"It's after midnight, and I'm thinking of you. I'm tired of thinking of you. Except that I love you and that you still occupy my every thought. Please call me."
Aïcha woke up that morning to find a missed call. Her heart did its familiar flip at the sight of Tom's name on the screen. But nothing had prepared her to the sound of his raspy voice, his words hitting her in the heart. She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of emotions and cooped up feelings. God, how she missed him.
Two months.
It had been two months since she had left Tom's house in the middle of the night, not turning back - never returning back. It was her decision, she was well aware of that, thank you very much. But that didn't mean she felt less heartbroken.
In the aftermath of their break-up, Aïcha had spent so many sleepless nights thinking about him. After that, she had a better grip on her emotions but then a trivial thing would remind her of him and she would lose herself in the memories of their time together.
Despite all of that, it had been relatively manageable when she was in Paris, busy with her work, with her daughter and her life. It was somewhat easier knowing he was on the other side of the English Channel, or somewhere else being his fabulous self.
But now she was back in London. In his town.
At first, she thought it was going to be weird being back. Not knowing if he was even there. Not knowing the probability of stumbling into him in the middle of a busy street, a cup of coffee in his hand.
She had the shock of her life when she arrived the day before at St Pancras station. It wasn't the blistering heat of London's summer persisting through September that almost made her turn and take the Eurostar back to Paris.
No.
It was his face welcoming her to London.
His once ridiculously handsome familiar face.
It seemed as if everywhere she turned, his face would always be there to greet her. It was plastered everywhere. On billboards, on buses, on the walls of the London underground and in the free newspapers handed out on the tube. Every-fricking-where.
He was even on TV, for God's sake, being interviewed about his leading role in an upcoming theatre production. It had sucked the breath out of her when she saw him sitting comfortably across the journalist, his long legs crossed, discussing theatre, his upcoming projects and his love for Shakespeare. Tom answered with so much thought and passion as if the questions had never been asked before. She loved that about him.
Tom had mentioned the play to Aïcha in the deep end of one of their nights together, his legs intertwined with hers, her head on his strong chest, his hand on her naked stomach... She quickly jammed the brakes before the little gremlins in her head took over.
Aïcha put the TV on mute when she heard a firm knock on her hotel room door. She frowned and looked at the time on her phone. It was too soon for her drinks with Charlotte. She walked barefoot to the door and looked through the peephole.
"Aïcha? It's Tom."
Her breath caught in her throat, she took a step back as if afraid he would hear her heart pounding through the door. How did he know I was here in London, in this very hotel? And then the realisation hit her. Charlotte.
"Open up please, I can hear you through the door." His deep voice locked her in place.
"Go away, Tom," she finally said to the closed door.
" I won't. And if I need to sit here, I'll do it."
As if on cue, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps followed by an eagerly cheerful "Good afternoon, sir."
Aïcha switched off the TV and was greeted with her own reflection on the shiny black screen. She tugged a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed her skirt. She couldn't see the puffiness under her eyes, but she knew it was there. No tea bags or cucumber could cover it even if she had tried.
With a sigh, she opened the door. Tom stood there, eyes bluer than the sky glimmered back at her. He looked perfect. In every way. He had a slight tan that brought out the freckles over his pointed nose. It spoke of time outside. Running maybe, she wondered. Or did he go on holidays? His hair was back to its natural colour - strawberry blonde. How she had longed to see him like that and pass her hand through his curls.
She looked away and let him in. He followed her to the middle of the room where they stood facing each other.
Her auburn hair was shorter now, a side fringe tucked behind her ear, the long nape of her neck deliciously bare. But then he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wanted nothing but to hold her in his arms.
He had imagined this moment so much in his head. He had played with the words, sometimes big, sometimes small. But now in front of her, he didn't know what to say.
"You're not answering my calls or texts," he finally blurted out.
She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear again, knowing well it would fall back on her forehead. Since she had cut it short on a whim one Saturday afternoon, her hair had a life of its own.
Crossing her arms, she said, "You told me to never ever speak to you again." Her voice came out angry, she knew that. But Tom had hurt her when he had called that evening, after she had sent the text she very much regretted now. He was plastered and fuming and didn't leave her the chance to even mutter a hello.
He sighed. "I know. That was very stupid of me. I tried to apologise so many times."
She held his gaze for a moment and finally turned away getting into the small kitchen, the linoleum cold under her bare feet.
His eyes caught the exposed back zipper on her skirt and all he wanted to do was to pull on that down. He shook his head and followed her to the kitchen.
"Pardon," she said, gesturing to the cupboard behind him.
He stood aside while her hands reached to pull out two mugs. His eyes travelled over the shape of her breasts straining against her shirt, the curve of her hip under her short skirt, the nail polish on her barefoot...
"Do you want coffee or tea?" she asked and plugged in the electronic kettle.
"I want you," he answered, his hand reaching hers.
"Tom..." she warned, and as she jerked her hand away, one of the mugs fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Careful!"
Aïcha took a step back avoiding the shards by a thread.
"Don't move." Tom picked her up and put her on the bed before kneeling in front of her inspecting her foot. There was a little blood on the side. "Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice full of concern.
She wrinkled her nose. "Not really, I can barely feel anything."
"Let me clean that up. Is there a first aid kit somewhere?"
"I have disinfectant and band-aids in my toiletry kit. In the bathroom."
Tom was back seconds later, kneeling again in front of her. Aïcha clasped her own hands between her thighs, resisting the urge to pass her hands through his curls.
"It's just a scratch," he declared, putting a band-aid on the small cut.
"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes on his hand clasped around her ankle, stroking the side of her feet with his thumb. It felt like a burn to her skin.
He looked up. His blue eyes pierced her heart. And when he came to sit close to her on the bed, his knee touching hers, his hand gently caressing her arm, she didn't move.
"Aïcha," he said, asking her to look at him. But she didn't want to look. Because if she did, she might find herself touching his face, kissing his lips, wrapping herself in his arms and not letting go.
Leaning closer, she could feel the slight tickle of his breath on her face as he said her name again. His fingers brushed the fringe out of her eyes, and his lips briefly touched against her cheek. "You smell like you."
Aïcha closed her eyes and let Tom engulf her in his embrace. His arms around her, his hands holding onto her as if for dear life. His breath warmed the side of her neck and his scent filled her nose. For a second, she was back to that first night in Marrakech, when Tom had kissed the dimple just at the corner of her mouth, making the butterflies in her stomach turn into crazy bats. The moment was clear in her mind as if they'd just kissed yesterday.
The proximity to his strong and warm body was overwhelming. She shivered as his thumb stroked the nape of her bare neck. His lips quickly took over, pressed against her skin while his strong hands moved under her skirt and up into her bare legs, one inch at a time, leaving a trail of goosebumps and sparks in their wake.
Aïcha, her breathing getting heavier and shallower, mustered the little courage she had left in her and stopped his hand from going further.
"Tom, please stop," she said, the words shaky and quiet.
Tom pulled away. "Aïcha, I missed you," he said back, his breath as heavy and shallow.
"I missed you," he said again. "These past weeks have been my hell on earth." Tom smiled. And it was that beautiful smile of his that goes all through his eyes. But this one was sad, and it broke her heart. "I was angry with you, so angry with you for leaving me, and then you send me that text out of nowhere..."
"I know." She pressed her lips together. "I'm so sorry Tom, I never meant to hurt you," she said, squeezing his hand. Her voice was steady, unwavering.
"I know that, and I'm sorry too for when I called. I was drunk and angry, but that's no excuse for what I've said." He shook his head and went on, "And then, I was angry with myself, angry that I hadn't fought harder for you, for us."
"Tom," she said quietly. Her hand reached out for his face, and he leaned his cheek into her palm. She hated herself for the pain she had caused this sweet man.
He closed his eyes for a moment while his hand covered hers, bringing it to his lap. "I never thought this possible, but you have been occupying my thoughts, my waking and sleeping thoughts. I love you, Aïcha. I love you with all my heart."
And then his lips claimed hers, and she kissed him back. She kissed him as she had never kissed him before, pouring her pain, her anger, her passion, her heart and soul into the kiss.
"I love you," he whispered in a broken voice. "Do you love me?"
The world stopped turning for just a second.
At first, she thought about lying to him. To tell him that she didn't love him. It would have been easier for him to let her go this way, once and for all. But she couldn't lie. She had never lied about how she felt, and she wasn't about to start lying now.
He locked his eyes on her, pale blue into deepest brown, the sparkle in them landing directly in the pit of her stomach.
And then the last traces of resistance in her crumbled like a sandcastle abandoned to the evening tide.
"I love you too, Tom. How could I not?"
Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his, and he kissed her back with an open mouth. Their tongues battled, their breath mingled, and her heart fluttered inside her chest.
Breaking the kiss, her shaky, shallow breath matching his, Aïcha stood up and looked down at Tom. She held out her arms, reaching for him and he pulled her down to straddle him. She pressed herself against him and kissed the edge of his jaw, while his hand on the nape of her bare neck held her firmly in place.
She made a quiet low noise, like an animal in pain, as his free hand went up under her skirt skimming the lacy fabric of her underwear. Somehow, his touch was new and familiar at the same time.
Dropping his head back, she kissed him on the throat and under his Adam's apple and on those damn three freckles that formed the most perfect triangle that would make even Pythagoras jealous.
His long fingers were now busy pulling down the zip at the back of her skirt, something he had wanted to do when he had first set foot in the hotel room.
Her skirt slithered down to pool at her feet when she stood up. His eyes followed her fingers as she unbuttoned her shirt, stayed there as she left it on, her bare breast half exposed. She was not wearing a bra.
"You are so damn beautiful," he said, desire raw in his voice. He pushed on his hands to stand up, but she gently pushed him back before turning her attention to his pants.
"These are annoying the hell out of me right now." She blushed and chuckled at her own brazenness.
Kneeling on the floor between his legs, she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and pushed them down as far as they could go. He kicked them off as she came back for his shirt.
His hand stilled hers and instead, he reached for her shirt, sliding it off her body.
Her skin tingled under the brush of his long fingers trailing across the nape of her neck, sliding all the way to her lower back. Her body flushed with heat. It travelled through her skin, her veins, warming her.
"Tom," she moaned his name and pressed her breasts into his chest, craving the closeness, the proximity, the connection as much as he was needing it too.
"Tell me," he growled back in her ear, his hands busy ridding himself of the last piece of fabric separating his skin from hers.
"I want you," she breathed. "Deep inside me," she added looking straight into his eyes, her hips grinding his.
He clenched his jaw and groaned as he laid her on her back. She raised her hips, impatient, and his hands reached down to her underwear, pushing it down in one swift movement.
Kissing his way back, he couldn't see her closing her eyes, her hands fiddling with that silver necklace of hers.
In her mind, this was the last time they would ever make love again. Just one more time. One last time. She knew it. He didn't. It was sad, and she was aching from the inside, heightening the desire and the need she had for him.
Her eyes opened to remember every one of the lines of his face, the scar on his forehead, the reddish eyelashes like curtains over his eyes, the freckles over his pointed nose, the thin pink lips.
Her hands reached for his shoulders, bringing him back to her. He growled low in his throat as she devoured his lips, her fingers busy pushing down his briefs.
His strong hands closed around her hips and he stopped for a moment, holding her in place with his lean body.
"We need a condom," she said, feeling his desire pressing against her thigh.
He chuckled lightly and stood up.
Her eyes followed the muscles on his back flexing along his spine and shoulders as he leaned down to retrieve his wallet from the pants on the floor.
"Your cheeks are so flushed right now," he said as he came back to the bed, the side of his thighs pressed against hers, his weight cancelling out the weight of all her worries.
Body on body, skin on skin, Aïcha surrendered completely. She had craved his lips, his touch, his body, his heart.
She was at his mercy and he was at hers.
They moved and kissed and licked and twisted and moaned and met each other stroke for stroke. They didn't stop until their bodies and breath and souls mingled, snuggled together, as close as they could ever be.
And as the frantic rhythm of their hearts eased back to normal, they laid there, in the quietness of the room. They laid for a moment – a minute, an hour or more, they didn't know and didn't care.
And during that moment, nothing else mattered. None of her doubts or what-ifs or what-nows. All that mattered was the very moment they were living, his legs intertwined with hers, her head on his strong chest, his hand on her naked stomach.
But a moment was just that. Only a moment. And then Tom's mouth found hers. "God, I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too," she said back.
He was sure now - sure that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She was his, and he was prepared to do whatever he needed to change her mind.
He shifted, kissing her shoulder. "Darling, I know what's going on in that head of yours." Not waiting for her to answer, he added, "As much as I would love to think otherwise, this doesn't mean we have solved whatever it is we need to solve."
He was right, she thought. This was just a farewell, the closure they both needed.
"But I want to ask you one thing," he went on. "Could we please take the time to talk about this, about us?"
There is no us, she wanted to say. But she couldn't. She owed him the courtesy of an adult conversation. That much she knew.
"Aïcha, would you have dinner with me tomorrow? My place?"
She nodded and buried her face against the warm skin of his neck, while he kissed the top of her head, hugging her tight between his arms.