I’m lying on my bed facing the window when he walks out of the bathroom. I don’t need to turn around to know he’s standing between the door and me.
‘Sapphie?’ His voice is gruff. ‘Should I turn out the light?’
‘You can fit here too.’
‘No.’
I roll onto my back and, taking care of my bandaged foot, push myself into a sitting position. I stretch out my sore leg, bend the other and lean against the headboard. I look up.
Swallow.
His hair is wet. His T-shirt is black and sticks to his skin. His chest is broad, his hips narrow. His boxer shorts are darkest blue.
Prussian, indigo, dusk, cobalt.
Steel.
I pull my gaze away. ‘If you won’t sleep here,’ I say, ‘I’ll take the couch. That’s what I usually do with Hugo.’
‘No way.’
He takes a deep breath and sits on the end of the bed. ‘Only with strangers.’
‘I want …’ I blow out a breath. ‘I slept with you when we stayed at the pub.’
His eyes narrow. ‘So you do sleep with friends?’
‘Only you.’
He wraps his fingers around my ankle. ‘You’re not good on the phone, are you?’
‘No.’
‘But I am your friend?’
I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. ‘Yes.’
He looks pointedly at my foot. ‘You’re hurt.’
The doona cover is white with a floral pattern woven into the fabric. I trace around the flowers.
Parchment, cornsilk, antique, vanilla.
‘I’ll go straight to sleep.’
He stands and walks to the door. I see the tension in his shoulders and his fists.
‘Matts? I promise.’
As he turns, he grabs the hem of his T-shirt and yanks it over his head, folding it in half before rolling it into a ball and throwing it into the corner of the room.
‘This is how I sleep.’
His nipples are flat and brown. His abdominal muscles are clearly defined. He switches off the light and slams the door with his heel. He lies flat on his back as I wriggle down the bed from the bedhead. I hold my arms close to my sides and count slowly to ten. A breeze whispers through the leaves of the gums in the playground.
‘Do you remember when we looked at the leaf through your microscope?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told me how levels of evaporation let some trees survive better than others.’
‘Drought-tolerant plants release less moisture.’
‘The roots have a role as well, don’t they?’
He turns his head on the pillow. ‘Why are you asking these questions?’
‘Do you know the answer, or not?’
‘Roots can shrink and lose contact with the soil to minimise water loss.’ He bends his knee and then lays it flat. ‘In drought, some plants form an embolism.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a bubble of gas. It stops water flow and allows the plant to live longer.’ He bends his knee again. ‘Is that enough?’
I roll onto my side and face him. ‘You said you’d like me to talk.’
He grunts. ‘Go to sleep.’
I washed the curtains after I moved to the schoolhouse and they shrank in length and width. During the day, sunbeams stream through the gaps. Moonbeams and starlight filter through at night. Matts’s profile is clear. A lock of hair has fallen on his forehead. His nose is straight, his jaw is strong. When I walked from the farmhouse on the night he arrived, there was a half moon hidden by clouds.
I smother a gasp but not quickly enough.
‘Sapphie?’ Matts comes up on an elbow. ‘Do you need a painkiller? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s …’ I clear my throat. ‘The farmhouse. I have to work things out.’
He touches my shoulder. ‘Wait, Sapphie. Next week I’ll see Robert.’
I press my hand over his mouth. ‘Not now.’ My hand slips to his jaw. When he leans against me, I feel the movement of his chest against my breasts. He smells of my soap, but the scent is different on him. His hair near his ear is damp and cool.
When I lift my head off the pillow, he puts a hand behind it. His other hand trails over my shoulder and down my side to my hip.
My body warms. I ache with need. And, even in night’s monochrome, I see colours. The darkness of his lashes when he closes his eyes. The warm hints of gold in his hair. The blush of his mouth. His skin glows silver in the moonlight.
At first our kisses are tender, as if we’re afraid that we’ll lose what we’ve found. But as the heat builds, our tongues search more deeply. I’m breathless with need. He shakes with restraint.
I trace the line of his shoulder and the ridges of his sternum and ribs. I feel the strength in his muscles and the texture of his skin. I try to pull him closer. He resists.
‘Please, Matts.’
‘I want you, Sapphie. So long.’
I lift my bandaged foot and rest it on his thigh. ‘Yes.’
He lifts his head. ‘Fuck.’ His arms stiffen. He swallows. ‘Can’t.’
He’s drawing away when I push with all my weight and roll him onto his back. My leg drapes over his hips; his erection presses against the inside of my thigh.
‘Define “can’t”.’
‘You know what I want.’
I lay my head on his chest. ‘Trust?’
‘I told the Hargreaves I’d look after you.’
I tighten my arm around his body. ‘You think Ma would mind this?’ When I look up, he gently pushes hair from my face. ‘She didn’t give you sheets for the couch, did she? She didn’t offer you a pillow?’
‘Hospital.’ He runs a finger under my eye.
‘Are you sick?’
When he doesn’t respond, I push against his chest until I’m sitting.
‘You promised,’ he says gruffly.
‘I promised I’d go to sleep and I will.’ I straddle him, take his wrists and press them down on the pillows. ‘After you’ve kissed me goodnight.’
‘Sapphie …’
‘If you try to get free you might hurt my foot or my fingers, and you’d never do that.’
‘You know me this well?’
I release his arms. ‘We’re friends.’
His erection is long and hard against my back. When I sit a little straighter and wriggle, he moans. He holds my hips tightly. ‘Not fair.’
‘Your sentences are very short.’
He pulls my head down and kisses me, looping his tongue around mine and stealing my breath. He runs his hands up my thighs. He follows the hemlines of my shorts with the tips of his fingers.
‘Sapphie.’
I stretch out my legs so I’m lying on top of him. ‘I like that name much better.’
We roll onto our sides with our heads on one pillow. I stroke his hair, the stubble on his jaw, his mouth. He traces my lips.
‘Beautiful,’ he says.
When I hold his thumb and gently bite the pad, he groans and runs his hand down my arm to my waist. He lowers his head to my breast but when I stiffen, he hesitates.
‘Only this one,’ he mumbles.
‘Yes.’
He plays with my nipple through my top, stroking and teasing. I arch my back; sink into the warmth of his touch and the heat of his body. He puts his hands inside my shorts and undies and cups my bottom.
‘Sapphie?’
I draw back a little. ‘Matts.’
His voice is not quite steady. ‘We can stop now.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want to …’ He shudders a breath. ‘You aren’t …’
‘What? Experienced enough for you?’
‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘Fuck.’
I put a hand against his face. ‘I haven’t done this for ages, and even when I did … I’m not on the pill or anything like that.’
He growls as he rolls me over, laying me on my back. He looks over his shoulder to check where my foot is before pinning me down with a leg. He kisses me again while he strokes my stomach and hips. He draws shapes on the insides of my thighs—circles and ovals and paisleys. When I press against his hand, moaning my need, his fingertips slip inside my shorts. He’s gentle and teasing then firm and possessive. His breaths become harsh as he nuzzles my neck and kisses my breast. He licks and sucks through the fabric.
‘Sapphie?’
‘Mmm.’
He frowns as if he’s lost his train of thought. And then he remembers. ‘I want more.’
‘What does that mean?’
He pulls off his boxers and throws them onto the floor. ‘Long term.’
Helsinki?
Geneva?
Horseshoe?
‘Long term.’
I smooth the crease between his brows. ‘Yes.’
When I lift my bottom, he eases my shorts and undies down my legs. His chest is firm, his stomach flat. I stroke his erection and he groans. He covers my hand.
His voice is strained. ‘You’re sure?’
You asked me to trust you.
I love you.
‘Yes.’
He rummages in his toiletries bag before coming back to bed. We sit side by side, arm against arm and thigh against thigh, as he rolls on a condom. He glances uncertainly at my foot before lying on his back and positioning me carefully on top.
He runs his hands over my shoulders. He cups my breast over my pyjama top. ‘You’re beautiful, Sapphie.’
I push back his hair. Trace the contours of his face.
He looks into my eyes as he plays where we join. I rock slowly back and forth as I take him in. His skin is slick, he clings to my hips.
I grasp his arms and his shoulders. The slide of our bodies. The press of our tongues. Desperate, caring, tender and rough. It’s new and frightening, wild and fierce. Our breaths are harsh as we search for release.
The tightrope snaps.
Our colours explode.
Orchid, fuchsia, cherry and ruby.
I moan and taste salt on his skin. He follows my lead in a shuddering rush.
Afterwards, his kisses are lazy but deep. I lie against his body and he drapes a leg across my back. He pushes hair off my face and twists it around his wrist. He holds me up by my shoulders as he studies my mouth.
‘What?’
His lip lifts. ‘Beautiful.’
I slump against his chest again. ‘Mmm.’
He shadows me when we walk to the outhouse, but scoops me up and carries me on the way back. I rub my cheek against his shoulder. ‘You can do this just this once.’
When we go back to bed he strips off again before pulling me into his arms. He runs his hands over my body and kisses my head. ‘Long term,’ he mutters.
I sink into his body. The hardness and softness. The colours and shades. The scent of his skin and the deep steady beats of his heart.