Ava pauses midway through knotting her hair into a pineapple. ‘I don’t think anyone who catches sight of you in that swimsuit is going to be thinking about cellulite. It doesn’t inspire a single thought that I can articulate without being sent straight to horny jail.’
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Jean says. And yet it’s impossible to entirely scrub the smile from her face. ‘Come on.’
They jog down the beach holding hands, skirting stones and seaweed. The rain is cool against her cheeks, the sand even more so underfoot – and as they draw closer it occurs to Jean that the ocean will be glacial. Scotland in July is still ultimately Scotland. Yet Ava is undeterred. She stuffs her towel into the bag and sprints into the water, shrieking as she splashes up to her knees, thighs, waist. Then Ava dives beneath the water and Jean doesn’t breathe until she surfaces, gasping as water streams down her face.
‘G-get in! It’s amazing.’
‘That might be more convincing if your teeth weren’t chattering.’ Still, Jean folds her towel up into a square. Kicks off her sandals. Tiptoes across the shoreline.
Her toes go numb as Jean steps deeper into the water, chill climbing her calves, and it’s the opposite of the baths she’d taken to scrub away any trace of Will. Jean slows to a standstill, frozen stiff. Even now, even here, she can’t escape the memory of him. The old bastard would have laughed himself silly to know that Marianne had turned on her; that even from the grave he can reach far enough into Jean’s life to punish her.
But then Ava’s there, lacing her icy fingers through Jean’s warm ones, walking backwards as she guides Jean into the water. She’s right there as Jean throws herself into an ungainly breaststroke, cheering as if she were witnessing Diana Nyad swimming from Cuba to Florida.
Whether it’s her body acclimatising to the ocean, or simply the irresistible effect that Ava has upon her, Jean no longer feels the cold. She swims parallel to the shore, gliding through the water, sure now of her own strength. Ava follows, dipping below the softly rippling waves; surfacing before Jean, laughing and drinking in the crisp air.
Vitality has always shimmered just beneath Ava’s skin, sparkled bright in her eyes – but with her curls plastered to her face, cheeks pink with cold, Jean has never seen anyone so gloriously alive.
Jean swims to her, treading water as she pulls Ava close.
‘What are you doing?’ Ava’s breath is hot against Jean’s cheek, minty fresh from her toothpaste.
‘Being wild.’ Jean pulls her close for a kiss, tasting salt on Ava’s lips.
It’s too brief, not enough, their legs cycling beneath the surface. Jean turns away from the wonder in Ava’s eyes and swims back to shore, leading the way back to their bungalow on trembling legs. But even after they’re inside and out of the rain, warmed by a shower and towelled dry, Jean’s body doesn’t still.
She goes to Ava, fishing in the drawer for a clean t-shirt, and stills her searching hand. Wordless, Jean leads her to the bed. And there can be no mistaking her meaning.
Obedient, Ava sits down on the mattress, But, when those hands wander, skimming the inside of Jean’s bare thigh, she stops them. ‘Not yet.’
A question forms on Ava’s lips, but Jean eases her back down against the mattress. Leans down to kiss Ava breathless, rolling a nipple between her fingertips until Ava’s straining up towards her.
Jean kisses her slender neck, nipping at Ava’s pulse point. Nuzzles at the hollow between her breasts. Though Ava savouring her curves has softened Jean’s perception of her own body into something resembling acceptance, something about these pert little tits – the way the swell of them fits perfectly moulded to the curve of Jean’s palm – wakes the animal part of her brain. At first Jean had put her interest in small breasts down to feminine jealousy, the grass always being greener on the other side. But Jean groans as the bud of a nipple furls tight between her lips, Ava’s desire waking her own.
Jean grinds against Ava’s leg as she shimmies down the bed, craving firm pressure against her clit. But there’s one thing Jean craves more than her own pleasure – Ava realises it too as Jean reverses further still down the mattress, pulling the damp slip of Ava’s underwear away with her.
A trembling hand cups Jean’s cheek, tilting her face up to look at Ava. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Jean’s voice is husky but certain. ‘I want to taste you.’
In answer Ava parts her thighs, revealing a flash of pink between her wiry curls.
Jean lowers her head, breathing in musk as she traces the folds of Ava’s sex with her tongue. Ava shudders the moment she makes contact, parting to the gentlest probing. Her cunt is impossibly hot, slippery against Jean’s mouth and cheeks and nose. But the knowledge that all this secret slickness is just for her spurs Jean on, her tongue searching out every last drop.
Ava tastes briney and fresh as the ocean, smooth as an oyster against Jean’s lips. She cries out as the point of Jean’s tongue darts across that perfect pink pearl. What Jean lacks in experience, she makes up for with enthusiasm, or tries to; when Ava’s stomach jerks as she sucks in a breath, when her thighs tremble, Jean takes it as sign she’s moving in the right direction, lapping until her tongue grows numb.
In the end it takes her mouth and her fingers working in tandem to get Ava there, rubbing frantic circles round Ava’s clit while her tongue delves inside. But get there Ava does, clenching tight and shuddering, thighs locking Jean’s mouth flush against her. It is messy. It is primal. And it is utterly glorious.
Jean pulls back, gasping for air and wiping her face clean. And Ava, chest heaving with the force of her orgasm, looks up at Jean with a fresh, dazed sort of wonder.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One week bleeds into two – Peter is delighted for her to continue holidaying. And her words are only halfway out when Ava, who has made no mention of heading home, agrees they may as well stay a full fortnight. The Baird family’s generosity is easily supplemented by a trip to the Co-op, their clothes laundered in the washing machine and dried in bright sunshine. The weather, that fickle temptress, picks up just when Jean accepts summer is over. Sweating and laughing they climb Arthur’s Seat, Ava snapping a picture of them pink-cheeked at the summit.
In fact, true to Millennial form, she has documented almost the entirety of their trip. Amidst the nature shots and selfies, there are candid photos Jean hadn’t been aware of her taking until Ava messages them. Jean from behind, gazing at the island, hair gleaming and rippling like fire. Jean lying on her front atop a towel – though her eyes are concealed by dark lenses, she wears an enigmatic little smile as she reads her book. Jean laughing as the champagne fizzes open, eyes still wide from the cork popping – a sound that’s always louder than she expects.
She tries to sneak a few photos in retaliation, but Ava always catches her, giggling or beaming at the camera while she poses. The only time Jean manages to capture her unawares is when Ava sleeps, a curl peeping out from beneath her bonnet, one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. But that photo feels too personal to share, even with its subject, so Jean keeps it to herself.
The days stack up, one adventure after another. And Jean doesn’t recognise herself when she looks in the mirror – this carefree woman, tanned and freckled and always smiling.
