Free Letters to the Lost by Iona Grey

upwards, then – frustrated – broke away to pull it over her head.
    Naked, she reached for him again, wanting to strip him of his striped pyjamas and feel his skin against hers, but he turned his head, deliberately averting his eyes from her body. He reached over to the lamp on the bedside table and fumbled for the switch. Stella saw the set expression on his face before darkness engulfed them.
    Thanks to the blackout, it was total. She was left with only her hands and lips to explore this new territory. This time it was Charles who lay back while she unbuttoned his pyjama top and ran her fingers hesitantly along the pronounced ridges of his ribs, the sharp angle of his hip. Her courage failed when she encountered the top of his pyjama trousers and she lay down beside him again, seeking the reassurance of his mouth against hers.
    It was like kissing a marble saint. For a heartbeat he was perfectly still and then he levered himself up and kissed her with the same sudden ferocity of a few moments ago, like he was trying to lose himself. His knee nudged her legs apart while his hands gripped her shoulders, pinning her against the bed. In a tiny part of herself Stella was alarmed, but the greater part of her thrilled at this new Charles, hungry and decisive; at being wanted, devoured by him. After months of drought, the hard crush of his mouth on hers, the push of his knee on her thigh was like water to a parched plant. Instinctively she groped for the cord of his pyjamas and tugged at the knot so she could slide them down his legs. They resisted, as if they were caught on something. Her heart lurched with fear and a sort of primitive thrill when she realized that something was . . . him .
    Tentatively her fingers closed around the surprising length of it. Above her in the dark he gave a low, guttural moan that was somewhere between pleasure and despair. Flaming spears impaled her. Of their own volition her fingers tightened and she felt him thrust into her grip, his breathing rapid and ragged.
    ‘Charles, please . . . I want you to . . .’
    She lacked the vocabulary to tell him, but her body was an open invitation. A pulse was beating like a second heart between her legs and she arched her hips and guided him towards it.
    As his flesh touched hers she heard his sharp inward breath and he jerked away as if she’d burned him. In that split second something changed irrevocably, as if a thread had been cut. He shrank from her – quite literally and alarmingly – the heat and hardness beneath her fingers melting into something soft and damp that made her vividly picture a deflated balloon. In contrast, the rest of his body went rigid. Abruptly he rolled away from her with a muffled moan of anguish.
    ‘Charles! Charles, darling . . . What is it?’
    She wanted to switch the light on but didn’t dare. In the darkness she felt for him, discovering with her hands that he was lying on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow. She slid her arms awkwardly around him and held him, murmuring and crooning senselessly as her mind reeled. Eventually she felt the tension ebb from his frame.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I can’t seem to . . .’
    His voice cracked. She rushed to reassure him, to spare him the indignity of having to explain further, to spare them both the embarrassment of dwelling on their failure. He was curled up, foetus-like, and she tucked herself around his back, her cheek against his shoulder, her arms looped around his waist, holding him tight as if she could somehow keep him safe from the demons that plagued him.
    Later, when she was just slipping beneath the warm waters of sleep, she felt him gently detach himself from her hold. The mattress dipped and cold air fanned her naked skin as the covers were lifted. He crossed the room on soft feet. A moment later the door at the end of the passageway closed quietly.
    Alone in her marriage bed Stella wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to