on babes, don’t be such a killjoy. This could be fun. It can keep you going for ages,” I goad him. “It’s the difference between being a fast food or a gourmet meal in the sack kind of guy. Which one would you rather be?”
Surely his ego won’t tolerate being the McDonalds of lovemaking? Fast, cheap and doesn’t fill you up for long.
“Oh, alright then.”
He pulls me towards him and we start stroking each others’ bodies again. Slowly, sensually, aided by the slide and ride oil, which makes his skin feel all soft and tingly as it moves against mine, we begin to build the energy towards climax again. As Adam’s right close to the edge I dangle him a carrot. If he manages to surf this wave, and the next, I might, just might, let him have his merry little way.
Chapter 7
Jon the clerk hands me a gift-wrapped parcel, the size of a double CD. I quickly slip it into my bag, a huge brown mottled leather satchel, and make a run for it. Adam’s waiting for me, parked illegally on a double yellow outside the small wooden door that takes pedestrians into the Inns of Temple. The Barristers’ answer to the secret garden. It’s another world entirely. A square kilometre or so maze of cobbled streets, beautiful buildings, quaint courtyards with fountains and beautiful green squares. This is where my chambers, law library and dining hall all are. I love it here. It’s a place of peace and quiet, weirdly juxtaposed slap bang between the clogged up arteries of Fleet Street and the Embankment.
Adam is whisking me away for the weekend to celebrate my thirtieth, which is tomorrow. This is the first birthday Kayla and I will be apart. She’s gone to Canada, to spend a week with our folks. I think the emotional trauma of the abortion has wormed deeper under her skin than she thinks. I’m hoping a good fix of mother love will sort her out. We’re pretty starved of that with Mum and Dad being across the pond. Friends often ask how I feel with my parents living so far away. And you know what, although I’d never admit it, a part of me is angry. I feel abandoned, even though I have Adam. My roots aren’t as firmly planted as I’d like.
This is all sort of a secret. Adam got me to pack a small suitcase last night, but I don’t know WHERE we’re going. So as we drive down the M20, I keep presuming we’re going to turn off, to some nice country B & B, in a little village near Maidstone or somewhere. Then I see the signs for Ashford INTERNATIONAL.
“Ooh, are we going abroad?”
Adam’s all cagey.
“Maybe.”
“Are we going to Paris?”
“No.”
“Calais?”
“No.”
“Boulogne?”
“No.”
“Am I close?”
He’s smug with pride now.
“Have you got my passport?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
At which point he indicates and turns off for the Channel Tunnel Terminal.
***
“Wow, this is BEAUTIFUL!”
Adam’s booked us a junior suite at the five-star, swanky Le Palais Renoir. It’s in Le Touquet, about an hour’s drive from Calais. We could have done it in less, but the sat nav started us off in the wrong direction and even though my map-reading and linguistic capabilities are about as useful as a chocolate fireguard, because he wouldn’t tell me where we were going, I couldn’t try to help. No matter, we’re here and it’s lovely. The official name of the place is Le Touquet Paris-Plage. A hundred odd years ago, it was, Adam told me on our way up in the lift, Paris by Sea, a classy weekend retreat for the French aristocracy.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, opening my suitcase. “Shall we unpack now or later?”
“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”
Adam checks out the TV. He does that whenever we go on holiday. He checks that there IS a TV, that it works and that there’s a fully functional remote control. He won’t settle until all
Surely his ego won’t tolerate being the McDonalds of lovemaking? Fast, cheap and doesn’t fill you up for long.
“Oh, alright then.”
He pulls me towards him and we start stroking each others’ bodies again. Slowly, sensually, aided by the slide and ride oil, which makes his skin feel all soft and tingly as it moves against mine, we begin to build the energy towards climax again. As Adam’s right close to the edge I dangle him a carrot. If he manages to surf this wave, and the next, I might, just might, let him have his merry little way.
Chapter 7
Jon the clerk hands me a gift-wrapped parcel, the size of a double CD. I quickly slip it into my bag, a huge brown mottled leather satchel, and make a run for it. Adam’s waiting for me, parked illegally on a double yellow outside the small wooden door that takes pedestrians into the Inns of Temple. The Barristers’ answer to the secret garden. It’s another world entirely. A square kilometre or so maze of cobbled streets, beautiful buildings, quaint courtyards with fountains and beautiful green squares. This is where my chambers, law library and dining hall all are. I love it here. It’s a place of peace and quiet, weirdly juxtaposed slap bang between the clogged up arteries of Fleet Street and the Embankment.
Adam is whisking me away for the weekend to celebrate my thirtieth, which is tomorrow. This is the first birthday Kayla and I will be apart. She’s gone to Canada, to spend a week with our folks. I think the emotional trauma of the abortion has wormed deeper under her skin than she thinks. I’m hoping a good fix of mother love will sort her out. We’re pretty starved of that with Mum and Dad being across the pond. Friends often ask how I feel with my parents living so far away. And you know what, although I’d never admit it, a part of me is angry. I feel abandoned, even though I have Adam. My roots aren’t as firmly planted as I’d like.
This is all sort of a secret. Adam got me to pack a small suitcase last night, but I don’t know WHERE we’re going. So as we drive down the M20, I keep presuming we’re going to turn off, to some nice country B & B, in a little village near Maidstone or somewhere. Then I see the signs for Ashford INTERNATIONAL.
“Ooh, are we going abroad?”
Adam’s all cagey.
“Maybe.”
“Are we going to Paris?”
“No.”
“Calais?”
“No.”
“Boulogne?”
“No.”
“Am I close?”
He’s smug with pride now.
“Have you got my passport?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
At which point he indicates and turns off for the Channel Tunnel Terminal.
***
“Wow, this is BEAUTIFUL!”
Adam’s booked us a junior suite at the five-star, swanky Le Palais Renoir. It’s in Le Touquet, about an hour’s drive from Calais. We could have done it in less, but the sat nav started us off in the wrong direction and even though my map-reading and linguistic capabilities are about as useful as a chocolate fireguard, because he wouldn’t tell me where we were going, I couldn’t try to help. No matter, we’re here and it’s lovely. The official name of the place is Le Touquet Paris-Plage. A hundred odd years ago, it was, Adam told me on our way up in the lift, Paris by Sea, a classy weekend retreat for the French aristocracy.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, opening my suitcase. “Shall we unpack now or later?”
“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”
Adam checks out the TV. He does that whenever we go on holiday. He checks that there IS a TV, that it works and that there’s a fully functional remote control. He won’t settle until all
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