long.
She switched on the bedside light, even though there was now purple in the sky through the window. With dawn around the corner, she might as well go back to her own bed and try to sleep or work or anything to banish Alex from her exhausted mind.
She walked back to the hostel via the Parks. As the sun came up, mist rose from the meadows. Rowers jogged past on their way to practise on the river. She stood by the water, breathing in the scent of hawthorn and cherry blossom. This was her new life. It was a time to look forward, not back.
Then she saw him running along the path that led from the punting boathouse towards the college. He was bare-chested and ran with a feline grace and ease. Even from here, the sheen of sweat glistened in the rising sun and sent a jolt of pure lust through her, instantly dampening her knickers.
She’d never wanted a man this much, not sexually. Never wanted to be on her knees in front of a man this much. Never been prepared to brave so much to get his attention. Her feelings for Alex weren’t a crush, they were an a primeval need.
She thought about what he’d said to her about her Jane Austen essay.
Amaze him .
And his veiled challenges in the cloisters and outside the club.
They were surely a code to cross the line and finally give him no choice but to acknowledge his own desires for her? To provoke him into action?
To break his rules.
He’d gone from her view, but her steps quickened. She would place her hand in the tiger’s cage, perhaps walk right into it, metaphorically naked and prepared for anything that might happen.
At the hostel, she switched on her laptop, highlighted the thousand words on the Significance and Hierarchy of Estates in Pride & Prejudice that had taken her days to craft, pressed Delete and began again. It was afternoon when, drooping over her laptop with exhaustion, she opened up her e-mail and composed a message:
From: Carla Jonas [email protected]
To: Professor Alex Lemaitre [email protected]
Subject: Dear old Jane
Hi Alex,
Please find attached my essay on Jane Austen.
Thanks,
Carla
She stabbed the Enter key and collapsed back on the bed.
Amaze him, Alex had said.
So she had.
Chapter Six
Carla threw her keys on the desk, kicked off her shoes and lay on her bed. She’d just got back to the hostel after the Gathering, and she was wrung out in every way: physically, emotionally.
She’d laid flowers on his grave, and her father and Stephen’s brother had said a few words. Inevitably, it had been painful and exhausting, and perhaps that was why they felt the need to do it. It was cathartic like a Shakespeare tragedy was meant to be. She’d cried, as had his family, because they’d all learned by now that it was more painful to resist letting it all out, and it did help there was part of her that found the Gathering an ordeal in a different way to theirs.
At the party afterwards, reminiscing and drinking wine with relatives and friends, she’d wondered if any of them were ready not to cry so much and instead to…oh God, cliché alert—move on? To celebrate Stephen’s life, not with a gathering and tears, but with a quiet thought in between the business of their daily lives? Could she be allowed to think of Stephen every day, or almost every day, with memories that were good and not so good, without focusing on this one event?
Maybe that was too much to expect. The people around her, her infuriating but kind and loving parents, friends and in-laws didn’t have the full insight into the text that she did. They couldn’t read between Stephen’s lines. Only she and, perhaps, one other person in the world—his mistress—could ever do that.
Could she be allowed to move on and love someone else one day?
Someone like Alex.
Although Alex was no more easy to read than Stephen. Getting involved with him might only bring more trouble and heartbreak.
She sat bolt upright.
OMG, as Emma would say.
The
She switched on the bedside light, even though there was now purple in the sky through the window. With dawn around the corner, she might as well go back to her own bed and try to sleep or work or anything to banish Alex from her exhausted mind.
She walked back to the hostel via the Parks. As the sun came up, mist rose from the meadows. Rowers jogged past on their way to practise on the river. She stood by the water, breathing in the scent of hawthorn and cherry blossom. This was her new life. It was a time to look forward, not back.
Then she saw him running along the path that led from the punting boathouse towards the college. He was bare-chested and ran with a feline grace and ease. Even from here, the sheen of sweat glistened in the rising sun and sent a jolt of pure lust through her, instantly dampening her knickers.
She’d never wanted a man this much, not sexually. Never wanted to be on her knees in front of a man this much. Never been prepared to brave so much to get his attention. Her feelings for Alex weren’t a crush, they were an a primeval need.
She thought about what he’d said to her about her Jane Austen essay.
Amaze him .
And his veiled challenges in the cloisters and outside the club.
They were surely a code to cross the line and finally give him no choice but to acknowledge his own desires for her? To provoke him into action?
To break his rules.
He’d gone from her view, but her steps quickened. She would place her hand in the tiger’s cage, perhaps walk right into it, metaphorically naked and prepared for anything that might happen.
At the hostel, she switched on her laptop, highlighted the thousand words on the Significance and Hierarchy of Estates in Pride & Prejudice that had taken her days to craft, pressed Delete and began again. It was afternoon when, drooping over her laptop with exhaustion, she opened up her e-mail and composed a message:
From: Carla Jonas [email protected]
To: Professor Alex Lemaitre [email protected]
Subject: Dear old Jane
Hi Alex,
Please find attached my essay on Jane Austen.
Thanks,
Carla
She stabbed the Enter key and collapsed back on the bed.
Amaze him, Alex had said.
So she had.
Chapter Six
Carla threw her keys on the desk, kicked off her shoes and lay on her bed. She’d just got back to the hostel after the Gathering, and she was wrung out in every way: physically, emotionally.
She’d laid flowers on his grave, and her father and Stephen’s brother had said a few words. Inevitably, it had been painful and exhausting, and perhaps that was why they felt the need to do it. It was cathartic like a Shakespeare tragedy was meant to be. She’d cried, as had his family, because they’d all learned by now that it was more painful to resist letting it all out, and it did help there was part of her that found the Gathering an ordeal in a different way to theirs.
At the party afterwards, reminiscing and drinking wine with relatives and friends, she’d wondered if any of them were ready not to cry so much and instead to…oh God, cliché alert—move on? To celebrate Stephen’s life, not with a gathering and tears, but with a quiet thought in between the business of their daily lives? Could she be allowed to think of Stephen every day, or almost every day, with memories that were good and not so good, without focusing on this one event?
Maybe that was too much to expect. The people around her, her infuriating but kind and loving parents, friends and in-laws didn’t have the full insight into the text that she did. They couldn’t read between Stephen’s lines. Only she and, perhaps, one other person in the world—his mistress—could ever do that.
Could she be allowed to move on and love someone else one day?
Someone like Alex.
Although Alex was no more easy to read than Stephen. Getting involved with him might only bring more trouble and heartbreak.
She sat bolt upright.
OMG, as Emma would say.
The
Similar Books
