Chapter 15

Claire emerged into Arrivals Reception pushing her trolley with two huge cases, two smaller ones, her laptop and some duty free bags. She searched those waiting and then saw Peter standing among the crowd. He simply stood. He did not wave to catch her attention and his face seemed emotionless, neither happy nor sad, though certainly not eager.

She made her way to him and stood before him, the trolley between them. She looked enquiringly at him and he seemed to awake and stood aside.

“Let me,” he said and took the trolley from her, pushing it towards the exit and the car park. She walked beside him. He made no attempt to talk to her.

As they approached the car, she broke the oppressive silence.

“Very good flight, thanks for asking,” she said sarcastically.

He was opening the boot and froze. “Oh, er, good,” he said. No more.

She left him to load the car and sat in the passenger seat, waiting while he returned the trolley.

He got in and drove. Again there was no conversation, and by now she felt no need to try to make any, so the journey was made without a word passing between them. When they reached the house, she left the car and used her key to open the front door. There was no one at home and she felt relieved at that.

She went to the kitchen and put the kettle to boil for some tea. She opened the fridge and found it full of food. She wondered how he’d managed: he was no cook. She made the tea and put milk into her mug. Then she sat at the kitchen table.

Peter returned from the upper floor having made three journeys with her baggage. Claire had his tea ready for him as he liked it, black with lemon. He sat down, looking anywhere but at her.

Claire was itching to say something, but something told her to remain silent, and allow Peter to make the first move. He sighed, then seemed to force his eyes to look at her. She sat impassive, sipping her tea from time to time. She was staring at him all the time over the rim of her teacup, patiently waiting.

He seemed to gather himself, as if wondering how to begin.

“Claire ... I put your bags in the spare bedroom–”

He saw her face clouding, and hastened on. “No, not like last time. I didn’t know ... I mean you might not want...”

She understood. He was painfully uncomfortable with her, wondering if she would want to sleep with him after all the problems there had been between them.

“Where do you want me to sleep?” she asked quietly with half a smile.

She could see he was wrong footed. He was struggling to find the ‘right’ answer.

“I don’t think you want to sleep with me,” he said at length. “You seem distant.”

“Peter, I’m asking you. I’ll gladly sleep where ever you want.”

He sighed. “With me,” he said quietly. “I’d like you to be with me.”

“Fine,” she said. “Are my other things still in the spare?”

“No, no!” he said urgently. “I moved what was left after you went. I’m sorry about when you came. Looking back on it, and talking about it with Lieve Hoebeek, you were right: I behaved very badly.”

“Well, we’re trying to put things right now, aren’t we?’ she said with a smile. “I’ll go and unpack.”

It was a relief to leave the tension in the kitchen and climb the stairs. It had been an uncomfortable beginning, almost as if she was coming to stay as a guest with a stranger. Then she understood that he was far more uncomfortable than she was.

She felt such a mix of emotions: she had been annoyed at his lack of welcome, then discomfort as they sat with their tea, now it was sadness at his discomfort, and a longing to put him at his ease.

She realised she no longer felt at home in the house, but she put that down to the distance between Peter and herself. She would spend some time unpacking. Perhaps she would feel better with something to do, and when everything was back in its proper place.

She was right: she did feel better. She looked round the room. Everything was as it was before she left so long ago. This had been her life for years and years, and now she was back. The tension in her drained away, and that allowed feelings of worry and concern for Peter to surface. He seemed lost and she hated that. What to do?

Then she made up her mind and went downstairs and found him still sitting in the kitchen, staring into space.

“Peter,” she said. He started.

“Come here,” she said.

He stood and shuffled towards her, until he was standing at arm’s length. She took two small steps to cover the distance between them, and put her arms round his neck and onto the back of his head. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

At first there was no reaction, then his lips softened and he began to kiss her back, his kisses becoming intense and passionate. He groaned as she pushed her body at him, and his hands at her waist pulled her close. She felt exultant as the kiss went on and on.

At length the kissing ended, but the embrace did not. She looked up into his eyes and saw the begging there, the longing to retrieve what they used to have. She stroked his hair and neck, and felt the power of her love for him return. She took him by the hand and led him up the stairs to their bedroom.

He stood looking puzzled, until she made her move.

She undid her slacks, and slid them down her legs, kicking off her shoes and stepping out of the garment on the floor. Then her sweater, lifting it over her head and casting it away onto the carpet. She had chosen her sexiest bra and knickers, and now stood for his inspection, before moving to him and kissing him again, this time on his neck and chin.

Again his arms went round her and his hands roved over her naked back, brushing against her bra strap.

“Take it off,” she urged him, and he flicked open the hooks, the cups becoming loose. He stood back and she shrugged the light lacy thing off, displaying her breasts to him, and moving once more into his arms.

Now they kissed again, and this time she moaned, all the pent up frustration of the months being compressed into that sound. She heard and felt the vibration of his own deep lustful groan.

She stood back again and this time, slipped down the lacy briefs, leaving her naked and open to his gaze.

She drank in his urgent need of her, seeing the lust for her in his eyes, which then clouded with a flash of worry and guilt.

“I’m getting onto our bed,” she said assertively. “I want you, Peter.”

He stood uncertain, as she lay back and allowed her legs to fall slightly open. This was familiar territory, she vamping him and he reluctant for fear of making her pregnant. She had to say again what she always said when reaching this point.

“It’s perfectly safe, Peter. Come to bed. Take me!”

Up to this point she had acted without further thought. Initially she had wanted to break down the distance between them, emotionally as well as physically; now she had a burning need for sex, just physical sex with him. It eclipsed all other feelings, took her over, and she didn’t care.

So it was with relief she now watched the speed with which he was shedding his clothes, and revealing his body. He was as she remembered. He was noticeably thinner but still with a small belly on him. As the briefs came down, his erection powerfully sprang free and she groaned in anticipation and heedless desire.

As he lay down, she leant up on her arm and ran her other hand over his body, chest, stomach, and then made her way down his legs, feeling his thighs, and calves. Then she felt his hand on her back, moving down and over her bottom, into her crease, and under to her sex.

Her face was at his groin, and finding his erect cock so close, took him into her mouth.

“Claire!” he gasped. “Claire, you shouldn’t!”

She lifted for a moment, “Shut up, Peter,” she growled with a feral grin. “Just enjoy. I can’t conceive so it doesn’t matter where your cream goes!”

“But–”

“Don’t worry, this hard cock will be in the right place when you come!” and she sucked and bobbed.

Then came a shock for her. He was stroking her clitoris, a circular motion bringing her close.

She pushed him down, and straddled him, grasping his engorged rod and feeding it to her, and sinking down. “Aah!” came from her lips: the feeling of being filled after so long was soo good!

After all the frustration of life with John, now she wanted resolution, and worked herself on him frantically as he lay beneath her. He was looked askance, and was quite still, but she didn’t care, she was piling on the effort to find her way to her own ecstasy!

However, as she neared the moment, as the warmth, the tingle grew, he began to move urgently, unable to resist his own passion, pushing up strongly as she pushed down. With a sense of satisfaction, she knew he had lost control and was fucking her. She knew he would not last long: he never did.

With a loud roar, he came, and she felt the pulsing deep down. She continued on until she came in her turn, crying out shrilly on and on, twitching and jerking with the spasms, until she fell onto him and was spent.

At length, she rolled off him and snuggled into his chest. There was silence and heavy breathing from both of them.

Then, “Claire?”

“Peter, relax. No discussion. We’re together again. Don’t spoil it with an inquisition. Just be thankful and enjoy me as I do you. There’ll be time for talk. Now we just need to re-connect.”

She knew he wanted to say more, but felt him slacken, letting the tension of his worries go. So they lay quiet and in time both fell into a short sleep.

She did not sleep as long as he did. She quietly lay on her back and turned her head to look at him. Yes, he was a handsome man, and his body was beautiful if still a little overweight even after all his weight loss. If only ... Her worries returned, as she wondered how successful his treatment had been, dreading a return to his insecurity.

She carefully and quietly left the bed and dressed, going down to the kitchen and regaining familiarity with her erstwhile domain. She inspected the fridge at more length realising someone other than Peter had stocked it. Mary? Elizabeth? Whoever it was had done a thorough job.

She began to make frikadellen, now enjoying the kitchen and feeling at home. Peter loved frikadellen with rice: it was one of his favourites. Later, she was sure, the children would drop by. She looked forward to that. Later still, Peter and she would talk. Or tomorrow. They would have plenty of time.

John Pollard opened his front door on his return from the airport to a house which felt more empty than it had after the funeral, when everyone had gone home.

The calendar in the hallway reminded him what day it was. He smiled at the irony of parting from Claire on Valentine’s day. He always found it amusing that the feast day of a celibate priest who was killed for his faith should now be the occasion of rampant lust and sexual desire!

He wondered if the story was true that Valentine died because he defied the Emperor Claudius and promoted marriage. The story was that Claudius forbade marriage among the young since he thought unmarried soldiers would fight more bravely without worrying about a wife at home.

So, John thought, it could be a relevant day for Claire to go back to try to save her marriage on that day.

He made tea out of habit, and sat in the back room looking out over the garden, its winter state mitigated by the swathes of crocuses and snowdrops along the flower beds. The bare trees were swaying in the wind, and the clouds broke to allow the sun to brighten the flowers. Somehow the sunshine made everything seem more comfortable.

He sighed and wondered how Claire would fare with her husband. He did want her to be happy, and wondered if Peter could change enough to make her life a happy one rather than merely tolerable.

Then he caught himself. Did he really want her attempt at reconciliation to fail? If it did, would she come to him? He did not want to admit to such a desire, it was wrong, but he knew it lurked there.

He shrugged and turned to complete the jobs that needed to be done when a visitor had left, washing bedding and washing up after the hurried breakfast. After lunch he could not stand the empty house any longer, and went to visit his housebound parishioners, putting off his return until after dark.