Look Back at Me (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 1)

Going to Bed Together

Viola turned slightly and looked at the man near her. There hadn't been a beard then, nor the wrinkles near the corners of his eyes. His features had been softer, youthful, fresh, but already strong and willful. Rhys Holyoake had never been baby-faced, except perhaps when he was a baby. His full bottom lip had lost some of its plumpness since that day in her tiny drafty flat, and the upper one was currently hiding under the dark whiskers, and she wondered how the firm curved line of it had changed. There was now a small scar on his left cheekbone. She didn't remember it, it must have happened after the divorce. To some, his face could seem too craggy and rough-hewn, with its rugged, harsh features. It was face made for scowling, gnashing his teeth; or for a dark frown, muscles dancing on his jaw - but Viola had seen a tender smile play on his lips, and the vulnerable softness when he looked at people he loved. There was more to Rhys Holyoake than the self-proclaimed tosser and the wanker John so often called him.

Some sort of half-formed philosophical musings lazily swirled in her mind, but Viola was too practical for the melodramatic considerations of how difficult it was to love a man like him, and whether he needed her love at all. And of course, it went without saying that she would love him again, if she stayed with him. She was half in love with him already.

Another half an hour passed, and if anything, Viola felt only more exhausted. She tried not to move too much, although she doubted he'd wake even if she decided to dance a foxtrot on his bed, and now all her muscles felt stiff. She sighed and decided there was no point in wasting her time. She carefully shifted to the edge of the bed, planning to slowly lower her feet on the floor, when he groaned, rolled over his right side, and pressed into her.

"Stay, Vi," he muttered.

His body was hot, heavy, and she felt his hairy leg scratch at her calf.

"I can't sleep," she said, and he burrowed his face into her side.

"Alright, just give me–" Another rumbly grunt bubbled in his throat. "I'll wake up, give me a mo–"

"You don't have to wake up," she said quickly. "You need to sleep. I'll just–"

"Is this my shirt?" he interrupted her, and then rolled on his back. His eyes slowly opened.

"Rhys, go back to sleep. It's only been two hours, and you need–"

She choked on her words because he unceremoniously pushed his hand under the duvet and brushed his palm to her hip.

"And my pants." He wasn't asking.

"I don't have any clean clothes here," she grumbled.

Their eyes met. His gaze was wide awake and sharp now. Against all reason, Viola's cheeks flamed up.

"What? I've done it before," she gritted through her teeth. "Why is this suddenly important? We both know they fit and make excellent pyjamas for me. Why are you–" she spluttered, and then she felt his rough palm on her thigh.

"Vi," he murmured.

"What?" she said with a pout.

Of course she knew what he wanted to say. What he was asking for. They were in his bed, she was wearing his clothes. It was intimate, cosy, and raw. She suddenly thought that she was disheveled and had no makeup on, and the unusual unease from looking anything but perfectly put-together flooded her.

He wasn't moving or saying anything, just watching her - and she would've appreciated that he was letting her decide and allowed her all possible control over the situation - except she had no bloody idea what she wanted!

"Rhys, I don't–" she exhaled, and then she shifted and, which was rather noteworthy, instead of putting some distance between them, hid her face into his healthy shoulder.

"It's alright, love," he said in a low affectionate voice. "We've talked about it, remember? You take all the time you need."

Viola sniffled - and consequently gulped lungfuls of his smell. Something as if loudly popped in her head. Viola sharply sat up and pinned him with a firm glare.

"I can't have sex if I think I don't look perfect," she said firmly.

He gave her a confused look. She sighed. Is this really a good time, Viola?

"When you and I started dating," she said, "you weren't my first, but I truly knew nothing about it before I met you. You probably don't remember, and it hardly matters right now, I'd had a boyfriend before uni, and it was just all awkward, boring, and even unpleasant at times. And then, what we had was– all I knew. We had great sex, you and I," she said. "Don't get me wrong. But it was solely based on your prior experience, you were the one in charge." She quickly pondered how to explain it to him. "Most men don't analyse it. You just do what comes naturally."

He drew his eyebrows together, but it seems more a gesture of concentration rather than displeasure.

"Meanwhile, many women, including me, have trouble letting go and simply enjoying it without constantly monitoring what it looks like from outside. It's part of my body image issues. It has always been like that. And it worked well in my marriage with Hani, because we experimented a lot, and some of it was... non-traditional. There was an element of performance to it. What it means is that I can't just... do it," she said. "Unless I've had a fair share of alcohol, then my inhibitions are low. Like in your car, remember? Otherwise, I need to wear the lingerie that makes me feel confident, and my hair needs to be styled, and–"

"You need to style your hair to have sex," he repeated slowly.

Viola sighed again.

"No, it's not–" She chuckled joylessly and shook her head. "I'm not explaining it well."

"You probably are, but I don't get it," he said.

He groaned, and awkwardly sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. The duvet slid down, baring his chest. Viola cowardly looked aside.

"Do you mean it needs to be all set up? Like, candles and rose petals or something?" he asked tentatively, and she suddenly felt fiercely grateful for how much he was trying.

"It's not about the circumstances of it," she said. "I just don't get relaxed. I keep looking at myself 'from outside.' What my facial expression is, what noises I make. I watch my body as if from outside, instead of being in it and enjoying sex. A lot of women have the same issues. It's because we're taught to look at sex from the male point of view. In porn, for example."

He gave it a thought for at least five seconds, and then said, "Can you give me an example? Vi, I know it's like I'm being daft, but–"

"Alright," she said with a nervous laugh. It felt oddly liberating to talk about her issues - but it was mind-boggling that it was him she was talking to! "Say, right now, we're in bed. You're naked, I'm wearing your underwear. So, you naturally think of sex. I don't want to assume, but I reckon you aren't actually thinking anything. Your blood has travelled South, and you might have some vague memory of how ace it was, and now you just want to get on with it. Right?" she asked, and he nodded. "Meanwhile, I'm thinking my hair looks like a mop," she said. "That I shaved my legs yesterday, so they aren't perfectly smooth. And then it's like those slides in a projector in my head. I remember the positions you preferred, and I can't help but sort of plan what I'm going to do if you do this or that, and how I now have some new moves, and how many of them I should show to you, considering it's our first time. That's what's going on in my head instead of me just enjoying the fact that I'm in bed with a man I'd very much like to shag," she finished and realised she sounded annoyed at the end.

How many times in her life had she wondered what it would feel to be free of all these anxieties, insecurities, and restrictions?

They stayed silent for a moment, and then he asked, "So what do we do then?" He paused, and then asked earnestly, "What do I do to help, Vi?"