Page 7 of Strap In
The strap-on is glistening with Jean’s wetness. Her own thighs are coated in it. Empirical evidence, proof that she – Jean Howard – enjoyed sex with a woman. With alesbian.
Ava pulls Jean close, stroking her shoulder. ‘If you have any questions, now’s the time.’
And there are dozens of things Jean wants to ask, so many questions they’re crammed against her skull.
What does it mean that I liked sleeping with you?
Do people judge you for wanting women?
How do you say it?
But those are all too heavy for a hook-up. And there’s no use asking Ava how she can possibly change the idea of Jean that her friends, her colleagues, have held onto for decades – not when Ava herself doesn’t have the first clue who Jean is, even if she has an apparent knack for working Jean’s body.
Beside her Ava stirs, propped up on one elbow to look down at Jean’s face. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Fine.’ Jean stares up at the ceiling, the strange interplay of light and shadow. ‘Is it always like that? With a woman, I mean.’
The mattress shakes as Ava chuckles. ‘No. I’m just that good.’
Jean rolls her eyes, grateful the shadows dim her own smile. ‘Be serious.’
‘I am. Not just anybody could rail you like this.’ She flops back down on the bed – apparently orgasms make Ava playful. ‘Think you’ll do it again?’
‘What, now?’ Jean snorts. ‘You have the stamina of youth on your side, but I’d ache for it tomorrow.’
‘Not now. I mean in the future.’ Ava rolls onto her stomach, the length of her body flush against Jean’s, long and brown and slender. And a fresh pulse flutters between Jean’s legs. ‘With other women. Or,’ she says, more quietly, ‘with me.’
‘I haven’t—’ Jean clears her throat. She wants a glass of water, but there’s a domesticity to that which doesn’t fit within the parameters of a one-night stand. ‘I haven’t thought about it yet.’
‘Take your time,’ says Ava, casual as if it matters not a bit to her. And she’ll have no trouble finding other women to take Jean’s space in this bed. ‘There’s no rush.’
‘Thanks.’ With a film of sweat coating her, the night air brushes cool against Jean’s skin. A shiver runs through her.
And Ava, already so attuned to her body, pulls up the duvet. Says: ‘Want to sleep here?’
‘No.’Yes.It would be easy, to sink into Ava’s arms and let her eyes close; spend the night being held; wake up to a soft body and a playful smile. But difficult, not to get hooked on the reverence in her touch. And Jean hasn’t made it this far by depending on others. ‘No, I’d better get going.’
‘Oh.’ Ava pulls the blankets up over her own body. ‘Okay.’
Jean rolls out of bed and retrieves her clothes with all the dignity she can muster. This is the advantage to going home with another person to their place. At any moment Jean is free to gather her stuff and go – no awkward hinting that she prefers to sleep alone, no elaborate story about an early start.
Yet, from the moment her feet touch the carpet, Jean wants nothing more than to get back in bed; to curl up beside Ava until their limbs are tangled like vines. For the first time that night, what Jean’s doing feels wrong. But her head knows better than her heart – or her vagina.
Jean finds her phone, summons the first available Uber. Stuffs her panties and shapewear into the handbag. Squeezes back into her dress. Wraps the coat around herself – she’ll button it in the lift. Her car is less than five minutes away. And there’s nothing here for her, she tells herself; at least, nothing that won’t upturn the careful order of her life. Jean steps into her heels, ignoring the pinch and rub.
‘Thank you,’ she says. The words final, inadequate. ‘This was… Thanks.’
Jean turns her back on Ava, but not before she’s witnessed disappointment on the younger woman’s face. Walks out of the door, away from the yearning to kiss that frown away. Goes down the lift. Steps out into the cool night air.
Chapter Three
In the morning, Jean’s loose limbed and pleasantly aware of her own body. And if her bed is empty, at least there are no distractions from the day to come. She throws herself into it with gusto, working up a fresh sweat with her trainer, Grant. But as Jean lunges and stretches there’s a delicious ache inside her. And her legs are still a little slack with the echoes of orgasm.
Though Jean keeps the yawning to a minimum, Grant quips about a late night, so she knows he has suspicions about her nocturnal activities. He’s spent enough of their sessions entertaining Jean with stories about his own conquests – young men just as ripped as he is – that she’s sure he wouldn’t judge her, even if he did know the full truth.
But Grant’s opinion isn’t what matters. His perception of Jean has no bearing on whether she can make that last, glorious leap to managing partner. Even after a quarter of a century with Decker Dennings and Howard, having her personal life fed through the rumour mill now just might be enough to derail everything she’s worked for – it’s not a chance Jean is prepared to take. Men have the luxury of mistresses, outside children, remarriage when wife number two inevitably discovers number three. But the standards remain different for women, regardless of HR’s regular reminders that DDH is an equal opportunities workplace. Which means discretion has always been the better part of valour, even when she had little to hide.
Still, as Jean showers, scrubbing the sweat from her skin, it’s impossible not to think of how Ava had touched her mere hours before. And part of Jean wonders what it would be like, to have stayed and showered with her, pressed together in that tiny bathroom.
