Night Over Water - Ken Follett [142]
He was surprised. “Did you enjoy it?”
She was too abashed to say yes aloud, so she just nodded.
He said: “But I didn’t ... I mean, you didn’t ...”
She said nothing. There was something he could do for her, but she was afraid to ask.
He rolled onto his side so that they faced one another in the narrow bunk. He said: “In a few minutes, maybe...”
I can’t wait a few minutes, she thought. Why shouldn’t I ask him to do for me what I did for him? She found his hand and squeezed it. Still she could not say what she wanted. She closed her eyes, then drew his hand to her groin. Her mouth was next to his ear, and she whispered: “Be gentle.”
He got the idea. His hand moved, exploring. She was wet, dripping wet. His fingers slid easily between her lips. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. His finger moved inside her. She wanted to say Not there, higher! and as if reading her thoughts he drew his finger out and slid it up to the most sensitive place. She was instantly transfixed. Her body was racked with spasms of pleasure. She shuddered convulsively, and to stop herself crying out she sank her teeth into the flesh of Harry’s upper arm and bit. He froze, but she rubbed herself against his hand and the sensations continued unabated.
When at last the pleasure eased, Harry moved his finger again, and she was abruptly shaken by another climax as intense as the first.
Then finally the spot became too sensitive, and she pushed his hand away.
After a moment Harry eased away from her and rubbed his shoulder where she had bitten him.
Breathlessly, she panted: “I’m sorry—did it hurt?”
“Yes, it bloody did,” he whispered; and they both began to giggle. Trying not to laugh aloud made it worse, and for a minute or two they were both helpless with suppressed laughter.
When they calmed down he said: “Your body is wonderful—wonderful.”
“So is yours,” she said fervently.
He did not believe her. “No, I mean it,” he said.
“So do I!” She would never forget his swollen penis standing up from the thatch of golden hair. She ran her hand over his stomach, searching for it, and found it lying across his thigh like a hosepipe, neither stiff nor shriveled. The skin was silky. She felt she would like to kiss it, and was shocked by her own depravity.
Instead she kissed his arm where she had bitten him. Even in the near-dark she could see the marks her teeth had made. He was going to have a bad bruise. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, too low for him to hear. She felt quite sad that she had damaged his perfect flesh after his body had given her such joy. She kissed the bruise again.
They were limp with exhaustion and pleasure, and they both drifted into a light doze. Margaret seemed to hear the drone of the engines all through her sleep, as if she were dreaming of planes. Once she heard footsteps pass through the compartment and return a few minutes later, but she was too contented to be curious about what they meant.
For a while the motion of the plane was smooth, and she fell into a real sleep.
She woke with a shock. Was it daytime? Had everyone got up? Would they all see her climbing out of Harry’s bunk? Her heart raced.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“What’s the time?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
He was right. There was no movement outside, the cabin lights were dim, and there was no sign of daylight at the window. She could sneak out in safety. “I must go back to my own bunk, right now, before we’re discovered,” she said frantically. She began looking for her slippers and could not find them.
Harry put a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down,” he whispered. “We’ve got hours.”
“But I’m worried that Father—” She stopped herself. Why was she so worried? She took a deep breath and looked at Harry. When their eyes met in the semidarkness, she remembered what had happened before they went to sleep, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing. They smiled at one another, a knowing, intimate, lovers’ smile.
Suddenly she was not so worried. She did not need