Chapter Forty-Four Soundtrack: skinny dipping by Sabrina Carpenter

We start early the next morning: too early, much too early, after the late dinner that spiralled into meetings. I think we crawled home after midnight, but in the endless Finnish sunlight, I'm not sure.

Today, I think I'm about to form a new trauma memory. Today, along with a dozen other producers, we're going to a sauna. I'm going to strip into my swimsuit and sweat my way through small talk, surrounded by some of the richest, most Botoxed people I know. I will, without a doubt, be the only one above 20% body fat. And Nas, too, will be there, and probably I will discover what Greek gods looked like in swimsuits, and maybe he will decide that I'm too ordinary for him. Maybe I'll explode at the sight of him: all those years of celibacy building up like a bomb until he tips me over the edge.

And Paul is there, too. Bloody Paul.

The sauna is on a tiny island in the city's harbour, and as we take the boat over I know the wind is doing nothing for my hair. Annoyingly Paul looks good in the sea breeze. He's sitting opposite me on the ferry, beside Nas, and in the warm summer sun Nas is lounging beside him. All the tension between them seems to have cleared.

I spit out a bug that flew into my mouth.

They're deep in conversation and I'm trying not to eavesdrop, but it's hard, when Paul keeps smirking over at me.

Finally, he can't resist. He interrupts Nas, leans across to me, and says, 'Did Nas send you my best?'

'Pardon?'

'When he was late to that screening? I didn't mean to keep him so late, but we had a lot to talk about. All that work on Pendleton he did is finally paying off.'

'All my work,' I say without thinking. Nas doesn't open his eyes but his mouth twitches.

So at the movie screening last week, Nas was late because he was with Paul. Whatever they spoke about frustrated Nas enough that he cracked and kissed me.

He looks okay now, but his earlier words come back to me. He's always been sought for sex. Maybe, when he's feeling vulnerable, it's the easiest thing to reach for.

Does that cheapen what passed between us?

Or was it one final defense he couldn't keep up?

It's something else we should talk about, but what I won't discuss anymore is Paul. He's so transparent in his attempt to make me insecure. And who could blame him, with his ex looking that good while being that successful? Losing Nas would ruin anyone. So I smile at Paul, and say, 'No, he didn't mention you at all.'

And I lean back, feel the wind in my hair, and don't speak for the rest of the journey.

*

Now that we're at the sauna, I can't put it off anymore: it's time for a swimsuit. This is very, very low on the list of activities I'd pick with my colleagues. Well, most of my colleagues.

In the changing room, I shrug off my dress and reveal my black Speedo. In London, it felt sophisticated and work-appropriate, but now it feels too demure. I'm desperate to cover the scars that bisect my stomach, and I think that insecurity shines out as I try to hide it. But it's too late now.

I leave the changing room chatting to a woman I kind of know. She wants to put together a co-production, focused on emerging talent across EMEA, and that's fiscally viable because...

Nas emerges from the other changing room. I have spent a lot of time imagining him naked, but none of it did him justice: the firm lines of his shoulders, his muscles just cut enough to reveal the outline of his abs, the line of dark hair leading down into his shorts. Before Nas, seeing someone naked would replace my fantasies and I could move past the lust. But now, my thoughts are spiralling and fracturing. Knowing that he looks like this is so much worse. I will never not fantasise about this.

'And we could start as early as Q3,' the woman is telling me.

I'm not really listening, though, because Nas is looking at me. I'm being very unprofessional, but then, his look is unprofessional too.

It's the same way he appraises me every morning. There's the eyebrow. And suddenly, I realise that it isn't disdain. It's desire—and the tense shoulders of a man trying desperately not to kiss me. I see it now and I don't know how I ever missed it.

I wonder if I look the same.

'Uh huh,' I mutter, desperate to break Nas's gaze. I don't know what will happen if I don't. I don't know how to keep myself from touching him, now that I know how he feels.

'Oh, great!' she tells me. 'I'll send you the paperwork when we're back in London.'

Eek. Feels like I've made a mistake. That alone is enough to recentre me, but it's too late. The woman ambles away with a huge smile.

Okay, so that was Nas's fault, not mine.

Shit. He's grinning. I hate that smile, that victory smile, that only appears when he's so pleased with himself that he can't contain it. I hate it so much.

I wish I could stop smiling back.

I've obviously been looking at him for too long, because the group procrastination is ending. It's time to drop our towels and enter the heat. Eight of us, Nas included, troop into one of the saunas.

Above us is a skylight, illuminating two stories of dark wood. Beside the wooden staircase, there are only benches and a bucket full of water. Clear enough, then: we sit and we bake.

I am conceptually familiar with saunas, of course, but wow, it's hot.

I perch on the end of a bench, the lowest one there is (heat rises, right?). Even this feels too hot. Sweat begins rising on my legs. In the steamy, humid warmth, I watch myself turn pink. It's hypnotic. Even my fingers grow damp and sticky.

On the bench opposite me, on the back instead of the seat, Nas lies down. His eyes are shut; his chest rises and falls, slowly. Can he actually sleep in this heat?

I glance around, but it seems like I'm the only one struggling with the heat. Everyone else is quietly chatting or, like Nas, resting. I can't look for too long without accidentally ogling my other colleagues. Perish the thought.

The sauna smells of dark, damp wood, and sharp with the oils in the water, and something beneath, of warmth and sweat, that reminds me somehow of Nas: that scent of cloves that follows me through the office.

Somehow, I'm looking at him again.

He's still lying down, motionless. His dark, wavy hair has grown damp in the heat. A drop of sweat slides from his temple down the ridge of his cheek and then, slowly, along his neck to finish in the hollow of his collarbone.

And his eyes open to look straight at me.

Something sharp and hot starts in my stomach. It's like an invisible fishing line, strung taut between us, so that I'm jolted with each breath he takes. His lips curl into a smile and the feeling travels lower.

I have to leave. I am literally going to burst into flames.

I pull myself up from the bench with an embarrassing squelch.

In the corridor, I lean against the wall and focus on breathing. I am clearly not designed for hot climates... or for hot men. I should find a guy who's a solid six, good pension, grating laugh and settle down with him. This isn't good for my health.

The sauna door opens and Nas emerges.

'You okay?' he murmurs.

I laugh. 'Stop. You're making it worse. Go away.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Don't look at me like that.'

'Like what?'

'Like you've tasted me.'

He inhales as though I've stabbed him. And then, before I can laugh it off, he grabs my wrist and pulls me into the next room, another empty sauna.

Honestly. I have just escaped the heat and he's dragging me back in. I'm about to protest when I realise how close he's standing, and the words shrivel up.

He's only a breath away from me, still holding my wrist like a vice. God, we're really nearly naked: now that we're this close, sweating, silent, I realise how little fabric is between us. All I can hear is his breathing and muffled voices from the next room.

'Nasir? What are you doing?'

Finally he releases my wrist. Instead, his hands close around my waist, bunching into the fabric of my swimsuit, and he slowly pushes me backwards until my knees buckle against a seat. I drop down.

My eyeline is now at his shorts. His straining shorts. I suddenly understand what's happening.

'Nasir, should I-'

'Eleanor, is this okay?'

'What?'

He kneels between my parted legs and slowly runs his hands down my shoulders, then down, brushing against my breasts, and... and... every nerve ending lights up, but he continues, steadily, to rest his fingers against my hips. And then inwards, slowly, until he's almost touching me.

'This, Eleanor.'

He looks up at me from between my legs. That dark curl falls into his eyes. And then he licks the sweat off my upper thighs.

'Uh-huh.'

'Good.'

Finally he touches me again, softly, deafeningly, and all I can hear is the blood in my ears as he slides aside the bottom of my swimsuit. I have never, ever felt less okay. I have never, ever wanted something more.

And I'm gripping the seat, white-knuckled, as one finger parts me and he groans, 'Fuck,' just as I begin to tremble because this can't be happening.

Still between my legs, he watches my breathing, my gasping, my toes clench as he gently slides a finger into me. I tense around him and his other hand grabs my hip, hard, but he doesn't stop moving inside me.

I moan, loudly.

That stops his hand and he laughs. 'I knew you'd be loud.'

'I knew you'd be smug,' I gasp.

'Not yet,' he grins. 'Give me a minute.'

This is so fucking infuriating that, in spite of my body clenching around him, I snap, 'Okay then.' And I look pointedly at my watch. 'Sixty seconds.'

I'm not entirely confident that my vision will survive to check, but I'm willing to gamble.

I immediately discover that I will lose this bet because, without looking up, he drops his mouth between my legs and sucks, hard, on the flesh of my thighs. We're still clothed, barely, so his hand caresses the front of my swimsuit to touch my breasts, as his mouth moves closer, and then he's licking between my legs and - and - and - and - everything is - everything is - and fuck.

His mouth on me undoes me. His finger still moves relentlessly inside me, but it's too much, I can't hold still, and my legs clench.

He pulls away only to say, 'Hold my hand, baby,' and I grab his other hand as my legs lock around his head.

With the most impressive reflexes I've ever seen, he pulls our hands up to cover my mouth and muffle my scream.

Only when the aftershocks wear off do I check my watch. Fifty-five seconds.

'Sorry,' I groan. 'For, you know, squashing your face.'

He rests his head on my trembling thighs and laughs. 'Do not ever apologise for that.'

'You did it, by the way. 55 seconds.'

'I know.'

I hate this man.

'Come on,' he says. 'Let's swim.'

Demurely, he slides my swimsuit back into place and offers me his hand to stand.

Our absence has gone unnoticed, and so we're the first to brave the icy swim. On this tiny island, it's only the sauna and the sea, hot then cold, and the air whips around me as I pick my way across to the shore.

As I dive in, the water splashes around me in tiny, diamond droplets and the ocean is icy enough that it feels hot. It's too cold to think: it's too cleansing to hurt. All I can do is paddle, keeping my head above water, waiting for Nas to jump in beside me. 

*

i've been to this sauna in helsinki but it was much less fun than this. two more work trip chapters to go! 😉