Page 83 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

They have staggered inside: a ray of sun hits them through the empty window frame that faces out towards the sea. His tanned skin looks beautiful and Essie finds she is desperately pressing herself up against him, ferocious as he kisses her, hard.

He is tugging up her T-shirt now, pressed against the wall, and before she knows it he has his hand under her arse and is grinding her hard against the stiff fly of his jeans, and oh, my God, it has never occurred to Essie before that to be exactly the same height as someone has extraordinary benefits, even as she finds herself desperately rubbing against him.

‘You wanna?’ he snarls into her ear like an animal, and she nods, furiously, absolutely: yes. ‘It’s not too dirty?’

‘It’s not dirty enough,’ she says, looking straight at him, not giving herself time to think, and in an instant, with some expertise, he has pulled down her skirt and has taken a large, calloused hand and slipped it inside her knickers. She nearly shrieks. Suddenly it feels as if the wall cannot hold her up. He increases the pressure a little, watching her face intently to see how she responds and what she likes. She likes it all.

‘Oh, God,’ she says, leaning over, as if she’s going to fall. He holds her up and she is absolutely streaming and cannot wait even a second longer.

‘Put it . . . ’

‘What?’

‘Put it . . . I want it . . . ’

She can barely articulate it.

‘Yeah?’

‘Please . . . please . . . ’

‘Well, I hate to see a lady beg,’ says Dwight lazily, as if he’s not fussed one way or another. Unbuttoning his jeans, though, which have been uncomfortably containing his massive bulge, tells another story completely.

Without thinking, Essie drops to her knees, taking him, and herself, by surprise at her desperation to stuff him in between her lips. She looks up at him, opening her mouth wide, and it is all he can do not to grab the back of her head and ram himself straight in, but he doesn’t, even if she looks as if she might welcome it. Instead he pumps several times, but holds himself back, and gradually moves an aching, desperate Essie back up again until she’s braced against the wall. The lack of a height difference between them means she is at exactly at the right level as slowly, carefully, he takes his large cock, rubbing itup and down slowly across her sodden opening, and she finds she is making the most ridiculous noises, pushing herself forward, desperate for him to take her. They are both panting as he waits several terribly, agonisingly long moments, and then, with a grunting noise, finally pushes right up, deep inside her, endlessly and relentlessly, pushing her and pummelling her, hard and ferocious. Essie is loving it, vociferously so; she puts her hands on his buttocks and drives him hard into her, screaming for it harder, and for more of it, which he willingly gives, until she finds herself collapsing forward on to him like a rag doll, as he pins her to the wall and keeps on driving into her without mercy.

Afterwards, they sink to the floor. Essie raw, horrified and delighted all at once.

Dwight is clearly falling asleep. Essie glances at him. Ridiculously, even though she is exhausted, she can’t help herself: she genuinely wants him again. Right away. This time, on all fours. While she gets filthy.

After sex with Connor she usually felt a slightly odd sense of relief. This isn’t the same thing at all. This is not even in the same ballpark.

Oh, my God. She had thought things were complicated before. She leaps up. Dwight stirs. She wants to grab his bicep and Christ, those hands of his, and God . . .

‘I have to go,’ she says.

‘Why?’

‘I . . . I promised I’d speak to Lowell about looking after the puppies,’ she stammers.

‘They’ll be alright,’ he says. Then, more seriously, ‘Come back here, you.’

‘Wee Jim will be back.’

Dwight looks at her, his sleepy eyes half shut, in a way she finds very difficult to resist.

‘If only you lived nearby.’ He grins.

‘In mymum’s house.’

‘Nothing wrong with living at your maw’s,’ says Dwight, and Essie wants to hit the side of her head. Oh, lord. He lives with his mum. So does she. And she has a boyfriend. And she and Dwight are meant to be working together. Oh, God. This is just awful.

She pulls her T-shirt back on, in a frenzy now to leave before she has to think too much about what she’s just done. And how much she wants to do it again.

‘So, your friends . . . ’ he says. He seems infuriatingly unconcerned about Connor. Which reminds her that of course, in the scheme of things, it’s not actually Dwight’s problem. He pulls himself up to sit against the wall and suddenly she wants to sit on him. She quashes the thought.

‘Yeah,’ she says, shamefully remembering her outburst. So much of it, truly, comes from jealousy. That he was chosen and she wasn’t.

‘I mean, it’s going to be alright, aye?’

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