Free The Beach Hut by Veronica Henry Page B

she watched him walk over the sand. He had his shoes in one hand, a bottle in the other. Was it too late to run, she wondered? She could slip behind the huts, run along the back to the car park, jump into her car and flee for home. She’d be home by ten. She’d tell Ian she missed him. She could slip into bed with him, tickle his neck like she used to, he would roll over towards her with a smile. If sex was what she wanted, she could have it. No problem.
    Her heart was thumping as she stepped back inside the hut. It was almost in her throat as she picked up her car keys, her handbag. Her legs felt as if they could barely carry her. Run, Sarah, run.
    But if she ran, she’d never know. And she would never have the courage to orchestrate this situation again. She wanted to breathe the same air he was breathing, to touch his skin. It was a physical yearning that totally overrode any logic in her head. Like the rabid desire for chocolate two days into a diet. No matter how sternly she told herself no, she always gave in. She put her hand on the handle, hesitating.
    She couldn’t resist temptation. She never had been able to.
    She put her bag down, dropped her keys on the table. Her cheeks were burning. She had ten seconds to muster up the courage to tell him this was wrong, that she had to go, that he couldn’t stay.
    ‘Hey.’
    She shut her eyes before she turned to look at him in the doorway. She could smell him. Sense him. His very presence in the hut changed the way the air felt on her skin. As soon as she saw him, she felt her soul shifting deep inside her.
    ‘Hi.’
    What a ridiculous thing to say.
    His eyes were roaming around the hut, taking it all in - the duck-egg blue woodwork, the ticking curtains, the abstract unframed canvases.
    ‘This is pretty nice.’ He walked in further, absorbing his surroundings, clearly impressed. ‘Is this where you bring all your lovers?’
    ‘God, no. Of course not. I’ve never brought anyone here. I told you . . .’
    ‘Oh yes. I remember. You’ve never been unfaithful.’
    He put an ironic emphasis on the word. He was mocking her. She felt riled.
    ‘What’s so wrong with that?’
    ‘Nothing. Nothing. It makes it all the more . . .’
    ‘What?’ He infuriated her. She remembered that now. How he made her feel so unsophisticated when he teased her. Like a naive little schoolgirl. She was standing with her hands by her sides, no idea what to do. She didn’t want him to look at her immaculate interior design taste. She wanted him to grab her. She wanted him to be unable to contain himself, to consume her. She wanted him to feel like she did. Effervescent and out of control.
    A drink. That would calm her down.
    ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’
    ‘Sounds lovely.’
    She was struggling with the cork when he came and stood behind her. Her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry as she stretched up to take two glasses from the cupboard. She bent her head to pour the wine carefully.
    He kissed her on the neck.
    She gave a gasp. Liquid honey slid down inside her, settling in the pit of her stomach. She shut her eyes, swallowed, as he rested his hands on her waist. She turned, clutching the glasses as if they were weapons.
    ‘Here.’ She held one out to him.
    He chuckled.
    ‘I feel like a fox,’ he told her, ‘with a tiny frightened rabbit.’
    ‘I am frightened. I’ve never done this. I told you. I don’t know the rules.’
    ‘The rules are,’ he took the glass out of her hand and put it next to his on the side, ‘there are no rules. We can do what we like. No one knows we’re here.’
    And he pushed her up against the wall and kissed her.
     
    Sarah woke at five the next morning. She’d had, by her estimation, about one hour and forty minutes of rather disturbed sleep. She longed to pull the covers back over her, snuggle into Oliver and drift off again, but her mind was racing. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and a jumper. The kitchen was piled high