Jemma’s Version
If they had told me a month ago, I would have bet my fortune that it could never happen. And I would have lost.
Ashford and I.
We’re anomalous. We’ve never been normal, the number of our flaws exceeds by far that of our virtues. But our virtues…
We’re totally captivated by each other and out of control.
Or rather, we are able to control ourselves, at least in public.
The people around us are used to seeing us maintain respectable, restrained and detached behaviour, so it would be strange if we got all lovey-dovey, used nicknames and exchanged public displays of affection; that’s why we keep acting as the usual, taciturn Parker newly-weds, in love but very disciplined.
Our composure only increases the tension and attraction between us; as a result, whenever a door closes behind us, we throw ourselves voraciously into each other’s arms.
We tread a fine line between teen lust and sex addiction.
At night, however, we have all the time and privacy to abandon ourselves to our fantasies.
If his bed could talk… and the music room. And his study. And the armoury. And the cellars. My dress is still stained with Burgundy… but who cares! Ashford ripped it off half an hour ago, and now it’s somewhere on the floor. I just want the sheets of his bed on my body. And him, of course.
I roll over by his side, with my face just a breath away from his, and I keep thinking how amazing it is to look at those beautiful green eyes. He’s handsome. I don’t know if I was blind before, or if I am now. Certainly, I was blinded by all my prejudices and my hatred, but there has always been a large number of girls who fought over him, starting from the Triple Six and that Portia. Portia. I partly forgot about her. Partly, but not completely, and I don’t know if it’s wise to ignore her.
“Are you happy?” He asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Yes, I am.”
“And what do you want to ask me?”
“What?” I ask, hesitating.
“I know from your expression. You’ve got something to ask me.”
I nod and pluck up the courage to do it. “I think the time has come for you to tell me about Portia.”
“Portia?” He asks, surprised.
“Derek, your mother, Harring, everyone has talked of her at least once, except for you. And since it has to do with you, I would like to get the full picture.”
“There’s no picture,” he digresses.
“Everyone was ready to bet on you getting married. There must have been something…” I say, but I want to make sure he understands that I don’t mean to start an argument, so I rub my face against his neck, inhaling his scent mixed with the smell of the sex we’ve just had.
“All right, but always keep in mind that everything I will tell you is part of the past.”
“Got it.”
“Portia is one of the many people who are regularly invited to the usual receptions, and we’ve known each other for years. By ‘we’ve known each other’ I don’t mean that we are friends or anything, though. There was that kind of familiarity that you can have with people who are in the same environment as you. Then, once she and her friends reached the so-called ‘marriage age’, she started being around more and more often. She served herself on a silver platter, I could say. Harring and I have never been particularly keen on settling down early, and I’ve always preferred to keep my love affairs outside the circle of regular acquaintances, just to avoid fostering gossip.” Ashford pauses to make sure I’m listening. “Anyway, there’s a ‘but’: Portia is an attractive girl and, although I have my self-control, I’m not a saint. A glass of wine too many and a suggestive invitation from her were enough to make me abandon my principles. It went on quite a while, and maybe it escaped my control, even though I thought I could handle the situation. I took advantage of her interest in me just for fun. Besides, she seemed to be okay with it, or so she said. However, we were always together at events and, for some reason, I ended up being her partner at every evening. If you consider that my mother encouraged what she thought was a real relationship, you’ll understand that Portia must have taken this idea of marriage very seriously. And, perhaps, she told many others. I never made her think that it could be a possibility, but she probably had her own strategy: she was trying to make sure that everyone considered us a couple, even if we were not. She believed that, if everyone started telling me: ‘You and Portia are a lovely couple’, ‘Portia is a woman to marry’, or ‘When are you getting married?’ I would eventually drift into it. Her hopes were destroyed of course, when she learned that I had married another woman.”
Actually, I don’t know if I like what I’ve heard. Maybe I wasn’t ready for it, and thinking that he actually had a relationship with her bothers me quite a lot.
“Why are you frowning, now?” Ashford asks, lifting my chin with two fingers.
“Thinking of Portia in your bed makes me uneasy,” I admit.
“If it makes you feel any better, we’ve never been close enough to share a bed.”
In my mind, I picture wardrobes, storerooms, the stables, hallways, the two of them standing against a wall, and God knows what else. “No, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Doesn’t the fact that I’m here with you mean anything?”
“Maybe,” I say, elusively.
“Any other questions?” He asks, making me straddle him.
“You don’t miss Portia, then?”
Ashford presses my hips against his. I can feel his arousal. “What do you think?”
I lean over him and bring my breasts close to his face. “That you like what you’re looking at.”
“Let me prove it to you,” he murmurs in a slightly hoarse voice, before sinking into me.