Bound to You Page 5

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning we set off for the resort. We took the Lexus, not the Mercedes, which wasn’t practical for a long drive along the cliff tops.

  I was still thinking about what Giagia had called Christos as we left her house the other morning. Leventi mou. He was indeed my leventi, and surely there was nothing that could get in the way of our love, not even this stupid business of him moving out. I had never believed in the One but if if there was such a thing, Christos was it. Everything would work itself out.

  Christos turned on the radio. ‘Louloudaki mou’ was playing. We started to sing along. It was harder to fondle one another in this car but I could still stroke my hand up and down his thigh.

  ‘Nichi mou, you’re going to have to do the gears if you’re going to distract me like that, you know!’

  ‘Ha ha. I can probably just about manage that. Just as long as it doesn’t involve roundabouts.’

  ‘One day you’ll learn to drive, Nichi mou, when the time is right.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I’ve decided I don’t want to. I think I’m one of those women that is destined to be driven.’

  Christos laughed. ‘To be driven, eh? See, you with your shoe fetish and taste in luxury perfumes. I’ve always known you were high maintenance. Born to be served.’

  My hand was still stroking up along his thigh. I let it stray further up to his crotch.

  ‘Mmmm, Nichi, be careful!’

  ‘You’re a good driver,’ I teased. ‘You can concentrate. Besides,’ I continued, ‘if a police car catches up with us they’ll let us off. Remember that time when you and Stavros got pulled over sharing a bottle of whisky and the officer just told you to make sure you were on your way home to bed?’

  ‘That was because Stavros knew the officer, Nichi mou!’

  ‘Chances are you chat to anyone in Greece for five minutes and you’ll find a friend in common.’

  ‘You and your cultural stereotypes of my people!’

  ‘Well, Christos, you shouldn’t do such a good impersonation of an Olympian now, should you? An exceedingly priapic Olympian . . .’

  Even through his jeans, his erection was blatant.

  I flickered my fingers along his fly then slid them up under his belt buckle, teasing open the stiff top button.

  Christos kept his eyes fixed on the road.

  ‘Christos,’ I wheedled. ‘You’re not trying to resist me, are you?’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘I don’t need to.’

  ‘What, you mean you’re not the slightest bit aroused right now, Christos mou?’

  Suddenly, he smacked down the indicator, biceps bracing as he yanked the steering wheel towards me and pulled off the highway.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To an underground car park I know. I drop off cars for customers who live at the coast there sometimes. It’ll be empty. And if it’s not, there are pillars we can park behind.’

  I loved Christos’s decisiveness. It turned me on.

  It was stupendously hot and the heat rippled up off the asphalt in waves. I flicked my right leg up on to the dashboard, touching my scarlet-manicured toes to the toasted leather then jerked my foot upwards. ‘Fuck! It’s burning!’

  Without looking at me, Christos wrapped his hand around my toes, then traced up along the arch of my instep with his fingers, before closing them around my ankle. I lifted my other leg up on to the dashboard, allowing my denim miniskirt to crease right up around the top of my thighs. My skirt had ridden so high that I was now exposing my lacy, lilac crotch.

  He looked down at me and gripped a fist around my leg.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said, easing his foot off the accelerator and turning to the left again. Then, in a rare act of recklessness, he pressed his foot to the floor and plunged us down into the darkness.

  ‘Jesus, Christos!’

  ‘You know you’re safe, Nichi.’

  Christos eased the car into a bay at the top of the garage, our headlights casting the only light on our surroundings. I could just about make out the bodies of two other vehicles, but it was essentially as he had promised, a dark, discreet space. It was perfect for daytime sex.

  He barely had a chance to slam on the handbrake before I lunged at him. We kissed so hard my mouth ached from the off. Christos grappled with his belt, freeing the buckle, and I pulled at the corner of his fly, rapidly releasing the other three buttons. His cock sprang at my fingers and I started to masturbate him over the fabric of his boxer shorts. Christos, meanwhile, clamped his right hand over the lilac knickers, running the thumb of his left under the lacy rim. My knickers were askew, partly exposing my already swollen pussy. He prised away the fabric, sliding the tip of his index finger up in between my lips and towards my clitoris.

  I took a sharp intake of breath and stopped my own hand for a few seconds, unable to concentrate on touching him at the same time. Then I slid my fingers behind the fabric of his boxer shorts and began to masturbate him again.

  Christos rolled up my top with the palm of his hand, arranged it so that it rested across the swell of my cleavage. Then he inched up the bra, pushing at the underwiring to expose the bottom half of my breasts, and licked along the freed white skin. My nipples prickled against the fabric, desperate for him to flick his tongue over them. But he knew what denying me would do. Christos eased one, then two, then three fingers into my wetness.

  When he kissed up along my neck, sinking his mouth into me, I threw my head hard back against the seat. More deliberately now, he worked his fingers in and out of me and I squeezed myself around his hand, clasping my own fingers about his cock.

  The tip of it moistened my fingers, and I massaged them along his full length, increasing the speed of my strokes. ‘Yes,’ he said, leaning in to me. ‘Keep going, I’m so close.’

  ‘Me too,’ I whispered, and started to moan, the pitch of my utterances climbing higher and higher the closer I got to climax. Christos swelled one final time under my grip. With my free hand I grabbed at his wrist and thrust his fingers full up into me. We shuddered into an electric orgasm, lips caught between broken s’agapos and clawing kisses, our heads pressed together.

  Afterwards, I lay my head on Christos’s shoulder and we stayed there for a moment, looking at one another. In the darkness only the whites of his eyes and the ivory glow of my breasts were visible. Suddenly one of the other cars ground to life, headlights flashing at us accusingly through our rear window.

  ‘Hang on, did we have an audience again? This is getting to be a habit.’ Christos grinned at me.

  ‘Time to go, I think, Christos mou.’

  He was still wearing his seatbelt.

  As soon as we arrived at the resort, the receptionist ushered us over to a downy, dove-grey couch, where champagne cocktails had been left for us on a low-level granite table. After a perfectly calculated amount of time, a porter appeared to show us to our room.

  ‘Not bad for a freebie, eh, Nichi mou?’

  Christos and I admired the room. It was more like a suite, complete with bureau, sofa, mini kitchen, a walk-in wardrobe and separate dressing room. On the bedside tables were finger bowls filled with tiny, blooming jasmine flowers. Despite the room’s size, the bed dominated. The sheets were a rich cream, as were the pillowcases and the whisper of valance sheet, which exposed itself from underneath the coverlet.

  The bathroom was ginormous. Along the left-hand wall was a whirlpool bath that looked as though it had risen up from a hot spring. Above the sink stood luxury toiletries in oversized bottles. At the far end of the bathroom was a double shower with glass doors. Even if one partner decided to take a bath rather than a shower it meant you were still situated within clear erotic sight of one another. No obstructions.

  I went out to the balcony. It was incredible how the infinity pool morphed into the Aegean sea, a sublime aqueous illusion.

  ‘Christos,’ I called out. ‘Let’s swim.’

  ‘Do you like my n
ew bikini?’ After some deliberation, I had opted for turquoise plunging cups held together with a bow that would not actually come undone, and skimpy briefs.

  ‘Very much! The Master approves! Positively neo-classical.’

  Christos was arranging our towels over the choicest poolside chairs. We had the entire place to ourselves.

  A waiter appeared and offered us drinks. ‘Mmm, I want a cocktail!’ The entrée in reception had given me a taste for it. ‘Can I have a bellini please?’

  ‘That’s so trashy, isn’t it,’ I giggled at Christos.

  Christos laughed back and stroked my hair. ‘You can have whatever you want, high-maintenance Egg.’

  ‘I’ll have a mojito, please,’ he replied to the waiter.

  Two minutes later and the drinks arrived. Christos laid back and sighed. For some reason, he had brought down to the pool a mammoth engineering textbook, preparatory reading for the PhD.

  ‘Christos mou, no, not that book, not today.’

  ‘Signomi, Nichi, I’m sorry, kali mou, but I have to. There’s so little time now until I start. And once you go back I’ll be working in the garage again, then three weeks after that I’m back in London to begin my course.’

  I turned my head towards the impassive sun, closed my eyes then reached down for my drink. This was such a treat, to be here with Christos. Nothing else mattered.

  After fifteen minutes or so, Christos touched a hand on my thigh. ‘Nichi mou, you’re burning. Do you want me to put some more cream on you?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I’m going to swim.’

  I got up and went towards the pool, keeping my sunglasses on. It was early afternoon and the sun was pouring scornful blaze on my white skin. I lowered myself into the water, quickly ducked under. I didn’t usually enjoy swimming in pool water in Greece, not when the Mediterranean sea itself was so idyllic. But this was special. Right up until you bumped into the infinity pool’s brim, the illusion of being able to float straight out from pool to sea persisted. I wished I could skim out over the sand and glide into it.

  Suddenly something shivered up along it. I let out a scream. It was Christos, shimmying his hands up along it.

  ‘Christos, DON’T. I thought it was an octopodia!’ Ever since Christos had described how you catch an octopus, plunging your hand into its mouth and turning it inside out, bashing it to tenderising death on a rock, how sometimes if you weren’t quick enough it would wrap its desperate tentacles around your forearms and wrists, I had an almost monomaniacal fear of meeting one in the water. I knew they had to be dragged out of their holes, but still.

  Christos laughed and laughed, then started to coo at me, kissing my cheek in comfort when he saw I was actually distressed. ‘Nichi mou,’ he pulled me towards him, ‘no octopodia is going to get you while I’m around.’

  ‘But what if one day I meet one alone? It’s not impossible that it could have got into the swimming pool.’

  ‘It’s pretty impossible. Why do you love to torture yourself with such thoughts? You’re like Doubting Thomas with your finger in your own wound!’

  I shuddered again. ‘Please can we not talk about wounds. They are not a suitable topic of discussion for a romantic swim. Let’s talk about . . .’ I broke off, letting my legs float up and around him.

  ‘Let’s talk about . . . this,’ he suggested, pulling me tighter around him. He had a burgeoning erection.

  ‘Do you want to go up to the room?’ Christos gave a half-smile.

  Suddenly I felt exhausted, as if the adrenaline that had flooded my body in panic over the imaginary octopus had drained me of all my desire. What was wrong with me, why did I feel so out of sorts? ‘Yes.’ I said. ‘I’m tired. I need a nap.’

  When I woke up a couple of hours later I was determined to be in a better mood. Even if the whole issue of Christos moving out was still dragging at my mood, we were here now. I needed to appreciate the treat and put the hurt to bed, so to speak. We couldn’t afford any more discord.

  I decided to wear my new white dress for dinner. It had a gathered peasant-style bodice and full skirt and I knew that Christos would appreciate it.

  He came out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Ooh, be careful!’ I warned him. ‘You’re very provocative to me with that tan. That tan against the towel.’

  He grinned as he came over to where I stood in front of the mirror, kissed my neck, then murmured, ‘Can I watch you do your make-up?’

  I patted his backside. ‘Of course.’

  Christos had a thing about watching me paint my face. I wouldn’t have called it a fetish. More a fixation. Mainly, he loved watching me apply mascara. I didn’t wear a lot of make-up in Greece, but tonight I applied a blue mascara Christos had bought me to accentuate my green eyes.

  ‘Why do you like watching?’ I asked him.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just mesmerising.’

  ‘The French don’t call it maquillage for nothing.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Christos, stroking my neck again. ‘Yes. French for deception. Camouflage.’

  ‘Did you wear camouflage paint in the army, Christos?’ I was teasing him, but I felt odd. When did this bantering with my boyfriend become so self-conscious?

  ‘No, Nichi. But I wore camouflage pants. And dog tags. And boots. And no shirt. And a nice, wide, well-polished leather belt.’

  ‘Speaking of your belt, why didn’t you hurry up and put it on, Sergeant? This almost birthday girl wants dinner.’

  That evening we dined on the hotel’s terrace and chatted about our previous trips to Greece. ‘Do you remember the first birthday I spent here, Christos? We had wine that night. You got me drunk, and then the next day we had to have lunch with your grandparents and it was so, so hot, and I was hung-over and trying to show your mum and sister I appreciated the dress they had bought me by wearing it over my jeans . . .’

  ‘The dress that was meant for an English autumn, not a Greek summer,’ Christos interjected.

  ‘Yes – exactly – and halfway through, your dad leant across the table, winked at me, and slipped me some paracetamol.’

  Even now I buried my head in my hands at the memory, but Christos just laughed, and before long I was giggling, too. This felt better. This was more like the kind of dinner we were used to enjoying before the matter of the PhD had sullied things.

  When we got back to our room Christos took his shirt off, then his shoes, then stepped out on to the balcony and lit a cigarette.

  I stood at the other side of the glass for a moment, admiring him: his virile physique, the way he blew smoke out artfully across the water between his bounteous lips.

  He caught me looking at him and grinned. ‘Are you perving on me, Nichi mou? Just because I’m smoking with my shirt off?’

  ‘Precisely because you’re smoking with your shirt off.’ I grinned back.

  I went out to join him. He slung his arm around my waist, loosely at first, then winched me into him until I gasped for breath.

  ‘Ah, now you can’t get away from me! You can never escape, Nichi mou, I’m going to have you bound up in my grip forever!’

  I started laughing.

  ‘Do you remember the first time we kissed, Nichi mou?’

  ‘Of course. It was on one of our midnight walks. It was October. You were wearing gloves. As you came towards me, you slid your hand out of one. Almost sinisterly!’

  ‘Ha! Well, if it was the left one, the sinistra one, that would make sense. See, even then you thought I was a sleazy Greek.’

  ‘I thought I you were gorgeous. I thought I was in love already.’

  ‘But I was the one who said it first.’

  ‘Well, yes, but what you actually said was, “I think I’m in love with you.” Which was somehow more romantic.’

  Suddenly, I was agitated again. Talking about how we met, about the first flowering of our love, was upsetting me. Ever since we’d first got together, Christos and I had been inseparable. How could Christos genuinely
bear the thought of living apart now?

  ‘What’s wrong, Nichi mou?’

  ‘I’m too hot,’ I complained. ‘And too full.’

  ‘Nichi mou, that was a very small dinner.’

  ‘But I’ve barely moved all day. OK, I’m going to have a shower than lie down.’

  ‘Shall I join you?’

  Christos still had his arm around me.

  ‘If you like.’

  He looked at my face thoughtfully. ‘No, you shower alone. I think you need your space.’

  When I got out, Christos was undoing his belt. ‘I’m going to have a quick shower too.’

  In little more than a minute he was back. ‘Just a quickie! Heh heh.’

  His sleazy Greek act seemed almost unbearably poignant tonight because . . . because what, I wondered. Then I swallowed hard and confessed it to myself. Because we weren’t going to make love. Because here we were in this aphrodisiacal treat of a hotel and I was hiding behind an excuse of fatigue, again. And why was I hiding behind an excuse? Because I didn’t want to admit to myself that there was now something heartbreakingly, irrevocably, hope-shatteringly, wrong with Christos and me. And I couldn’t make love to him any more.

  Christos climbed on to the bed, wrapped up in a white robe. It was nicer than the ones the private patients at the hospital received for convalescence in their thousand-pound-a-night rooms. Christos sat propped up against the luxurious pillows, right leg gently flopping to the side. For the first time ever, I saw him as vulnerable. As forlorn and lonely. Then he turned to me and smiled.

  There was no expectation in his smile. Just love.

  I went back into the bathroom, and wept.

  I lay awake long into the night. Christos soothed me, hugged me, and I clung to him, desperately trying to convince myself that we could get things back on track but sleep eluded me. My mind turned over and over. I kept switching between determination to do whatever it took to get us through the PhD, even if that meant living apart, and a cold fear that we weren’t going to make it.

  The next day we had a room service breakfast and a late check-out, as if going through the motions of romance. I went for a proper swim and Christos got stuck into his textbook. At around four in the afternoon we set off, back to Christos’s parents’ house.