Page 16 of Strap In
‘That never appealed to you?’
‘No.’ Jean hesitates. ‘My ambition, more than anything, killed my marriage. I always put work first. Truth be told, an arrangement like this suits me far better. No expectations, no obligations, just…’
‘Occasional fried chicken and regular orgasms?’
‘Precisely.’ Jean pushes her empty plate away. ‘But you’ve only delivered on one front so far. Now I want the other.’
And Ava doesn’t disappoint.
Chapter Eight
Thus far Jean has done her best to avoid Friday nights. It’s easy enough – often Ava has plans with friends. Plus, Fridays are Jean’s favourite time at the office; a hangover from her days as a junior associate, when the men left together in packs, bound for bars and strip clubs. Then the space became hers – and Marianne’s. Peter had noticed their dedication, and through him, so had Will. And though Marianne’s long gone, Jean still revels in the quiet of the office.
But when Ava texts asking whether Jean would like to find out how many times she can come in the space of a full night, Jean can’t deny that she’s curious. Curious enough to head home at the same time as Helen, dig a babydoll negligée from her underwear drawer, and head over to Ava’s.
Jean expects her to pounce the moment she steps out of the bathroom clad in sheer green lace and silk. And yet, though Ava’s eyes go gratifyingly wide, jaw slack as she takes in Jean’s curves, she exhibits punishing restraint. Ignoring Jean’s mounting pleas, Ava kisses and caresses Jean’s body, inch by square inch. Forehead, nose, cheeks, ears, throat, shoulders. Under Jean’s arms, the tender insides of her elbows, the hollows of her wrists. On she goes, until Jean’s entire body is alight with it. Never in Jean’s life has she been so turned on, a pulse drumming a fierce tattoo between her legs.
It takes her a moment to realise Ava intends to kiss her there too, and the thought triggers a less pleasant squirming in the pit of her belly. She reaches down to halt Ava. And though perplexed, she is respectful of Jean’s wishes, crawling up the bed to kiss her mouth instead. And Jean melts against her.
Only when Jean’s thighs are slippery with want does Ava reach between them. But even then, Ava draws it out, stroking slow and steady. And when Jean tries to buck against her, to rub herself to climax, Ava pulls away. Jean actually whimpers then.
Ava climbs up the bed, takes Jean’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. Looks her dead in the eye. ‘You don’t get to rush this. Understand?’
Jean nods.
And Ava kisses her. ‘Good. I’m going to make it worth your while.’
She does, too. Slipping the dildo inside Jean and rocking – by turns slow and gentle, frantic and urgent – until they’re both trembling too much to move. Jean slumps into Ava’s arms. Though she’s unbearably hot and sticky with all manner of substances, she nestles in close. And Ava smooths the hair from her forehead. Strokes Jean’s back until she dozes off.
And when Jean wakes again in the small hours, aching but wanting all over again, Ava reaches between her legs. Strums ever so gently until one climax is indistinguishable from the next, every atom of Jean’s body blissed out.
‘Nine times by my count,’ Ava whispers.
Jean’s too breathless to laugh. Too boneless to move. But she drops a kiss against the curve of Ava’s shoulder.
Even if her legs could carry her, Jean wouldn’t get up. And she knows, in a distant sort of way, that she’ll worry about that later – but right now she gives herself over to it fully, the simple pleasure of being held. It’s not like with Henry, where Jean shied away from affection lest he take it as an invitation for more. And not just because Jean will gladly let Ava take her as many times as she pleases. But because here, snuggled tight in this bed, Jean feels… safe.
Jean’s late to brunch. Naomi, Cora, and Imogen are all settled into the booth with cocktails when she arrives straight from Ava’s place. There’s no hope for her hair, which somehow manages to be both flat and frizzy without a proper blow dry – she’d brushed it back into a chignon in the cab. Yet even with messy hair, minimal make-up, and too little sleep, Jean knows she looks good. Her skin has a glow to it that no facialist can replicate, and her eyes are bright in spite of a solid week spent squinting at a screen.
Ordinarily, being anything under fifteen minutes early sours Jean’s mood. But nothing so petty can touch the marrow-deep contentment left over from her night with Ava. She lets the waiter take her peacoat and makes a beeline for their usual table, striding through the mirrored hallway and wondering whether there’s ordinarily such a sway to her hips as she walks or if she’s simply more aware of her body than usual.
‘Jean!’ Naomi pats the empty space beside her, rings glittering in the light. She’s had her sandy hair cut short, a shattered pixie that suits the angular lines of her face. ‘Good of you to finally join us.’
‘Sorry.’ Jean takes a seat, tucking her skirt beneath herself. ‘I got held up. Something unavoidable.’
She’d been certain Ava had wrung every possible drop of pleasure from her body the night before. Yet Jean was powerless to resist Ava in the morning, fingers drawn inexorably to the constellation of freckles on her shoulders exposed by pale sunlight.
‘By whom?’ Imogen gestures to the waiter for another margarita, flashing her most charming smile – the one which, in the early days of their careers, made Jean think of the flower mantis. Pretty enough to lure in her prey; placid enough that, combined with her honey blonde locks, men and women alike underestimated the sharpness of Imogen’s mind.
‘What makes you think I was with someone?’ Though Jean’s tone is casual, she lets the barest hint of a smile grace her lips.
The table erupts with innuendo and speculation. Having known each other long before becoming titans in the legal world, all four women relish the rare opportunity to cut loose without fear of being judged. It’s why – despite four constantly busy schedules overseen by PAs – these brunch dates are still going strong after thirty years. The waiter sets her glass down, and Jean prolongs their agony by taking a deep drink. Only with these three does Jean swap her usual martini for tequila, lime, and salted rims. A sweet regression to her student days.
‘Let’s review the evidence, shall we?’ Ever the barrister, Cora pauses for dramatic effect, ticking each point off on manicured fingers. ‘You arrive late, but your hair’s still damp. You needed to shower but didn’t have the time to do your hair – or perhaps your mystery companion doesn’t own a hairdryer. Which indicates that he’s male.’
‘Conjecture,’ Jean says.
But Cora continues as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘And that blouse is hopelessly creased; either you crammed it into an overnight bag, or your companion couldn’t keep his hands off you. Have I missed anything?’
