Ava’s head whips round so quickly that her hair is shaken free from the confines of an elastic, springing wild around her shoulders. A whole myriad of expressions flit across her face, faster than Jean can make sense of them. Finally, her lips curve. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No? You don’t have to feel obliged.’
‘Obli—’ Ava covers her face with both hands, tilting forward so a thick curtain of curls covers her face. Several seconds pass before she composes herself, and Jean wishes the ground would open up and swallow her whole – a feeling that only escalates as Ava continues to speak. ‘Jean. You’re talking about it like an obligatory side of Brussels sprouts. But I see it like chocolate chip brownies. Fresh hot puff-puff. Coconut ice cream.’
Personally, Jean would rather faceplant into a bowl ofescargot. But each to their own. She smiles, in spite of herself, bemused. ‘A king-sized Twix bar?’
‘Now you’re getting it!’ Ava slaps the table. ‘Not literally. I’m not trying to pressure you. In fact, forget I said anything at all.’
They each retreat into their own work until it’s time for sleep, Jean reading over Rhona’s query about how to approach Wexler in the conversation about renewables. And they are scrupulously polite while getting ready for bed.
Ava makes a final adjustment to her scarf, reaches for the lamp, and blankets them in darkness. There is nothing sexual about their embrace. But Jean can’t forget those earlier words.In fact, as Ava nuzzles into her side, it’s all she can think about. How the mouth pressed against the hollow of her neck might feel pressed instead to the hollow between her thighs.
Jean doesn’t get much in the way of sleep that night, hyperaware of the blankets brushing against her skin, the warmth of Ava’s body beside her. In the morning, she rises before Ava wakes, yawning her way through a session with Grant. But he senses her mood and avoids any speculation about Jean’s nocturnal activities. She is, after all, first among his executive clients. And Jean throws herself into the workout, determined to burn off all surplus energy.
Even so, the thought plagues her. Between meetings, in the car to and from work, Jean’s mind wanders. Ava’s fingers pluck the sweetest notes of pleasure from Jean’s body; with the strap she has every nerve singing an ecstatic symphony. What, then, might her tongue do? Ava’s mouth at her breast has worked such wonders that Jean’s come from her suckling alone – the first time Jean thought it a fluke, the second a miracle. One by one, Ava has unearthed her body’s secrets – capabilities and a carnality that Jean had assumed lost beneath an ocean of Catholic shame.
And though Jean shuns Ava every evening that week, ignoring the invitations, it’s herself she punishes. Her underlings put Jean’s sharpness down to Leonides – mixed in among the genuine requests are tests of DDH’s mettle. Moral dilemmas intended to uncover how much they’re willing to ignore. Even with the ink drying on the contract, Leonides remains cautious – paranoid, even. But that refusal to settle into anything resembling trust has kept him going all these years, the difference between an average man and a juggernaut.
Simple longing comes as a relief, by comparison. Though Jean despises the weakness of her own flesh. A menopausal woman horny as a teenager, and with that same lack of regard for consequences. Even her dreams are no safe harbour. Ava’s tongue delving inside her cunt. Ava’s tongue suckling until she begs for mercy. Ordinarily dreams trickle away like sand as she tries to hold on to them, but this image imprints itself on her mind. And each time it surfaces, Jean must cross her legs.
After a final meeting with Wexler about Gaia’s Children, Jean has Bogdan drop her at the tube station. She offers him nothing by way of excuse or explanation, only her thanks, and gets the underground straight through to East Ham. All the way a dull pulse echoes between Jean’s legs, keeping time with every rattle and clack of the train.
Chapter Sixteen
Ava opens the door, clad in a raincoat and subtle bronze lipstick. Her hair’s in a bun – not scraped back like at conference, but pinned proud on top of her head, loose curls framing her face. She looks beautiful. And she looks like someone about to leave for a night out.
‘Jean,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Sorry. I should’ve realised you’d have plans – it’s Friday night. I just… I wanted to talk to you.’ Jean backs away, pressing the button to summon the lift. ‘Never mind. It can wait.’
‘Come in for a bit. I don’t need to leave right now.’
Even mashing the button doesn’t bring the blasted lift. ‘No, no. It was nothing important.’
Ava steps out into the hallway, covering Jean’s hand with her own. ‘Come in.’
Inside, Jean lingers by the door, toying with an opal on her ring as she speaks. ‘I’ve been thinking. About what you asked me.’
Ava’s expression remains carefully blank, but her breath stutters – silence, then a sweet little gasp. The exact same sound she makes whenever Jean catches a nipple between her teeth. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yes.’ Jean shifts her weight from foot to foot, the friction offering a moment’s relief to the ache between her thighs. ‘Actually, I can’t stop thinking about it. Day or night. I keep trying to imagine what it would feel like.’
‘Fuck,’ Ava breathes. Her eyes close, and the knowledge that Ava’s picturing it – savouring the thought of her sex – has slick heat pooling silken smooth between Jean’s thighs.
‘Precisely. It’s been torture.’
Ava licks her lips. And when she opens her eyes, there’s resolve in the set of her jaw. ‘Hang on. Just let me text Lin and Petra to cancel. Then you’re all mine.’
A pulse jump starts in Jean’s clit, relentless. Yet her conscience prickles. ‘If you’ve made plans, you should keep them. We can do this another night.’
Ava scoffs. ‘Don’t be such a tease – you can’t just show up talking about how you’ve been dreaming of me eating you out then act like it’s no big deal.’
‘It’s not the only thing that matters.’ The words ring hollow even to Jean’s ears.
‘But it is a particular fantasy of mine.’ Ava’s thumbs fly across the screen, and there’s the whoosh of an outgoing message.
And Jean knows that she should feel guilty. That she’s crossing all kinds of lines, and there’s nothing remotely casual about her behaviour. But the tension melts from her shoulders in an instant. Ava has chosen her; this untameable thing between them. ‘You’re staying, then?’
