Page 24 of Strap In

‘Show me yours,’ Jean says, and for a moment she fears that vein might burst. But Ava shimmies out of her pyjama shorts and gets on all fours, a knee planted either side of the cinch in Jean’s waist. Then she bends over, raising those pert cheeks to the ceiling, and her centre opens to Jean.

With dawn’s gilded light pouring through the window, it’s the best view Jean’s ever had of another woman’s sex.

And not even Ava’s stroking can distract her from this prize.

Of all the words that could spring to mind, pretty is the last one Jean expects.

Something of a vulva’s look and texture reminds her unavoidably of molluscs, slimy invertebrates curled in a shell.

Yet Ava’s pussy is tantalising, her labia neat and even.

And Jean’s hand rises of its own volition to chase the secret flash of pink at her core.

Ava’s thighs tremble as Jean’s fingers delve and curl, diving to catch a pearl.

And the glisten of her sex, the briney sharpness of her perfume, only urges Jean on.

It would be easy to hook both arms around Ava’s unresisting waist and pull her down close enough to taste.

Panic paralyses Jean, a great wall of it rising in her chest; an impenetrable barrier to the orgasm Ava’s stroking offers.

Yet Ava herself bucks against Jean’s fingers, cunt clenching.

A gasping cry tears from her throat, and she slumps to the side, boneless.

But even then, Ava continues her quest, intent on Jean’s pleasure.

With a leg draped across Jean’s chest, head pillowed on Jean’s thigh, she pushes two fingers inside slow and easy, applying firm pressure.

With her tongue she laps at Jean’s clit, the tip just glancing – tender from her last orgasm, it’s all Jean can take.

Each time she withdraws there’s an obscene slicking pop.

But Jean’s too far gone to care – though dawn’s light has faded, it’s as if she’s absorbed the gold of sunrise through her skin where it licks at her insides, bathing them in pure delight.

It fills Jean until there’s no room for breath, no room for anything except the exquisite glide of Ava’s fingers.

A spasmodic post-coital twitch runs though Jean as Ava’s tongue makes a final swipe. And then, looking Jean dead in the eye, she licks her fingers clean. ‘I can’t get enough of the way you taste. It drives me fucking crazy.’

Jean huffs a laugh, sweat cooling in the valley between her breasts. It’s been a long time since her body inspired such ardent confessions. ‘I think you were already a little crazy to begin with.’

Rolling onto her side, Ava drags the duvet with her as she shuffles up the bed, draping it over them both. ‘If that’s true, I don’t want to be sane.’

It’s not long until Ava dozes, thigh draped across Jean’s. But even under that welcome weight Jean can’t join her in the land of nod.

Though Jean feigns sleep, her mind won’t rest. While her limbs are heavy with the golden resonance of orgasm, there is no stilling those thoughts. A persistent fear burrows into her brain: what a cruel joke that Jean should only discover what had been missing now.

Ava smooths the hair back from Jean’s brow and rolls out of bed, footsteps receding. A minute later comes the shower’s dull hiss, the gurgling of pipes, while Jean contemplates the countless nights wasted. Years stacked one on top of the other. Decades, even.

All this time she could have been glorying in her body’s capacity for pleasure.

Not openly – there’s no way Jean would have ascended so far in a straitlaced field while shouldering the double burden of being a woman and some manner of gay.

Whenever June ends, every one of their corporate clients lose the rainbow lanyards and Pride-themed merch until next year, when making noise about inclusivity becomes advantageous again.

But there could have been other arrangements, discreet and rewarding.

There had been moments with Mari, heads bowed together in laughter, those blue eyes sparkling with mirth, when Jean had imagined daring to close the gap; to press a kiss against her open lips.

But Jean had been a sleep-deprived junior associate; on those long nights she’d also thought she’d heard, more than once, her parents’ voices in the neighbouring office.

Neither line of enquiry had felt worth pursuing – impossible yearnings better set aside.

Jean sits up, seizing her phone from the bedside table to deal with the inevitable messages. Rhona’s a solid worker, bright and consistent, but her constant need for affirmation grates at Jean’s nerves – it’s a slow weaning process. She types:

Again, good work. Though you don’t need to run every detail by me

outside our 1-2-1s. You have the skills to work independently: use

them.

Seconds later, her phone pings with a response.

Thank you, Ms Howard.

Ava returns then, a dressing gown wrapped around her body and a towel turbaned around her hair. ‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ Ava drops a kiss on her forehead. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m not made of spun glass. You don’t have to keep asking me that.’

‘I know.’ The mattress shifts as Ava plops down beside her, dressing gown peeking open to offer a tantalising glimpse of thigh. ‘But new experiences can bring stuff up. And I wanted to check in.’

‘I’m fine.’ Jean meets those worried eyes. ‘Really.’

Ava’s brow remains creased, a clear indication she doesn’t wholly buy it. But – to Jean’s relief – she doesn’t press further. ‘Alright. How about I cook breakfast while you shower. You’ve earned it.’

Jean doesn’t quite follow the logic in that, given Ava did most of the work for both their orgasms. But she’s too grateful to argue, stumbling into the shower on Bambi legs. She borrows Ava’s shower gel, the steam scented with clean cedar. But even as Jean scrubs herself a fresh wave of lust hits.

She dresses quickly in a blouse and skirt creased from having spent the night in her bag.

And Ava greets her with scrambled eggs, spinach and toast. They eat together at the table bathed in bright spring sunlight, upbeat Eighties pop playing on Ava’s Bluetooth speaker.

The music of Jean’s youth. And Jean feels something of that old recklessness as she snakes her ankle round Ava’s – the past has gone, taking Jean’s juvenescence with it.

But there is now , Jean thinks. And to hell with casual behaviour.

For her boldness she’s rewarded with a kiss. And another. Ava’s hands sinking into her hair, still loose and damp from the shower. Ava shifting to the seat beside hers, lean body curling around Jean’s.

And Jean’s fingers search out the feel of her skin, freshly moisturised with shea butter.

She reaches beneath Ava’s flannel shirt, the t-shirt underneath, and caresses a stomach that – for all she seems to live on Twix bars and takeaways – remains perfectly flat.

Savours the sharp intake of breath as she reaches up to the hem of Ava’s plain cotton bralette.

Then comes the unmistakable click of keys in the lock. They turn as one to watch the door swing open. A little girl with golden curls and light-up trainers bounces into the living room, closely followed by a woman who looks so like Ava that Jean’s mind malfunctions.

‘Evie, wash your hands please.’ Aaliyah’s top lip even has that same cupid’s bow. ‘You’ve touched every possible handle and button on the way here.’

The girl sighs, and Jean slides her hand free, giving Ava’s shirt what she hopes is a surreptitious tug back in place.

‘Okay, Mummy.’ The child disappears into the bathroom.

Aaliyah’s eyebrow, waxed into a perfect arch, climbs. ‘Morning, baby sister.’

‘There are six minutes between us,’ Ava says, exasperated. ‘Not nearly enough for you to be calling me that. Like you crammed so much life experience into three hundred and sixty seconds.’

‘Well, it gave me enough of a head start that I’ve got myself and both kids fed, washed, and dressed; dropped Theo at rugby; and brought Evie here for a day with her favourite aunty.’ Aaliyah’s wry smile is the mirror image of her sister’s. ‘All in the time it’s taken you to roll out of bed.’

Though Jean keeps her face carefully neutral, there’s no doubt Aaliyah would have sussed them out, even if she hadn’t caught Jean red-handed.

She’s just as sharp as her sister. But Ava doesn’t seem to mind their meeting, giving a languid shrug in response to Aaliyah’s inuendo.

And this is what decides Jean’s plan of action.

‘Jean Howard.’ She holds out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Ava mentioned she’s a twin, and I’ve been curious about you.’

‘Leah Clark. And I’m pretty curious too – most women my sister brings home disappear when the sun comes up, like vampires.

But here you are.’ Leah’s gaze flits towards the empty plates and matching mugs, expression inscrutable as she takes in the undeniable air of domesticity.

Then she takes Jean’s hand, grip firm. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Something unreadable passes across Ava’s face as she watches them shake, and Jean’s still puzzling it out when Evie races back into the room then, the stars on her trainers glowing bright with every step. She collides with her mother’s legs, hiding behind Aaliyah’s skinny jeans.

‘Morning, Peanut.’ Though hoarse, there’s an undeniable warmth to Ava’s voice.

But the child glances at Jean through wary brown eyes.

‘Hello there,’ Jean says, immediately regretting her formality.

She’s always been terrible with children, had never known what to say to her nephews or niece until they reached the other side of puberty.

Bridget had accused her of talking to them like little adults without ever explaining a viable alternative.

Like dogs, children have an uncanny gift for sniffing out discomfort. Evie continues to squint up at Jean. ‘Why are you here?’

‘ Evelyn .’ Her mother’s whisper is sharp as a whip crack. ‘What have I told you about minding your manners?’