You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me (5 page)

‘We have tons in common,’ Neve insisted. ‘In fact, I taught Celia everything she knows.’ Which was the only reason that Celia had managed to pass her GCSE in English. ‘Apart from the fashion-related stuff.’

‘Is that so?’ Max enquired with a sultry purr to his voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘Why don’t you snuggle in a bit closer?’

‘Are you going to kiss me again?’ It probably wasn’t the sexiest thing to ask but Neve wanted to know that Max was on the same page as her. The page where there were passionate kisses and her heaving bosoms were crushed against a manly chest and …

‘I was definitely thinking about it,’ Max agreed. He patted his knee invitingly. ‘Well, come here then.’

Sitting on Max’s lap really wasn’t viable but Neve scrambled to her knees so she could shuffle along the couch and drape herself carefully over him. It wasn’t very comfortable, but with some wriggling and an elbow in Max’s ribs, which made him grunt in surprise, Neve could mash her lips against his.

The first moments of kissing were all teeth and tongue as Neve attacked Max’s mouth with a lot of enthusiasm and absolutely no finesse. But then Max retreated, regrouped and showed her how to do it slowly so each kiss was like biting into the richest darkest chocolate and pausing to savour the taste. Neve could feel herself getting more and more light-headed, not from the alcohol, but from being drunk on kisses and the feel of Max’s fingers threading through her hair, then sliding down to stroke her neck. When his hand cupped her breast, Neve moaned approvingly and flattened her hand against Max’s chest so she could feel the thud of his heart.

It would have been perfect if it weren’t for the crick in her neck.

Neve rose up on her knees, one hand resting on the back of the couch while she caught her breath, and she didn’t care that her belly might be sticking out or that Max was still caressing her breasts as if they were his absolutely favourite thing in the world. She just wanted to stay on the sofa, kissing him, for ever.

‘So does this flat of yours have a bedroom?’ Max drawled, and Neve had never made anyone drawl before.

She’d planned to keep this kissing experiment within the controlled environment of her lounge, but snogging furiously on the sofa seemed so adolescent. Max already thought that Neve was cut from the same glittery cloth as Celia, and maybe she was because in the space of one evening she had mastered light flirtation and aced kissing. Now it was time to maybe kiss in a room with a bed in it. She might even let Max slide his hands into her bodice, Neve decided recklessly. She’d play it by ear, after she’d downed what was left in her wineglass.

‘This way,’ she said, attempting to get off the sofa gracefully and hearing her dress rip in the process. Inwardly she winced but outwardly she held out her hand and tugged Max up. He squeezed her fingers tightly in a gesture that was strangely comforting as Neve led him out of the lounge, up one half-flight of stairs, pulled him back from the bathroom, and up another half-flight into her attic bedroom.

Neve let go of Max’s hand so she could turn on the old-fashioned standard lamp in the corner, then felt his arms envelop her as he kissed the back of her neck, hands smoothing down the slippery faux satin of her dress. She half-heartedly sucked in her tummy though Max didn’t seem to mind that her belly went out rather than in.

‘Never thought you’d have such a messy bedroom,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’ Neve closed her eyes as she leaned back against Max’s chest so she wouldn’t have to look at the havoc Celia and Yuri had wreaked when they were helping her select a party outfit. They’d pulled out practically every single item of clothing in Neve’s closet and drawers and dumped them on her bed, on her vintage 1950s’ sideboard and her matching pair of Lloyd Loom wicker chairs. It didn’t help that 95 per cent of her clothes had an extremely muted colour palette so there were mounds of black material marring the pretty pink and whiteness of her room as if the guests at a funeral had performed an impromptu mass striptease.

With Max still wrapped around her, Neve staggered over to her bed – about the only thing she’d bought new because she’d wanted a proper girly bed with an ivory curlicued frame that she could heap with floral-sprigged linen. ‘I’ll just chuck them on the floor,’ she said, scooping up a pile of skirts and flinging them on to her white floorboards. ‘Normally, though, I’d put them away properly.’

‘Of course you would,’ Max said, as if he didn’t believe her.

‘I
so
would!’

‘OK, you get this stuff off the bed and I’ll get this dress off of you,’ Max said playfully, lifting up her hair so he could fiddle with the hook-and-eye closure.

‘No, don’t do that,’ Neve yelped, turning quickly so she could wind her arms round Max’s neck. ‘You haven’t kissed me for at least five minutes.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’ His lips were on hers before he’d even finished the sentence, as he backed her on to the bed and came down on top of her.

It was so much better than kissing on the sofa – not only was Neve’s head supported by her memory foam pillow, but the weight of Max on top of her and grinding slightly into her was more arousing than Neve had expected. It also meant that all he could see was her flushed face, so even when the skirt of her dress got tangled between them and he started stroking a path up her legs, there was nothing to freak out about. Touching wasn’t the same as looking and anyway, she’d shaved her legs earlier in the evening, even though Celia had insisted that the one way you were guaranteed never to pull a guy was if you shaved your legs before you went out. Which just showed how little she knew.

‘You’re so pretty,’ Max murmured against her skin, as he kissed a path along the neckline of her dress. ‘Shall we get a little bit more naked?’

He pulled back so he could start unbuttoning his shirt and looked at her expectantly. Neve propped herself up on her elbows because lying flat on the bed wasn’t very becoming. The room
was
dimly lit but not dimly lit enough because Max would be able to see all of her just as clearly as Neve could see every inch of Max’s chest slowly emerging from its black cotton confines. His chest wasn’t just good to lean against; it was good to look at too. Not especially hairy, but just broad enough and toned enough that she couldn’t resist poking one of his pecs with a tremulous finger. There wasn’t much give. Neve fanned out her fingers and rubbed her thumb over one of his nipples; it was smaller and flatter and browner than hers and then she was running both hands over his chest because she could. Because Max wanted her to and he wouldn’t be smiling and shrugging his arms out of his shirt if he wanted her to stop.

She dipped her fingers in and out of his clavicles and slid them down his chest, over his abdomen, then stopped when she reached his worn leather belt. When she lowered her eyes she could see the outline of his hard-on because she’d made him hard. It was a concept that Neve couldn’t even begin to process.

‘OK, I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.’ Max grinned as he tugged free his belt buckle.

There was a part of Neve that was slowly liquefying on her Cath Kidston duvet cover even though she felt as if she should be running around the room, arms and legs flailing wildly as she emitted high-pitched shrieks of terror.

Neve knew it was her right to say no at any time during any type of sexual activity. She knew that, but when you were lying on your bed while the sexy, glamorous, experienced man you’d invited back to your flat for the flimsy promise of coffee, even though he was light years out of your league, was slowly unbuttoning his fly, ‘no’ felt like the wrong thing to say.

If she said no, she’d appear gauche and prudish and a repressed freak who wasn’t even sure whether she was a virgin or not. Besides, virginity wasn’t such a big deal. Celia and Chloe at work had both shucked off the shackles of their maidenhood by the time they were sixteen, and she was twenty-five and she should have got round to doing this years ago, and though having a no-strings sexual encounter hadn’t made it on to her dating to-do list, at least she could stop worrying about it and—

‘Look, I don’t have such a great body,’ Neve blurted out. ‘I’m not thin or, like, toned and stuff.’

Max snorted. ‘I know at least ten women who would kill for curves like yours.’ He patted her knee and let his hand rest there so he could trace patterns on Neve’s skin with the tip of his finger as he began to inch up the hem of her dress with his other hand.

Neve gritted her teeth but forced herself to remain calm. This wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d made her mind up to do this and she never had to see Max again, especially if she made a solemn vow that she’d never attend another
Skirt
party.

‘C’mon, Neve,’ Max said softly. ‘If you weren’t sexy, then why would I be this hard? Here, feel …’

Her hand had been resting limply by her side but Max picked it up and placed it on his covered cock. She could feel it twitching, and when she tentatively curled her fingers around its length, it gave a little leap.

‘I did that,’ she said incredulously.

‘You did that,’ Max said, his other hand sliding up her leg and pushing up her dress – and that was when Neve saw the hem of her slip.

She was wearing a slip under her dress! She was saved, because she could easily do damage control on her bingo wings, and having sex with your slip on was textbook sexy in a
femme fatale
, film noir-ish sort of way.

Neve reached for her zip and slowly inched it down as Max stood up and started unzipping his trousers so there was a stereophonic symphony of rasping metal. They were both staring at each other, eyes widening when Max suddenly stopped, and bent down.

‘Seeing me in nothing but my socks would kill the mood,’ he remarked casually as Neve took advantage of the moment to quickly skin out of her dress and press her arms tight to the side of her body so there’d be no unsightly flab on display. Even her breasts looked perky framed by her nicest balconette bra and the black lace edging of her slip.

And Neve didn’t think she’d ever felt quite so validated as when Max raised his head and gave a long, low whistle when he caught sight of her. ‘God, you look just like Liz Taylor in
Butterfield 8
,’ he said fervently. ‘You have truly amazing tits.’

‘They’re OK,’ she agreed shyly, because they did look pretty spectacular at that moment thanks to underwiring and padded cups – and that was all that Max was going to see of them.

Max didn’t share her shyness. He slid his belt off so his trousers hung low on his hips, then quickly and efficiently pulled them off like he couldn’t wait to get naked and move on to the next part. Neve knew that she was staring but she couldn’t help it. She’d never seen an erect penis before, not in the flesh anyway, and what had happened with the Philosophy student had happened under the covers and in darkness. All she could do was sit there and stare half in horror, half in fascination at Max’s straining cock. It looked painful and it looked much bigger than she’d imagined, and it looked as if it was never going to fit inside her and it looked so
other
that all Neve wanted to do was keep looking at it until it became more familiar. The way she did with a particularly troublesome crossword clue.

But that wasn’t really an option when Max was walking towards her with a foil square in his hand and his dick leading the way, like a divining rod made flesh. Neve did the only thing she could do in the circumstances and dived under her duvet.

‘Is there room for me in there too?’ Max asked.

Neve folded back two centimetres of quilt. ‘Of course,’ she squeaked. And just to show she was totally on board, she took one of her full-length body pillows and threw it on the floor. ‘See, there’s tons of space.’

Then suddenly her bed was invaded by acres of warm, male flesh as Max took her in his arms. It really was a watershed moment; there was a naked man in her bed, moulding himself to the curves of her body, and even though Neve felt as if this was all moving too fast and it was jumping-from-a-burning-building scary, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held by someone who wasn’t Celia.

Max traced her eyebrows with the tip of a finger. ‘I know I keep saying it, but you’re so pretty.’

Neve knew she wasn’t. It was just something that guys said when they wanted to have sex with you, and now that they were in bed and it was a foregone conclusion, Max really didn’t need to say it, but still the words meant something to her. It was the first time a man had ever said it to her, apart from her dad, and that didn’t count; besides, she really didn’t want to think about her dad at a time like this.

‘You’re pretty too,’ she said, touching the bump in his crooked nose. ‘You remind me of Caravaggio’s painting of David holding up the head of Goliath.’

Max screwed up his face in mock indignation. ‘As long as you don’t mean Michelangelo’s
David
,’ he said and he arched his hips, so she’d be sure of his meaning, not that Neve was in any doubt.

‘You wish,’ she said dryly, the way she’d talk when she was teasing Celia or chatting with Chloe and Rose at work. In fact, the way she normally was when she wasn’t half drunk and half giddy with horror and her own daring.

Neve had never thought that she’d be cracking jokes when she was in bed with a man. Or that he’d pin her to her mattress and tickle her ribs until she choked out, ‘Sorry,’ in between giggles. She lay there, hair fanning out across the pillow, with Max looking down at her, and all it took was one arm hooking around his neck to persuade him to kiss her again and again.