She wriggled back round, reaching for his belt. “You know how I was going to tell you what I liked? I think I’d like you to be more naked.”
“I think”—he grinned—“I’d like you to be more naked and all.” There followed a few clumsy moments of buttons and buckles and denim on denim, and the sudden realisation of being exposed in a fully lit room. Thankfully, Harry was very much worth it—and, by the best available evidence, seemed to think she was, too, for all she’d made no particular effort in that direction. He pressed her back onto the bed, kissing her hard, his hand between her legs, teasing and seeking.
“So . . .” His eyes held hers, full of intent. “You got anything in your bedside drawer you like?”
Oh God, she was blushing. “Aren’t the contents of a girl’s bedside drawer meant to be private?”
“Even to the bloke what’s trying to get you off?”
“I . . . um. Isn’t it cheating?”
And now he was laughing, his breath rippling against her neck. “Look, if you ask me to fix a plug, I’ll borrow a screwdriver.”
“I’m not a broken piece of electrical equipment,” she protested.
“It’s not about that. It’s about using the best tool for the job.”
“Haven’t you already got a tool for the job?”
He gave her one of his slow smiles. “Got a bunch of tools for the job, mate. But nothing wrong with a bit of variety. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Rosaline squeakily. “It’s just I haven’t got that much. I’m not the dodgy end of Etsy.”
“I’m not leaving a review. I thought you might enjoy it is all.”
Propping herself on her side, Rosaline nervously opened the drawer in her bedside table and peered inside as if she wasn’t sure what she’d find. “I’ve got a couple of vibrators and a rose quartz dildo that Lauren got me for a joke.”
“Pass us your favourite.”
“I’m not sure I’ve got a favourite.”
“Everyone’s got a favourite.”
And, actually, he was right. After a moment’s hesitation, she handed him the slightly overdesigned bullet vibe she tended to fall back on. It looked totally different in Harry’s hand—not, admittedly, that she’d spent that much time really looking at it. Using the very tip of it, he traced a line down her body, the coolness in notable contrast to the warmth of his fingers.
He let out a long breath. “Fuck me, mate. Can’t believe we’re here.”
“Me neither,” she admitted, lifting her leg to brush a knee gently along his side. “But I’m glad we are.”
“Hold that thought.”
And with that, he sprawled out on his stomach, and went down with a confidence that Rosaline was briefly, but only briefly, too startled to enjoy.
He started low-key—brushes of his lips against her thighs and over her hips, the teasing press of his tongue spreading her open, drawing little gasps from her—letting the anticipation gather slowly inside her, as rich and sweet and inevitable as sugar melting into caramel. Normally too much of this sort of thing left Rosaline self-conscious, not wanting to be greedy or selfish, or take too much of her allotted time in the unspoken negotiation of who got who off when. But it was hard to think about anything right then, except the heat of his mouth and the circling of his fingers and the occasional whirr of her vibrator. It was a little bit amazing how good it felt, all those sensations, layered together and coming together—this perfect alchemy of care, passion, and a certain expertise. And she quickly lost track of time, slipping almost effortlessly into the world of her body, where she was indulged and pleasured and cared for.
When she came it was a toe-curling rush that swept through her in endless waves, leaving her shaky and breathless and a little bit giggly on the sheer release of it.
“All right, mate?” Harry reappeared from between her legs, flushed and smiling.
“I’m very all right. Are you all right?”
“Couldn’t be better. Got me girl off, didn’t I?”
She settled limply against the pillows. “Oh, I’m your girl now, am I?”
“Sorry. I just mean, like, I like it when people like it. And I especially like you liking it ’cos I like you.”
“Well,” she told him, “I really, really liked it.”
He crawled up the bed to lie beside her, and she turned to kiss him—tasting herself on his lips, which was an odd, possessive thrill. “Say when and we can do it again.”
“What about you?”
“Got plenty of time for that.”
“No, but”—she rolled onto her side to face him—“I want to.”
Taking her wrist, he guided her between their bodies and to his very . . . there . . . erection. She gripped it slightly tentatively. This was the problem with men, you never knew if you were doing too much or too little, whether you should be passing the baton in a relay or trying to get ketchup out of the bottle.
“Bit harder,” he murmured, covering her hand with this. “Yeah, like that. That’s good.”
She was surprised by the intimacy of it—his cock and their hands, the drag of skin against skin against skin as he helped her learn what he enjoyed. And lying as they were, facing each other, she got to see him react to her touch: the oddly vulnerable flutter of his lashes, the shapes his mouth made when he gasped or moaned or muttered her name, the tightening of his brow in that weird intensity of pleasure-pain as she brought him close to the edge. It still undid her a little, how willing Harry was to show himself to her and give himself to her, and it made her want to do the same. To put aside everything she’d once thought she should have been and build something else—something true—for herself. With him.
With everyone she loved.
Tuesday
“DON’T HOLD HER like that,” Anvita shouted. “She’s the queen of France.”
Rosaline hastily backed away from the Marie Antoinette cake that was currently occupying more of her hallway than any item of patisserie had a reasonable right to. “I’m sorry, but she’s going to have to get round the corner somehow.”
“I’m going to drop her. Seriously, I’m going to drop her.” That was Sanjay from somewhere on the other side of Anvita’s multitiered masterpiece.
“If you drop her,” Anvita told him, “I am leaving you for Ricky.”
“Do I get a say in that?” Ricky’s voice drifted through the front room. “Because I’m sort of seeing someone.”
“You should have brought him, her, or them.” Lauren. Of course.
Ricky made a sheepish nineteen-year-old noise. “We’re not really at the ‘come watch me on TV with a bunch of strangers I met on TV’ stage of our relationship.”
“Is that a stage?” asked Rosaline.
“It is when you’ve been on TV.”
“Guys”—Sanjay’s voice had risen sharply—“Marie Antoinette is in genuine danger.”
“It’s all right.” Terry emerged from the living room into a hallway that was already struggling to contain its occupants and certainly couldn’t cope with the addition of a six-foot-two gym bunny. “I’ve got it.”