Downpour

"Have you been here the whole time? What about the club?"

"Nick owes me a few favours, so I called them in." He pours the soup into a bowl. "You were really sick. I couldn't leave you."

"You're not having any?" I ask, holding up my spoon.

"Chicken broth at five in the morning isn't really my thing," he smiles.

I dip my head. How can he be so good looking at this ungodly hour when I must be doing my best impression of an old witch?

"Thanks Noah."

"Aw, my sister brought the soup around, so thank her."

"I didn't mean the soup. Although it's lovely and I'll thank your sister for it if I get to meet her more formally."

He's still smiling at me.

"I meant thanks for staying here with me."

He leans back against the kitchen cabinets.

"You were really sick," he repeats. "Mum said someone should stay with you while you had a fever that high."

"Your mum?"

"She's a nurse."

"So she knows?"

He laughs. "Yeah. She knows."

He sits down opposite me and pulls a hand through his hair. I squeeze my knees together, thinking about him talking to his mum about me.

"I feel like I've been in another dimension."

"Yeah. You have. I learnt a lot."

I recognise the uptick of his mouth, the look in his eyes, and narrow my own at him.

"You were pretty delirious for a while. Rambling."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. For one thing, the more I hear about Alex, the more I want to smack his face into a wall."

I wince at how angry he sounds; afraid of what I must have been saying. No. What I must have been revealing.

"On the other hand, you had better stuff to say about some other dude."

I frown. Fiddle with the spoon in my hand. Exposed.

"It's ok. He feels the same way about you."

We grin at each other.

+++

I survey the photographs laid out on the countertop in silence. He's standing behind me. Jittery. Picking at his nails.

Soft lines and shadows; shallow angles and deep curves.

"I don't usually photograph people," he starts again on the explanation I've already heard, his voice tight with tension.

I don't know what to say to him. No one's ever photographed me before. Not like this, anyway. He'd done it when I was ill; when I'd been unable to give him permission, something for which he's already apologised a number of times. He's fumbled his way through an explanation that involved getting his camera -- a Rolleiflex, apparently (no, no idea either, but he says it like it's something special) finally repaired in Sydney; his sister dropping it off to him on her way up to Brisbane to see their mum because he hadn't wanted it risk it with FedEx (seems like she was just one of an actual parade of people who came round while I was ill. Lisa and Erica also called in a couple of times); hours of watching over me, his newly repaired camera waiting to be tried out. As he'd put it, it had been too much temptation and he'd given in to it.

And now I'm looking at the results, with the promise that if I wanted, he would destroy all of them. The negatives too. But would I look at them first?

Most are close-ups, tightly shot segments where it's not immediately obvious which part of my body it is. Rumpled cotton, twisted sheets; tangled hair, smooth skin, a fingertip, an eyelash, the nape of my neck -- lots of those. Frame-fulls of beauty.

"Is this how you see me?"

He looks at me curiously. "Yes. That's how you are, Marie."

I stare back at him. Then at the photos.

He starts to shuffle them together, covering them up.

"No, don't."

His hands go still.

"I've never seen myself like this."

I pick up one. The crook of my knee; a sliver of rumpled sheet lying across the top of the image.

"You've looked at me so closely." I look at him. "Which ones do you like?"

He's hesitant at first then glances over the array of photos and picks out a few of them.

"These."

We examine them together.

"I like this one because this is a place you love to be kissed," he says, holding up a photo of the dip in-between my collarbones. "And this one for the same reason," showing me a close-up of the corner of my mouth. "And these ones because they show how beautiful your skin is. And the curve of your spine."

Eventually he asks, "Are you angry with me?"

"No. Not angry, Noah. I think I'm shocked you've spent such a lot of time looking at me. I feel... seduced."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

He looks so worried.

"Depends on how honourable your intentions are, wouldn't you think?"

Which earns me the softest of his kisses. Barely more than a brush of his lips. I kiss him back, watching the way his eyes seem to change. He pulls at me, his hand hot on my ribs, but I step back, shaking my head.

"Uh-uh. Now I'm going to look at you like you've already looked at me."

His eyes flicker and his mouth twitches.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. So you'd better take off your shirt."

"You had a t-shirt on the whole time," he protests, but I hold up my hand.

"Do you want to keep these pictures?"

I cast my eye over the piles of photographs that show me as if I'm someone beautiful, hoping he says yes.

"I do."

"Then this is the price."

I hold my breath, wondering what's got into me. Wanting him to take his shirt off. Nearly clapping my hands in delight as he flips the top few buttons open and tugs the shirt over his head. He gives me a bit of a look, his mouth twitching, and I raise an eyebrow at him. The shirt drops to the floor, as if he's raising a challenge to me. I tip my chin. I am a little freaked out at being photographed like that. Not angry. More like shocked at being seen, no -- examined -- by him when I was in such an unguarded state. Now I want him to find out what it's like to be so closely examined, even when he's aware. Maybe especially when he's aware.

I drop my eyes from his and focus on his chin, gathering myself, willing myself to be strong enough to continue whatever it is I've started here. And let my eyes roam over his face, from the little lines at the corners of his eyes to the soft tips of his earlobes. Down to his throat where I watch him swallow. He lifts his hand as if to touch me, but I give a quick shake of my head and he drops it, swallowing a second time. I look back into his face. He's not looking nervous. That'll be me. I'm the nervous one here. I clear my throat.

"Let me look at your back."

It comes out more as a croak than a command. He tilts his head just a tiny bit before swinging around, planting his hands on the countertop in front of him. I suck at my breath as I regard him in this stance, his hips a little canted to the left. I take a step closer to him, fixating on the undulations of his spine from the long curls of hair playing around the nape of his neck down to the underwear that's exposed by his low-riding shorts. I like his lean shape. Brief memories of Alex's stockier body invade my mind until I shake them off. I don't know the names of all the different muscles I'm looking at, but they seem well-defined. I pinch my thighs tight as I watch his ribs moving with the rhythm of his breathing. I've never looked at anyone this closely or for this long.

I take another tiny step closer to him and watch in fascination as goosebumps erupt across his shoulders. He jolts forwards when I touch him there, playing my fingertips over his skin, tracing the fierce pattern of bumps as he shudders. It emboldens me, to see his body reacting to something I'm doing to him and I draw one finger down the route of his spine until it reaches his waistband. I push downwards.

He emits a noise, something harsh and sudden that chases out of his throat. I squeeze my legs again, trying to ignore the heat there, hesitating. And then not. Slipping my fingers into his waistband and tugging at it.

"And these," I manage to get out, catching the quick turn of his head out of the corner of my eye.

He undoes the button and fly one-handed then stops. I look up. He looks as if he's waiting. Waiting for me to do it, both hands back on the countertop again. I push his shorts down over his hips, feeling him clenching his muscles until I tap on each thigh to get him to bring his legs closer together. Another sound, this one closer to a short laugh, escapes him when I stroke the top of his foot, then lift it, running my thumb over the rough skin of his heel. Another noise. Ticklish. I stroke his other foot, coaxing him into lifting it up and I pull his shorts free.

He buckles when I kiss the back of his knee.

"Fuck," he mutters, recovering, returning to his previous stance.

I get up off my knees and step back. His bum does look really good, Lisa's got that right. I smile. He jumps again when I smooth my palm over it.

"Now these," I murmur, pinching at the fabric of his underwear, then dipping my hands into the waistband.

His sharp intake of breath stops me.

"Careful," he mutters, grabbing my hand and placing it over him, where he's really stiff.

"Oh!"

I'm such a dummy, I hadn't thought this was turning him on. It hadn't occurred to me that it might. He's looked so relaxed. I breathe out. His underwear is wet under my palm. I ease the waistband over his dick. I can't resist planting another kiss to the back of his knee again. Same reaction from him. He adjusts his stance to help me free him from his underwear. Still kneeling, I examine his legs. Long muscles. A messy scar around the back of his right ankle that I trace lightly, feeling him flinch at my touch. And again at my kiss.

I stand up again, running my hand up in-between his legs until I reach his bum. His muscles are tense, quivering. I retreat. Stand back just to look at him. He's dropped his head, as if he's been needing to concentrate on other things, in another world. And he looks like he's breathing more rapidly than before, a slight sheen of sweat gathering in the small of his back. I wrap my arms around myself. How can this be? This kind, sexy man standing here, letting me touch him like this?

"Hey."

I blink. He's turned around.

"I was worried you'd lost interest," he says, his tone light but his eyes serious.

I smile shakily.

"I don't know what I'm doing here."

He reaches for me.

"Making me feel fucking amazing," he declares, pressing us hard together.

I laugh, trying to expel my nerves. Aware he's probably staining my sensible work shirt with his dick pressing into it like this and not caring. Not caring one bit.

I let him fiddle at the buttons and part my shirt, yanking at my zip until my skirt falls down to the floor, then pulling at the catch until my bra falls open at the front. His first touch is surprisingly rough, almost painful. I want him to do it again. He rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and I nearly take off.

I raise myself up on my toes and plant my lips on his, opening up for him as he sweeps his tongue into me, his eyes wide open. Wider when I curve my palm around him where he's so very hot and hard. He grunts, almost a protest. But I squeeze him harder. He wrenches his mouth away.

"I'm gonna come, Marie, if --"

I smile. Nod. He groans some more as I push my hand down then up, twisting it a bit. Which forces out a louder groan than before. I repeat it, liking the sounds he's making.

"Fuck. Christ, Marie."

His body tenses up. I double my efforts, concentrating on the feel of his skin sliding soft over such a hard, hot core.

"Yeah, good 'n' tight," he mutters before finding my mouth.

He throbs hard in my hand. I give another twist. His breath chases out of his nose, down my face, his eyes bright. And his hips jerk up, nearly unbalancing the both of us, his orgasm sudden and violent. I keep squeezing and tugging, letting the vibrations from his groans fill my mouth. Until he breaks off. Panting, closing his eyes for a few seconds, swaying back until he's leaning hard against the countertop behind him. Taking me with him, pressing me to his chest.

Then he stands upright, walks me backwards until I fall into the sofa. He climbs over me, shuffling us until I'm lying down and he's propped up over me. I look down at his come over both of us. He picks up my sticky hand, runs his fingers through mine, then presses two of my own into my mouth, his eyes flickering as he watches me suck on them.

"Now touch yourself, Marie, can ya?"

I shake my head.

"Go on," a little frown playing over his face.

I shake my head again. Take my fingers out of my mouth.

"No."

But I'm unable to say why. That I'm so close, I want him to be the one touching me when it washes over me. Instead, I pull at two of his fingers. He plunges them into my mouth and I wet them; the faint taste of beer from his shift in the bar tonight on my tongue. But I don't think he knows how ready I am. That this is unnecessary. I wriggle my hips. And sigh as he trails his fingers out of my mouth.

"You. You do it," I whisper.

He shoves his hand into my knickers. Grunts as his fingers discover just how ready I am. He looks into my eyes and I writhe in a mix of embarrassment and impatience. And nearly stop breathing at his sure, steady sweep through me, unable to stop my hips rising up to his touch.

"Like that?"

But it's already on me, my hips pressing up to him, following his every move as he rubs me with the heel of his hand. His gaze is intense as he studies me, working at me, making me come onto his hand. I moan, almost cry, suddenly scared he might stop. But he doesn't. Thank God he doesn't. The world expands until everything is good and right, here with Noah kneeling over me, his green eyes pinning me down as surely as his hand. It's the sweetest burn. I want him to have everything of me. It's my last coherent thought.

He's kissing me, short, gentle touches on my face, as I return. Heart thumping, I pull him down onto me and we both tighten our hold.

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

I snort.

"Probably. What do you think?"

He looks at me. Not smiling.

"Ok, seriously, Noah. It's fine. It was just unexpected, you know? No-one's ever done anything like that about me before, that's all."

"Ok."

He looks relieved.

"And the photos are beautiful. Really, they are. They make me feel as though I could be beautiful. That you want to make me feel like that, not --," I cast about for the right words. "Not cheap or dirty."

"I should hope not. I didn't, ya know, touch you or anything like that when I was taking them. I just looked."

"I trust you, Noah. That's not the issue."

"What is?"

"I'm not sure there is one."

He cocks his head.

"Ok, so Alex was very controlling. Maybe there was a bit of me that freaked out that's what you were trying to do."

"That's not it."

"I know. I think that --," I hesitate. "I think that you were celebrating me."

I blush, unused to saying anything like this.

"Mmm."

His non-verbal response forces me to look into his eyes again.

"Loving ya. That's what I was doing, Marie."

+++

The shouting is shrill, staccato, getting clearer as I get closer to the bar. Coming from the room in the back that's full of slot machines -- 'Pokies'. It's come out of nowhere, incongruous in a busy night of lots of birthday parties or similar that have been keeping both Noah and Nick well busy while I've had dinner with Lisa, Erica and Erica's sister. But as I emerge from the bathrooms the air is suddenly crackling tight with tension. Noah's nowhere to be seen. I divert my path over to the back room, converging with Nick as he steps out from behind the bar.

It's a bloke I haven't seen before. Drunk and sweaty and focusing all his anger on Noah. A couple of others sitting at the machines, looking like they want to bolt.

"Time to leave, buddy," Noah's saying. Repeating, judging by the exaggerated patience in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

"Fuck off will ya?"

"No. You're causing trouble here, so you gotta go."

"Says who?" sneering. "You, with ya perfect fucking judgement? That what they said in the nut house about ya when they let ya out?" and making an unmistakable gesture at Noah.

I stop breathing, boiling anger racing up my gullet ready to fire out in a torrent of terrible words. But then I see how Noah's shoulders have dropped a little bit.

"Leave. Now."

"Yeah? Think this'll make you a big man?" His mean eyes flick, suddenly aware of Nick and me standing behind Noah.

Noah steps towards him, his back rigid and square.

"Yeah come on."

But he looks shocked when Noah grips his arms to pull him upright off the stool. Nick steps in and between them they drag and march the protesting drunk downstairs. The hurt look in Noah's eyes as he'd seen me there stays with me as I walk back to the table. It makes my heart pinch with sadness.

"What's going on?"

"Some pissed up arsehole getting ejected."

"Yeah?"

I sit down, trying to control my shakes.

"You ok? You look upset."

I shake my head. "I'm fine," I lie.

Lisa stops Erica from asking anything more. She knows from the look on my face it'll fall on stony ground. It turns the evening and soon enough, we're all standing, ready to leave.

"Wanna lift home?" Lisa asks me.

"Nah. I want to say goodbye to Noah and the walk home will do me good. You go."

"Ok. See you in the arvo -- don't forget I'm going out to Burleigh Heads first thing in the morning, right?"

I nod, anxious for them to leave now.

Noah's cleaning the bar, head down. I stand near, waiting for him to see me, uncertain yet feeling it might be important to stay.

"Marie, you heading off?" Nick walks around me, dirty glasses in his hands.

'Uh-huh, yes."

Noah's looking up at me, a blank look to his eyes. I twitch with nerves. No, with fear.

"Hey Noah, why don't you nick off now? Walk Marie home or whatever. Go on," Nick seems to give him a particular kind of look, as Noah simply nods, no argument, puts the cloth down near the sink and mutters a quiet goodnight.

I follow him down the stairs and outside, catching a hold of his hand as he lets go of the door.

"Hey," I offer.

"Hey Marie. You girls have a good night?"

He sounds so subdued.

"It was ok. Better than yours."

"You heard all that, then?"

I squeeze his hand.

"Make me a cuppa before I walk home?"

The tiniest suggestion of a smile on his face. But he doesn't switch the lights on once we get inside his flat; instead leans up against the kitchen counter. I don't know what to do, his stiff silence so unfamiliar it makes my heart ache. I switch the kettle on. Move closer to him until I can feel his body heat. I breach the space between us first, gasping into the firm hug, his arms suddenly tight around me, his head dropping to my neck. The kettle rattles and boils. Turns itself off. Silence. Just the regular rhythm of the ocean outside. And our breathing.

After a while, he shifts his footing and lifts his head.

"Tea? Coffee? Beer?"

"I'll have what you're having," he replies.

The kettle goes back into action as he sits down on the sofa. I open the fridge, using the internal light to locate mugs, tea and a spoon elsewhere.

"Here," I hand him a mug, taking a seat next to him.

We sip quietly, me hoping he isn't regretting me being here.

"There was a girl in Sydney," he begins.

I hold onto my breath and my heart, not knowing what's coming next.

"I didn't treat her very well in the end and she didn't deserve that."

I tuck my legs up onto the sofa.

"I mean, we didn't really fit together. Not really. She was part of all the stuff there that I hated -- the job, the clients, the obsession with making money. But she didn't deserve the way I treated her."

"And how was that?"

He shrugs. "I abandoned her, really. Stopped answering her calls. Didn't open the door when she came looking for me. And I'm sure she got it bad at work too. We worked together and I'm positive the bosses went after her when I just dropped out of sight. It must've made it even worse for her. I'm not too proud of being such a prick."