unbearably sexy.

Tiffy: No rushing?

She traces her fingers along the top of my boxers. Dips her hand below it, a hair’s breadth from where I want her.

Tiffy: You’re going to regret saying that, Leon.

I’m already regretting, as soon as she says my name. Her fingers trace across my lower belly, and then, painfully slowly, reach for the buckle of my belt. After she’s eased the zip down I step out of my suit trousers and kick off my socks, conscious of how her eyes follow me like a cat’s. When I move to pull her close to me again she puts a firm hand on my chest.

Tiffy, throatily: Bed.

That air between us is back for an instant; we move automatically to our old sides of the bed. She’s left, I’m right. We watch each other as we slide under the covers.

I lie sideways, looking at her. Her hair spreads across the pillow, and though she’s under the duvet I can sense how bare she is, how much of her there is to touch. I place my hand in the space between us. She takes it, bridging the line we’d drawn back in February, and kisses my fingers, then slides them between her lips, and suddenly that space is gone and she’s pressed up against me where she should be, skin on skin, not a fraction of an inch between us.