Free Undone by Kristina Lloyd Page A

already felt like punishment of the worst sort. Sol didn’t seem to care either. If he’d wanted, he could have stopped me from tasting him but he didn’t. He just let me feel the stabbing burn in the roots of my hair, his fist following my movements with a tension that stung.
    ‘You want to see if I’ll trust you?’ he asked. ‘Is that it?’
    I pecked and nibbled near his injury again. ‘Do you?’ I whispered.
    ‘I don’t know yet.’
    Leaves stirred around us as if the forest were drawing breath. I nudged at the bruised bud with gentler lips. He didn’t protest, so again I enveloped the lump as lightly as I could. For a moment, Sol was stock still, allowing me to explore the texture of his hurt, tracing the hard smoothness here, the ragged cut there. Then he groaned and began tentatively kissing back. His body rocked into mine as his grip slackened on my hair.
    The suggestion of abandonment made me melt even further. I grew loose between my thighs and my limbs were watery. I hooked a thumb into the belt loop of his jeans, needing the support. We kissed in fluttering, fleeting touches, the bump moving with his lips, a strange, solid intrusion in the flow of slippery sensuality. He pulled me closer, cupping my buttocks with his big hands. Overhead, a breeze rippled through the canopy and a couple of blackbirds sang merrily. From far away, the cry of sirens reminded me this was not what we should be doing.
    Sol was the first to withdraw. His eyes searched mine, a frown deepening between his brows. ‘We need to stick together on this, OK?’ He ran a thumb over my lower lip. I nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep walking.’
    Disappointment thudded. I was so horny that walking seemed an insurmountable challenge. Sol turned, reaching back for my hand as he began striding over compacted ground. My knees seemed not to exist and my senses were veiled, as if I weren’t fully present. I hurried to keep pace.
    ‘What should we do?’ I asked.
    We released hands. His legs were longer than mine and walking single-file was proving awkward.
    ‘We just need to work out what to say and stick to it.’ He threw me a backward glance. The track narrowed, sloping gradually into denser woodland of beech trees, their smooth, grey trunks rising to a high mesh of green brilliance. Sol tramped up shallow steps edged by thick twigs. The forest floor was scattered with prickly husks of mast and dry, dun-brown leaf litter, friable and soft to walk on.
    ‘I’m in stupid sandals,’ I said irritably. ‘Will you please slow down?’
    He stopped and turned. I read impatience in his silence but I may have been projecting.
    ‘I’m not dressed for this. Where are we going?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Somewhere quiet.’
    ‘If you ask me, this is pretty fucking quiet.’
    ‘A little further on, that’s all.’
    He turned and continued marching along the low incline of the earthy, staggered path. I lagged behind, my breath quickening. Underfoot, the carpet of dead leaves muffled our tread and dulled the occasional crack of twigs. These makeshift steps hadn’t been used in some time.
    ‘You know that bit in
1984
?’ I called. ‘Where Winston and Julia go to the countryside? Is this like that?’
    ‘Never read it.’ He spoke loudly, turning to shoot me a fleeting look. ‘I’m a Yank. We do Steinbeck. Why, what happens?’
    I laughed, and the relief of doing so brought a wave of pleasure that made me laugh again. I felt feeble and giddy. My calf muscles ached.
    ‘They go on a sort of date,’ I yelled. ‘And they have to keep walking through woodland, not speaking until they’re … till they’re past all the hidden microphones and bugs and whatnot.’
    ‘Then what happens?’
    I paused, panting for breath. The gathering hush blanketed our voices, our words seeming to linger in a realm unused to speech. I drew a deep breath and said, ‘Then they sit down on the grass and have a lovely picnic.’
    Ahead of