Chapter 14: Late Night Liaison
The terrace stones held the day’s heat against her bare skin. She sat, a silent statue glazed in moonlight and dried streaks of white, the evidence of the afternoon crusting on her thighs and stomach. The sea was a black mirror, shattered by the path of the moon. She sipped the wine, its acidity cutting through the metallic taste still lingering in her mouth. She felt hollowed out, scoured clean, and yet thrumming with a low, persistent current.
Inside, Caleb moved quietly. The sizzle of garlic in oil, the clatter of a pan. He cooked simply, efficiently, as he did everything. He brought the meal out—grilled lamb chops, roasted vegetables, a rough bread—and set it on the small table beside her. They ate in a silence that was not empty but densely packed. Every crunch of bread, every click of cutlery on plate, felt amplified. Her nudity was no longer a statement; it was simply her state of being. It reminded her, with every slight shift, of the woman she was becoming—a woman who wore nothing but the remnants of pleasure.
He finished, pushed his plate away, and lit a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating the deep lines around his eyes. “Are we good?” he asked, his voice a rasp in the dark.
She looked at him, at the steady anchor of him amidst her psychic whirlwind. She didn’t have words that could map the territory inside her. So she simply smiled. A slow, uncurling thing that started in her eyes and settled on her lips.
He saw it. He stubbed the cigarette out. “Go shower,” he said. “Do your hair. Make-up. Your night isn’t over.”
The water was scalding. She watched the water run in milky rivulets down the drain, carrying the physical history of the day away. She scrubbed until her skin was pink, then stood dripping, looking at her reflection. The woman who looked back was familiar yet utterly foreign. She blow-dried her auburn hair until it fell in soft waves, applied a touch of mascara, a swipe of rose-coloured lipstick. She looked like a version of herself prepared for a date. The notion was absurd, thrilling.
She emerged wearing a simple linen dress and flat sandals. Caleb was waiting. He took her hand, and they walked down the path to the village. The night was warm, alive with cicadas and the distant thrum of bouzouki music from a taverna. As the first whitewashed buildings rose around them, he stopped. From a small bag he was carrying, he pulled out a pair of shoes. Not sandals. Severe, black, high-heeled stilettos with a needle-thin heel.
“Put these on,” he said.
She balanced against him, swapping her comfortable shoes for the towering heels. They added inches, altered her posture, made her hips sway with a new, predatory emphasis as they walked through the sleepy village square. A few old men outside the kafeneio stopped their conversation to watch her pass. The click of the heels on the cobbles was a sharp, declarative sound.
He led her away from the square, down a narrow slip of an alley that opened onto the small harbour. The water slapped softly against the fishing boats. The air smelled of brine and diesel. Here, in the deep shadow of a boathouse, he turned her to face him.
“Take off the dress,” he said.
Her fingers trembled only slightly on the buttons. She let the linen pool at her feet. She stood naked in the stilettos, the cool night air raising goosebumps on her skin. The moon caught the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist.
From his bag, he produced a black silk scarf. He folded it into a blindfold. “Turn around.”
“Caleb…”
“Trust me.”
She turned. The world disappeared as he tied the scarf snugly over her eyes. The darkness was absolute, velvety. She heard the rustle of fabric as he presumably gathered her dress. Then his hands were on her shoulders, his lips close to her ear.
“I’m going to leave you here.”
A bolt of pure, animal panic shot through her. “What? No. Caleb, don’t.”
“Shhh.” His hands tightened. “It’s all arranged. Trust the man. He’ll be here soon.”
“My phone, my bag…”
“I’m taking them. All you have are the heels.”
She heard the sharp, desperate edge in her own voice. “I’m blind, I’m naked, I have nothing!”
“You have your body. That’s all you need tonight.” His voice was calm, relentless. “Both he and I want you to pretend that you don’t know him. He’s under strict orders not to report back to me. And what I’d like to order you to do, if I may, is react to the man in him. Let him interact with the woman in you. Forget all about me. So you quite naturally fall asleep in his arms. Don’t worry at all about waking up next to another man.”
The scenario unfolded in her blind darkness, terrifying and exquisite. “What happens after that?” Her voice was a whisper.
“That will be between the woman in you and the man in him. To the extent that maybe the next time I see you will be in nine days’ time. In the queue for the ferry when our holiday ends.”
The finality of it stole her breath. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He kissed her then. A deep, lingering kiss that tasted of goodbye and limitless permission. Then his footsteps receded on the cobbles. Click of his own shoes. Fading. Gone.
Silence.
The world was reduced to sound and touch. The lap of water. A distant dog barking. The chill of the night air on her exposed skin. The unsteady, precarious feeling of standing on the high heels on uneven ground. Ten minutes stretched into an eternity of vulnerability. She fought the urge to rip the blindfold off, to run. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
Then, a new sound. Soft, approaching footsteps. A presence entered her space. She smelled him before he touched her—olive soap, sun-warmed skin, a hint of tobacco. A hand, large and warm, enveloped hers. He didn’t speak. He simply led.
She had no choice but to follow, trusting the guidance of his hand. They moved away from the harbour, into a labyrinth of backstreets and alleyways. He guided her carefully, his grip firm, steadying her when a heel threatened to catch on a stone. The sounds of the village faded. She heard a gate creak open. They stepped onto a different surface—smooth, packed earth. A door opened. A wave of familiar scent washed over her: the particular mix of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and the faint, clean smell of his bedding. Nikolas’s house.
He led her inside, shut the door. His hands went to the back of her head, untying the blindfold. The light was dim, a single lamp on a bedside table. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust, pretending to look at him as if for the first time. His dark eyes were soft, his expression grave.
He still didn’t speak. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and leaned in to kiss her. It was unbearably gentle. A question. She answered by opening her mouth to him, her hands coming up to clutch at his shirt. He undressed her slowly, though she was already naked except for the absurd, empowering shoes. He knelt, his hands running up her stockinged calves, and gently removed each stiletto, placing them neatly by the bed. His reverence undid her.
He stood, undressing himself with slow, purposeful movements. Then he laid her back on the narrow bed. His lovemaking was a direct counterpoint to the fisherman’s brutality and the boys’ frantic energy. He worshipped her with his mouth, licking and sucking her nipples until they were hard peaks, trailing kisses down her stomach. When he settled between her legs, he didn’t immediately enter her. He tasted her, his tongue exploring her folds with a lazy, devastating thoroughness that made her sob and arch off the thin mattress. He brought her to a slow, rolling climax with just his mouth, her cries muffled by her own arm.
Only when she was boneless and shuddering did he rise over her. He guided himself into her wetness, sinking in with a single, deep, relentless push that filled her completely. He set a rhythm that was ancient, foundational—a slow, deep rocking of hips that connected something deep in her core to something profound in his. He fucked her with a focused, emotional intensity that had nothing to do with conquest and everything to do with union. There were no filthy words, just broken gasps of her name, “Sandi… gynaíka mou…”. She came again, a quieter, deeper unspooling that felt like sorrow and salvation intertwined. He followed, his release a hot, pulsing flood inside her, and he collapsed upon her, his weight a sweet, anchoring comfort.
Afterwards, he didn’t pull out. He shifted them to their sides, still joined, and held her close. In the warm, dark cocoon of his bed, with the scent of their sex in the air, she successfully forgot. Caleb, the twins, her MBA, the admin job, the house in England—it all dissolved like mist. She was just a woman in a man’s bed on a Greek island. The simplicity was terrifyingly liberating.
She fell asleep in his arms.
Dawn light, the colour of pearl, filtered through the shutters. She woke, and for a disorienting moment, didn’t know where she was. Then she felt the solid warmth of him behind her, his arm draped over her waist, his soft breaths against her neck. Another man. She felt no panic, only a deep, settled calm.
He stirred, nuzzling her shoulder. “You are still here,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“Where else would I be?”
They made love again in the dawn light, slower still, a lazy, sensuous coupling that felt like a conversation. After, lying tangled in the sheets, he propped himself on an elbow and looked down at her. “What do you want, Sandi? For the rest of your time?”
The answer was there, fully formed, a truth that had been crystallizing in her since the first fisherman in the toilet. “All I want to do for the rest of my holiday is fuck.”
His eyebrows raised slightly. “With me?”
“Mainly you,” she said, reaching up to trace his jaw. “But I want more. Much more.”
He was silent for a long time, pondering. The sounds of the waking village filtered in—a motorbike, a shouted greeting. Finally, he confessed, his voice low. “There is a thing. Among men here. I will accrue both kudos, and indebtedness, if I… if I share you. If I am the one who provides access to a woman like you. It is an old, stupid thing. But it is real.”
She didn’t flinch. The idea sent a current of dark anticipation straight through her. “I don’t care why you want to do it,” she said, her voice flat, final. “So long as you do. Share me. Get me fucked.”
He looked down, a conflict playing out on his face. “I will have to tell Caleb. It is one thing for him to arrange a night. This… this is different. It becomes a project.”
A cold, fierce independence surged in her. Caleb and his transcendent love, his orchestrated scenes. This was hers now. “I don’t care what he says,” she told Nikolas, her hazel eyes hard. “I don’t care how upset he gets. How angry. How shocked or disgusted.” She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. She looked directly at him, claiming her desire with a brutal honesty that left no room for negotiation. “I want it.”
“I want it.”
Her words hung in the dim room, absolute and uncompromising. Nikolas stared at her, at the fierce clarity in her hazel eyes, and knew any remaining hesitation was his own to shed. He leaned in, kissing her once more, a seal upon the pact. Then he rose from the bed, his movements suddenly purposeful.
“Stay,” he said, pulling on his trousers and a clean shirt. “I will be back with your things.”
She watched him dress, the domestic intimacy of the act underscored by the illicit nature of their agreement. He slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him. The room felt immense without him. She lay back on the pillows that smelled of him and sex, and stared at the ceiling, her mind a blissful blank. She had handed over the reins completely.
Nikolas walked the steep path to the holiday cottage as the morning sun gathered strength, painting the olive groves in sharp contrast. He found Caleb on the terrace, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand, looking out at the sea. Caleb turned at the sound of his approach. His expression was unreadable.
“Sit,” Caleb said, his voice neutral. “Coffee?”
Nikolas remained standing, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Can I suggest something stronger? The stronger the better. For both of us.”
Caleb studied him for a beat, then nodded. He disappeared inside and returned with a bottle of ouzo and two small glasses. He placed them on the wrought-iron table with a soft click. The clear liquid glinted in the sun. That they were going to be drinking it before breakfast made Caleb tingle with anticipation, but it made Nikolas quake inside with the enormity of what he had to say.
They drank the first glass down quickly in silence, the licorice burn carving a path to their stomachs. Nikolas immediately refilled both glasses to the brim.
“You can tell me, man,” Caleb said, his tone softening slightly. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m a grown man. I’ve had over twenty years with her. She’s been a wonderful woman, a totally loyal wife, and whatever it is that she wants I’ll be happy to give her. Even if she wanted to stay forever.”
Nikolas took a fortifying sip. “Did you ask her what she wanted to do with the rest of her holiday?”
“She said she wants to fuck,” Nikolas said, the word tentative in the morning air.
Caleb smiled. A real one, that reached his eyes. “With me, I asked her,” Nikolas continued, gaining a little courage from that smile. “And she said ‘mainly, but I want more…’.” He paused, gathering himself. “I told her I could gather great kudos and indebtedness among the men of the island by sharing her with them. I was honest with her like I’m being honest with you now. I said I’d have to tell you and that’s the main reason why I’m here.”
Caleb’s gaze was steady. “What’s the other reason?”
“To get her things. Clothes, toiletries, makeup.” Nikolas met his eyes. “Because she said she didn’t care what you said. How angry you might be. How shocked or disgusted. She wants it.”
Caleb held the stare. Then he lifted his glass and drained the ouzo in one long swallow. He smiled again, wider this time. “Let’s go and pack then,” Caleb said, standing up. He clapped Nikolas on the shoulder. “But just one thing – I want to fuck her blindfolded when she doesn’t know it’s me.”
Nikolas barked a laugh, the tension breaking like a wave. “The mood she’s in, I’m going to need all the help I can get. So everyday, yes?”
“Yes,” Caleb laughed, heading inside towards the bedroom. “But I’ll have to let others do it otherwise she’ll know. The more the better.”
They moved through the quiet cottage. Caleb pulled Sandi’s suitcase from the wardrobe and laid it open on the bed. He began selecting items with a curious efficiency – the thin sundresses, the linen trousers, the silk camisoles. Nikolas gathered toiletries from the bathroom: her facial cream, perfume, the particular brand of tampons she used.
“She really is the most incredible woman,” Nikolas said quietly, watching Caleb fold a blouse with surprising tenderness.
Caleb looked up. Nikolas raised his imaginary glass, a gesture of profound respect. “To show my respect,” Nikolas said, “for both her and for you.”
Caleb accepted the tribute with a slight nod. He zipped the suitcase closed and handed it over. He then opened a dresser drawer and took out the black silk blindfold from the night before. He pressed it into Nikolas’s free hand. “Tonight,” Caleb said. “Tell her it’s a new rule. For the men who come. They blindfold her. For their comfort, or some shit. She’ll believe it.”
Nikolas nodded, folding the silk into his pocket. The plan was concrete now, a collaboration. He hefted the suitcase. “I will take care of her.”
“I know,” Caleb said. He walked him to the door. “Just remember. However many there are, however often… she comes back to you there. But she is still mine.”
“She is yours,” Nikolas agreed, the truth of it settling between them. He turned and started back down the path, the suitcase a light weight.
Caleb returned to the terrace. He poured himself another ouzo, sat, and watched Nikolas’s figure grow smaller. The heat of the alcohol and the heat of the sun merged. He pictured Sandi, blindfolded on Nikolas’s bed, her body accepting a stranger she believed to be just another island man. The thrum of excitement was a live wire in his gut. He knew the risk. He felt the vertigo. He drank, and waited for the day to pass.