Bewitched in Budapest (Xcite Romance) (3 page)

If János were with me, though … I didn’t know. Anything could happen. Laughter, madness, risk, excitement. Attraction. Sex.

I had to stop thinking about it. Even if I hadn’t vowed to keep clear of his expressive hands…and his lean hard body … and his electrifying eyes … oh no. A crush. Fucking marvellous. Even if I hadn’t vowed to steer clear of him, men like János were never good long-term prospects. He’d admitted himself that he couldn’t maintain a successful business. He struck me as a butterfly, settling on things that looked bright and shiny for a few moments, then flitting off when he’d had his fill of them. He was a man for a fling. A good time but an ephemeral one. Bet he’d be amazing in bed though …

On the tram back to the apartment, I couldn’t stop myself imagining how he’d be. He would wrap me tight, lift me up, put me on a table while his fingers worked on shifting my skirt up my thighs. He would growl and laugh and say perverted, delicious things. Oh, I longed to hear perverted, delicious things. Dave had been silent, bar the odd self-conscious remark. ‘How d’you get these off then?’ János would pour vampire-accented filth into my ears while his fingers spoke their language between my pussy lips. Oh God, he would bend me backwards and have me, trousers around his knees, hands on my hips, driving into me while the glasses rattled on the shelves behind. He would make sure I came first, and often, before filling me up with his hot Magyar seed, making me his, showing me that I needed sex and couldn’t live without it …

Shit, was this my stop?

I hurried off the tram and hobbled along the cobbles, uncomfortably damp between the legs until I found the apartment and was able to hide myself, panting with relief, from anyone who might have guessed what I’d been thinking.

I lay down on the bed, still unmade, still bearing the traces of János in the rumpled sheets and indented pillows, and threw myself into the only kind of sex still available to me. My skin felt tender, softened by the spa waters, as my fingernails grazed up my thighs and burrowed under my knicker-elastic. I lifted and spread my knees, all the better to stroke myself, turning my head to the side and picturing my new companion as he had been last night, asleep and dreaming beside me.

His eyelids fluttered and he stretched out an arm, perhaps seeking comfort from a nightmare. His hand landed heavily on my hip. He yawned and I snuggled closer, realising my mistake as soon as his arm stiffened and he pulled me against him, growling like a bear.

‘Got you,’ he said with a dark chuckle. His erection pressed painfully into my thigh.

I giggled and wriggled, feigning escape only because I wanted to cross that line where resistance becomes futile. He obliged me, clamping me tight and rolling over so that I was on my back, sandwiched breathlessly between him and the mattress.

‘You want it,’ he said in a voice as rich and fruity as that pálinka we drank. ‘You’re going to get it.’ His cock snaked up between my thighs, the tip nestling neatly at the shallow basin of my vagina. He rotated it slowly, teasingly, his abdominal muscles rolling over my flattened belly, pelvis rocking. ‘But first,’ he whispered, ‘you’re going to admit it.’

Dab, dab, dab, dipping his cockhead into my juices, almost moving forward, never quite breaching the willing flesh. He teased me until I moaned, until I nipped urgently at his ear, until I braced my spine and tried to force him in. No mercy from him, though, just the dip of his mouth to my ear and a hiss of, ‘Say it.’

It had to be obvious anyway, just from the slickness of my cunt. He must know that he could glide in without resistance, any time he wanted. But willing surrender was what he wanted, and my full consciousness of it. Until the words were spoken, I would suffer frustration.

The only way was to yield.

‘I want it,’ I admitted. ‘Please give it to me.’

He shifted his hips, freeing my thighs so that I could part them and push myself up, but he drew back as well, keeping his cock at a tantalising distance.  ‘Give you what?’

‘Fuck me, János, fuck me, please.’

He roared and surged forward, and I exulted in the swift and easy seating of his cock inside me, clamping it tight and holding it there for a long moment of satisfaction. He braced himself on strong arms, his chest rising up above me, gold chains around his neck, tattoos on his biceps, an expression of almost holy ecstasy on his face. The stillness stretched out while we adjusted to the feeling of being joined, a new and amazing sensation.

‘Oh yeah, I’ll fuck you,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’

A blistering onslaught, rattling the headboard, bruising my wrists, stretching me wide and splitting me came next. He banged me into the next street, until my cunt was raw and my thighs begged for mercy, drowning me in sex until there was nothing else in my world, nothing to know except that I was getting the seeing-to of my life and it was what I wanted, what I needed, over and over again …

I came, panting hard, spending on to my busy fingers, János’ imaginary face a blur above mine. The sensation ebbed, slowly, piece by piece until the unbearable reality of my solitude caused me to wrap the sheet around myself and hide inside it. From the peak of orgasm, I fell straight away off a precipice of desolation. I was alone. All I could ever expect to be was alone. Stupid crushes on men who could never be part of my life weren’t going to change that.

Chapter Three

I MUST HAVE CRIED myself to sleep, because the next thing I knew was that somebody in a nearby apartment was playing their music too loud. I unwound myself from the sheet and grimaced down at my tacky, crumpled sundress and sticky knickers still halfway down my legs. It was fucking violins too, really high-pitched and intrusive, with some accordions and clarinets thrown in. The tune was in a minor key, somewhat mournful and yet with a spirit that the sad phrasings couldn’t quite crush. Perhaps it was that gypsy violin music János had mentioned …

János. He was coming here. At … I checked my watch. Fuck. Seven. It was ten past.

I leapt out of bed and ran hither and thither, wanting to shower, change, open a bottle of wine, maybe do some food, make the bed, brush my hair, put on make-up … The excessive number of things I wanted to do meant that I did none of them, simply rushed about pointlessly all the more until, drawing close to the balcony doors, I suddenly realised that the music wasn’t coming from a neighbouring apartment. It was coming from the street.

I made sure I had at least yanked up my knickers before opening the balcony doors just a fraction and peeping outside, down to the cobbles below.

Half a dozen men in white shirts and black waistcoats played their instruments in front of a small but growing crowd. As soon as I poked my head around the door, there was a shout and all eyes were raised to me.

I slammed the doors and pressed myself against the wall, heart thumping.

Was this for me?

Surely it was just a coincidence. A weird coincidence that they all happened to be looking up at my balcony and somebody had shouted when the door opened because … of something else. Right? That must be it. There was no way I was going back out there in my scrunched-up, post-wank state.

Something hit the balcony door and I leapt into the air. It wasn’t a stone, or anything heavy. Whatever it was had made a mild, floppy thudding sound.

I crept to the balcony and reached over to turn the key in the lock, keeping my body flat against the wall. I let the door open a crack. There were cheers from below. Something prevented the door opening any further, so I dropped to my knees to investigate. My hand edged around the side of the door and fumbled until I gasped with pain. Ouch! A prickle!

The object that had hit the door was a red rose.

A joke? A mistake?

But, coinciding with my grasping of the rose, came a calling of my name.

‘Ruby!’

Oh God. I scrambled to my feet and hung over the balcony, unbrushed hair falling over my face.  ‘János! What the bloody hell …?’

He stood in front of the band, arms spread wide, face upturned. ‘Gypsy concert! I arrange for you.’

‘I thought you meant …’ I broke off, shaking my head. The people in the street below beamed up at me and waved. ‘I’m going inside.’

‘No, no.’ János took a long run across the street and then leapt so that he hung off the balcony of the flat below.

‘What are you doing?’ I screamed in alarm. It really looked as if he meant to climb up to my second storey window. ‘You’ll fall.’

‘Me? No.’ The crowd were going wild, cheering and whistling, clapping along with the increasingly feverish music.

I watched as János hauled himself up, feet braced against the shutters of the ground floor window then gained purchase on the balcony below.

He stood gripping the handrail, grinning up at me, pretending to lose his grasp for a second so that I (and the crowd) screamed, before lifting himself up higher.

For a moment he stood, precariously, on the handrail, holding on to nothing, needing to keep his balance for that moment when he lunged at the foot of my balcony. His fingers met my toes. I crouched down, ready to slap him the minute he was out of danger. What a stupid, foolish thing to do.

And yet, underneath all the sensible disapproval, there was a guilty undercurrent of thrill. He was trying to impress me with some old-fashioned swashbuckle. It was so corny it worked.

He only needed to pull himself up the bars, monkey-like, then swing over the handrail to where I stood, arms folded and brow dark, waiting for him.

‘You damn fool,’ I greeted him.

‘Hey, that’s not right,’ he protested. ‘The crowd want a kiss from us.’

‘The crowd can bugger off.’

I escaped inside the flat, tempted to shut the balcony door in his face, but it was, after all, his balcony door, so I resisted the urge.

‘Where is the romance in your soul?’ he complained, following me into the living room.

‘This is the most embarrassing thing ever!’ I exclaimed, wringing my hands in his face. ‘Oh my God! Bloody violins, your Spiderman act, me looking like Wurzel Gummidge … argh!’

‘What is Wurzel Gummidge?’

‘A scarecrow.’

‘What is scarecrow?’

‘Oh.’ I ran out of exasperated words and tugged at my hair in frustration. ‘Never mind.’

‘I am thinking a scarecrow must be a very beautiful thing. Even when it’s angry.’

Don’t let him disarm you with charm.

But the remark took a fair bit of the wind out of my sails and I laughed self-consciously. ‘Oh, rubbish. You think you can get round me with sweet words. I’m not that much of a pushover.’

‘I would never push you over. And I don’t understand why you are angry. I do this things for you – nice things. You don’t like?’

He looked genuinely hurt and confused. I melted and sat down on the sofa, giving him the signal to sit beside me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, annoyance subsiding. ‘I’m sure you meant well. It was just, kind of, a shock. And weird. I didn’t know how to react. I’m not used to this kind of thing.’

‘Men do not treat you in romantic way? Is this a British problem?’

I laughed again. ‘Maybe. But János, I thought I’d explained that I’m not looking for romance.’

‘You don’t look for romance, but it finds you. I don’t know why you hide from it.’

‘I’ve told you why. I’m not cut out for it.’

‘I cannot ever agree with you.’

‘Then we’ll have to agree to disagree.’

János sighed. ‘I paid those gypsies.’

‘Where the hell did you find them?’

‘They work in my uncle’s restaurant. Some of them worked in mine, when I had my place. They are great guys, great musicians. You don’t like their music?’

‘Oh yes, I do. It’s very powerful – kind of melancholy but joyful at the same time. Makes you want to dance and drink pálinka.’

János cheered up at that. ‘Hey, that’s what we can do tonight. Come on, I take you for dinner at my uncle’s place. He will treat you like princess.’

I put a hand on his arm. ‘That sounds nice. But look. It’s not a date, OK? It’s not a romantic thing. I like you a lot, but we can only be friends.’

János patted the hand on his arm, shook his head. ‘You say that, Ruby, but you don’t believe it.’

‘Stop it or I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Go and get ready. Or we can go now. I don’t mind.’

Go out in this crumpled dress and bedhead hair? I thought not.

Twenty minutes later, I was walking along a smart Budapest street on the arm of a handsome Hungarian man, wearing my best Zara maxi dress and the only pair of heels I possessed. The sun was setting, the beautiful people were out in force, and a sense of the moment being perfect, an ideal tableau in a distinctly non-ideal life, struck me forcibly.

If only life could always be like this.

We took a sharp right turn into a doorway and down a flight of steps.

János led me into a giant cellar bar and restaurant with a dance floor in the centre and a stage for the musicians, some of whom I recognised from earlier on. A few couples swirled and twirled about to the music while others ate, drank or watched.

‘János!’ The man behind the bar, presumably the famous uncle, strolled up to greet us, speaking affable words of Hungarian before taking his nephew in a bear-like embrace and slapping him on the back.

They appeared to confabulate on the subject of me and my identity, then the uncle spoke to me directly.

‘English, hey? I have many English in here. You be careful of János, right, he is a man for the ladies, do you say?’

‘A ladies’ man,’ I translated, smiling uncomfortably. ‘Oh, we’re just friends.’

The uncle guffawed at that and moved back towards the bar, winking. ‘If you say so,’ he said.

‘God,’ I muttered between gritted teeth while a waiter showed us to a table with a great view of the dancers. ‘Everyone in Budapest thinks we’re a couple.’

The impish grins on the faces of some of the gypsy violinists gave the same message. Almost immediately, one of them detached himself from the group and wandered over to us, playing directly behind my left shoulder.

It was a little unnerving.

‘If you tip him, he goes away,’ János mentioned, handing over a handful of forints.

‘So what should I eat?’ I frowned at the menu, unable to make much sense of it. ‘Goulash?’

‘Goulash is good Hungarian dish, but is actually soup, not what you English think. Customers often surprised when they order.’

‘Oh, really? I’ll try it anyway. I’d like to see how different it is.’

‘I order some wine. Maybe a bottle of red Tokaj?’

‘That’ll be another new experience.’

‘Good.’ He nodded formally. He seemed to have backed off a bit. Was he offended? He spent a long time silently perusing the menu while I watched the dancers.

‘You like dancing?’ he asked abruptly once the orders had been given.

‘I’m not very good at it.’

‘You don’t do it enough then. Come.’ He stood and offered his hand, stiff and unsmiling as an officer of the Prussian military.

Reluctantly I took it, letting him lead me into the heart of the dance.

As soon as our bodies were on the floor, he unbent and he clasped me to him so swiftly and efficiently that all my breath escaped from me. Before I had a chance to gather it up, we were joined at the hip and striking out around the perimeters of the room. I had no idea what the dance was, or of any of its moves, but he somehow galloped me through it all, knowing exactly when to twirl me under his arm or spin me round. I felt like a doll, malleable and dependent on his will for my own movement. It was alarming. It was amazing. I wanted to do it forever.

The music, loud and insistent, chivvied us on into ever faster and more furious motion. I spun and weaved, sidestepped and hip-swayed until my face glowed and my chest heaved. I began to laugh and I couldn’t stop.

János was so skilled and so strong and so wonderfully in tune with the music that I was bewitched, captivated, overwhelmed. His hand on my hip was like magic, bending my feet to their will. Our clasped fingers melted into each other. The tune went into a final frenzy then ended before I was ready.

I collapsed against János, delirious with laughter, our hearts bumping against each other as he held me.

He patted my hip and let go. ‘The food is here,’ he told me.

It took me a few minutes of winding down before I was ready to take a sip of the rich red wine the waiter had poured for me.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That was … wow.’

‘So you like dancing.’

‘I like that kind of dancing. I mean, I couldn’t have done it without you. I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do.’

He wound some noodles around his fork. ‘You need a man in your life for some things,’ he said.

‘Oh, you can dance with friends.’

‘Not the same. Not like that. We dance like that because there is more than friendship.’

‘Oh, János …’

‘You know it’s true. Passion makes the dance …’ He waggled his hands, looking for the words. ‘Come alive. No passion, a dance is dead.’

‘I don’t think that’s true. Lots of professional dance partners aren’t lovers.’

‘Professional is not the same.’

‘Neither is this goulash. You were right about that.’

Deft subject-changing, I think you’ll agree. I diverted János away from his slightly sulky insistence that I wanted him and into a conversation about the different ways of using and preserving paprika.

Conversation over the meal and the rather heavy wine remained light, though there was plenty of smouldering from János over the red chequered tablecloth.

We danced again, but the combination of lots of food and befuddling wine rendered me somewhat less graceful, though no less elated.

Uncle Imre wished us a good evening and waived the bill, sending us out into the warm night with his blessing.

‘I love your uncle’s place,’ I told János, letting him put an arm around my shoulder and lead my somewhat woozy feet across the road. ‘So cool.’

‘Ah, no, it’s not cool. If you like cool, I can show you.’

‘Yeah? Where are we going next?’

‘I take you to a kert. They are the coolest places in town.’

‘What are they?’

‘Come on. There’s one near here. I show you.’

From the outside, it looked like a regular trendy bar, neon-lit with large light-filled windows that revealed groups of hipsters at tables.

Once you passed through the bouncer-heavy door, though, you made a startling realisation.

The bar was not a bar. It was an open courtyard with trees growing in amongst the cobbles and various art installations on the floors and walls.

‘Oh wow.’ I gazed at a collection of vintage bicycles hanging precariously over the barman’s head. ‘This is very … different.’

‘Is popular in Budapest now, fashionable. I think of opening such a bar myself.’

‘You need to find an old courtyard.’

‘There are many. Also a fashion is ruin bars – in old buildings, falling down almost.’

‘I suppose the ground rent wouldn’t be much.’

‘No, but in a year, they get knocked down, new shopping mall takes over.’ He shrugged and nodded at the bartender before ordering something typically unidentifiable. We retired to the courtyard with two small glasses of something that looked treacly and vile.

‘What is this?’ I took a sniff. It smelled herbal and a bit tannic and a lot undrinkable.

‘Unicum. Is strong to clear your head.’

‘Clear my head? I think it might do the opposite.’

Somewhere amidst the Tokaj fug in my brain, a thought occurred to me. ‘Hey.’ I leant forward, jabbing him semi-accurately in the upper arm. ‘You aren’t trying to get me drunk are you? So you can take advantage of me?’