Christopher's Medal (6 page)

Her pussy clenched around him. She nipped at his shoulder when he moved, in a vain attempt to halt her onrushing orgasm. She didn’t want to come too soon. She wanted to enjoy the novelty of every tremor, every sigh. Grace loved how he fit her, how he felt so right.

The music faded away, replaced by the song of the rain and the rhythm of him when he began to move within her. She clung to him. Whatever had brought him to this place didn’t matter, because she knew this was no rushed fumble in the dark. She pushed impatience aside and tasted the salt of his skin. She ran her hands over his arse, relishing how his muscles tensed and relaxed with each thrust. When she covered his mouth with her own even the rain song faded away, lost to the sound of his quickening breath and her cries as he filled her and drove her apprehension away. She held onto him when he cried out against her throat and fell into her arms.

They rested in silence for a long time. The rain returned and with it, the soft growl of distant thunder.

“This is a very good place to be right now,” Christopher said.

“It is.” Grace kissed his forehead.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He shifted against her and draped his arm across her waist.

“Nor me.” She looked at him, stretched alongside her, pale in the gathering dusk.
God. How did someone this beautiful end up here, in my bed?
Music drifted in from the other room, once more, a sad song from a musical. Grace tried not to think of the words, they made her cry and she didn’t want to do that.

Christopher inhaled the scent of Grace’s skin and rested. He didn’t want to lose the feel of her skin, her closeness. It felt right to lie stretched out beside her while the rain whispered against the window and the curtains shifted idly in the cool breeze. He loved her silence and the peace that came with it. She felt like coming home on a cold winter’s night, a lazy Sunday morning, coffee and spring sunlight. He tried to make sense of how he felt and failed. It was enough that he was there and she was holding him, her breath ruffling his hair.

“There is one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Can I borrow your toothbrush?”

“Aren’t you an army officer? Shouldn’t you always be prepared?”

He kissed her left breast. “That’s the Boy Scouts, darling.”

“I knew it was something like that.”

Christopher wanted her again.

Lightning flickered across the room. Grace rose to meet him when he reached for her, and he lost himself in her once more.

Chapter Three

“Hi.”

Grace leaned into the bank of cushions and hit the ‘mute’ button on the remote. “Hi, yourself.” She glanced at the clock. It was a minute or two past seven, right on time again. “How are you?”

“Glad it’s Friday. It’s been a crap week. How about you?”

“Same here.” Grace reached for her glass of wine. “I’m glad it’s the weekend.”

“I wish I had it off. I wish it was last weekend again.”

“So do I.” Her insides turned to molten liquid when she remembered. She hoped she didn’t sound too needy, too wistful. Her stomach rumbled.

“Good lord, was that your stomach?”

Grace blushed. “Um…yes.”

“You haven’t eaten yet?”

“I can’t decide between curry or shepherd’s pie.” She really fancied pie and chips from the chip shop down the road in Exning but didn’t want him to know that. It struck her as a bit sad to confess to a hankering for mystery meat pie and spot-inducing chips. Her stomach growled again.

Christopher chuckled. “You’d better make up your mind. It sounds like your stomach is about to mutiny.”

“Have you had your tea?”

“Oh yes, officers’ mess, the usual slop. I would kill for steak and chips. Did I tell you that the most dangerous place in the world is standing between me and a plate of steak and chips?”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Grace found it hard to imagine Christopher being dangerous.

“Am I making you hungrier?”

“Oh yes.”

“Hmmmm, I sense that you’re not thinking about food.” There was laughter in his voice. “If it’s any consolation, neither am I.”

She blushed. “Nonsense, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a good girl, I am.”

“Of course you are, my dear.”

Grace heard his smile and wished he was there. “I’m very, very good.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” It was hard not to want him. The memory of his touch made her curl up into the cushions in search of warmth and comfort. She was afraid to ask if there would be a next time. Experience had taught her not to ask too many questions in that direction.

“Thank you. I think we’d better change the subject or I may have to take a cold shower. What are you doing this weekend?”

“Dad’s going racing so I’m working. I don’t mind. It keeps me out of trouble.” It was too late, she was already in trouble—falling fast for a man who was well out of her league and worse, a family friend of one of the yard’s most important owners. If it went pear-shaped, there’d be hell to pay. “What about you?”

He sighed. “Working, I’ve got masses of paperwork to get through.”

“Oh, poor you.” She sipped her wine. “Paperwork sucks.”

“Did I just hear you take a drink of something? You’re not getting drunk again, are you?”

Grace giggled. “My first glass of wine, that’s all. Though on an empty stomach it probably isn’t the best decision.”

“I’ll probably have a few tomorrow night, in the officers’ club. Not the most scintillating company, but the whiskey’s not bad. I know where I’d rather be.”

She closed her eyes and caught a drift of his cologne in the fabric of the cushions. It was hard to see where this was going to go.

* * * *

In her dream, Christopher kissed her awake, much as he had done on that Sunday morning. He covered her face with tiny, light kisses, her chin, her jaw, the tip of her nose, her eyelids. His fingers trembled when they traced the curve of her throat. His voice was a soft whisper when he told her that she was beautiful, that she was his Epona, his Rhiannon.

Grace woke, cold and disappointed, when the gates clanged open and Jane, one of the stable lasses, drove into the yard for evening stables. Grace lit a cigarette and sat, knees under her chin, while she stared out of the window. The racing clouds of the morning had knitted together to form a dull, gray blanket. The scent of rain was in the breeze. She stubbed out the cigarette, found her shoes and her jacket then went out to put the horses to bed. Jane was already filling water buckets and Pavel, who lived in the other cottage, had started on the hay. Jane and Pavel got the evening feeds ready while Grace hosed cold water onto the off-side foreleg of a filly with a questionable tendon. She squatted close to the floor and absently stroked the warm, slightly bowed leg while the filly nibbled at her hair and jacket.

“Are you all right?” Jane peered around the door. “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m okay.” In her way, she was. She would get by. It was only hormones, for Christ’s sake. It would pass, one way or the other.

“Are you sure?”

Grace stood up and turned off the hose. “No, I’m not sure. I hate my hormones, Jane. I hate that I’ve been so long without a man that, as soon as the first decent one comes along, I crumble and fall for him. I hate that he’s not here and I hate myself for hating that he’s not here. Does that make sense?” She untied the filly and led her out of the box.

Jane smiled and Grace saw the sympathy in her eyes. “Yes, it makes perfect sense and I’m glad I’m not where you are.” She grinned. “Does he pass the Icewell Hill test?”

In spite of everything, Grace laughed. The flats on Icewell Hill were dreadful and there was a question that Newmarket girls would ask each other, ‘Do you love him enough that you’d live on Icewell Hill with him?’ “Yes, I believe he does.” She looked at Jane. “Hell, I’d live in a shack with him.”

“You’re beyond help then. Go home, get pissed and watch crap Saturday night telly.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” She put the filly in her stable. “You know what? I may even turn off the phone. I think if I hear his voice I might crumble.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go out for a curry and go to the Shit Noir and get absolutely rat-arsed. Steve’s on an overnight and I was only going to sit at home and eat chocolate anyway. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a very good idea.” The prospect of going to a nightclub and getting very drunk had great appeal. It would be better than sitting at home remembering the previous Saturday night.

* * * *

“Bloody hell, Gracey, I can’t remember the last time I saw you in here.” Billy leaned against the bar. “Are you all right?”

Grace struggled onto a barstool. Three gin and tonics had left her boneless and headachey. “I’m just fine.” She gave him a loose-lipped grin. “I just needed to have a night out, that’s all.”

“You’d better have another drink, then, the usual?”

“No, just a diet cola, I think I’ve filled my quota for alcohol for the night.” She didn’t want to spend the rest of the night sleeping with one foot on the floor to stop the bedroom spinning.

“Lightweight,” Jane giggled.

“I’m out of practice.”

“Nah, you’re just in love.”

Billy handed her the Coke. “Are you really?”

“She’s been obsessively checking her phone all night.” Jane sipped her vodka and Red Bull.

“I wish you hadn’t reminded me of that.”

“Come with me.” Billy took the glass from her hand and led her onto the dance floor as the DJ played a slow song. The floor was filled with couples necking, but at least it was quiet enough for talking. He took her hand and put his arm around her waist.

Grace sighed. There was something so comfortable and familiar about Billy. She wished he were taller.

“Why are you so upset, Gracey? You don’t go on benders.”

The gin made her weepy. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I think I love him, Billy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s about time you had someone.”

“I’ve only known him for two weeks. It’s not supposed to happen that fast.” She closed her eyes and rested her chin on his shoulder.

“Sometimes it does. Sometimes you can’t help yourself. What did I tell you at Wolverhampton?”

“Bollocks and enjoy the ride, I believe.”

“There you go then. Don’t think too much. Sometimes you do that, Gracey. Sometimes you just need to let things happen.”

“Or not. He phones every night. He hasn’t tonight.”

Billy kissed her cheek. “Did it occur to you that he’s feeling the same? That he’s as scared as you? We get scared too. I saw the way he looked at you, the way he stood so close to you. You’ve got to get over this crazy idea that you’re not good enough. You are.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

“There are times when I could just shake you. It’s the truth. If you weren’t taller than me, I’d…well, you know.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“Now, do yourself a favor. Call a taxi, go home, go to sleep and try not to get your knickers in a twist. What happens will happen. Love isn’t always supposed to mess you up inside, it’s supposed to make you feel good sometimes too.” Billy stepped back. His eyes glittered in the spinning lights of the room. “Promise me that you’ll not get all churned up over this. Promise me that you’ll just let things happen.”

Grace looked at him. For once, he was serious. “All right, Billy. I will, I promise.”

He grinned. “That’s my girl. Come on, I’ll get you a taxi. I’ll sort Jane out too. Go home and sleep.”

* * * *

Christopher sat on his bed, leaning against a pillow. The phone sat on the bedside table amidst a clutter of loose coins and old receipts and he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. Conversations just weren’t enough anymore. When he heard her voice, it made him hurt. He wanted to be with her, curled up in the tangle of sheets while she slept in his arms. He would wake her with a kiss, a lot of kisses, along her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her jaw. It scared him how quickly he’d fallen for her, how much he ached for her. He replayed the time he’d spent with her over and over in his head, picking over each memory, loving each one—Grace in the morning, rumpled and sleepy, her hair a tangle of dark chocolate silk on the pale yellow pillow, the cool satin of her skin beneath his fingers when she moved with him, her soft sighs, her purrs.

Christopher wondered if he should try to forget her. He was going to Afghanistan in October and he didn’t think it would be wise to fall in love then bugger off. He would have enough to worry about trying to stay alive. He didn’t want to have to worry about missing her, or her missing him. He’d gone to the officers’ club earlier and tried to drink her away. Three double Irish whiskeys had left him maudlin, slightly dizzy and wanting her more. He knew he’d have a hangover in the morning, he knew he would wake aching for her. He had never fallen so far and so fast and he was frightened. Christopher didn’t think it was supposed to happen like that. He’d thought that kind of romance belonged to fairy tales and to his mother’s soppy Sunday afternoon films. But, here he was, late on a Saturday night, alone in his quarters, slightly drunk and staring at his phone.