by Clare Ashton
This was fine. It was dancing. They could have been anywhere at any time over the last ten years. Then her nipples stroked Jude’s. It was just the lightest of touches but the thrill shot to her core and the fire ignited again. Jude pulled her closer, hands dropping to Abby’s hips, thighs slipping together and the inferno consumed Abby. She was beyond control as Jude swayed and rolled with the sensual rhythm and Abby’s head swirled intoxicated by the intimacy of Jude’s dance. She couldn’t have stopped if she’d tried.
Jude’s hands trailed Abby’s body, her fingers exploring up tantalisingly close to her chest so that Abby’s breasts tingled with anticipation. She craved Jude’s touch and willed her to stroke higher. If only Jude would rub her thumbs across her nipples. Pinch them. Squeeze them.
But with a smooth movement Jude spun her round so she spooned Abby from behind. Not missing a beat Abby found herself back between Jude’s thighs, her friend’s fingers exploring more freely and cupping tantalisingly beneath her bosom. Her breasts cried out for attention and Abby pleaded silently, “Touch me”.
Without thinking, Abby reached back to Jude’s warm thigh, letting her hands move in time. With every note she ran her fingers higher up the sultry material. Closer and closer she caressed to where she hadn’t even dared imagine before.
Abby snapped open her eyes. This wasn’t dancing. Who was she kidding? She wanted to plunge her fingers into Jude’s slick depths.
Shit. There was no doubting Abby’s desire or intentions. She’d lost herself completely in the rhythm. She panicked. The dim cellar lights were forgiving and the room so crowded no-one would have noticed. All except Jude, who must be in no doubt about where Abby’s hand was wandering.
“I’m sorry,” Abby gasped, and she stepped forward. She stood with her chest heaving. “I’m sorry. Please forget I did that.”
Hearing no reply, she peeked over her shoulder. She couldn’t see Jude’s face clearly but her friend didn’t move at all.
“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “Forgive me. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and she dived through the crowd towards the door, humiliation burning on her cheeks.
Chapter 25.
She’d let Abby leave, after that incredible dance. Why hadn’t she turned Abby round and kissed her? Because Abby had been way ahead of Jude. There was no second guessing what her friend had desired, hands wandering closer to where Jude had longed for her to touch. But what were Jude’s hands meant to do?
She tried to imagine touching Abby, but she couldn’t. There was a block too strong, through stigma or, worse, real aversion on Jude’s part. What if she recoiled in disgust when she caressed Abby? That would devastate her friend.
But the throbbing waves of arousal which ached inside Jude were real and begging for Abby. Jude could still feel the sensation of Abby’s body stroking between her thighs as they danced. And if they hadn’t been somewhere public Jude’s hands would have been all over Abby’s breasts. Then what?
Jude shook her head and skipped up the steps, hoping to catch up. Her dress and heels hampered the chase and Abby was beyond the passageway by the time Jude surfaced. She clipped down the alley after her.
What was she going to do? What the hell was she going to say?
“Abby, I want you. I very clearly want you. But I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know what to do.”
Abby was fast. She was already beyond sight of the square when Jude emerged from the passageway. Home. She must have gone home.
Abby burst through the cottage door, switched on the lights and collapsed against the kitchen island. She closed her eyes and groaned. The march home had done nothing to quell her desire.
So she wasn’t always the best at keeping her passion for her friend under control, but Jude wasn’t exactly helping. That dance. That exquisite dance. Jude’s hands all over her, sliding down her sides, brushing against her breasts so they tingled with expectation. The way her hands explored around her thighs so that Abby wanted to grab them and guide them to where she ached.
“Nyaah,” Abby gurgled and she buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t keep the images from engulfing her mind and sensations fraying her body.
“Radio,” she gasped. “Music.”
Anything to distract her from the onslaught of provocative memories. She fumbled with her Roberts radio on the kitchen top, twizzling the knob until a loud dance song throbbed from the set. The thumping bass blasted any thought, red hot or otherwise, from her mind.
“Better,” she said, with relief.
The monotonous number thudded in her mind, so all she imagined was a white room pulsing with music. She began to breathe more easily. The vision was soothing.
Then clapping started to overlay the back beat.
No. That was very familiar clapping. Very familiar indeed. Then a Spanish guitar limbered up. No, no, no. It couldn’t be. And a slinky bass line which made swaying hips inevitable. Someone had remixed the song from the cellars. That wasn’t fair. So not fair.
Images of their dance flooded her mind. She could feel the warmth of Jude’s body behind her, hands exploring the curve of her breast and achingly close to her centre.
Abby groaned and closed her eyes. The rhythm of the music transported her back to that delicious moment. If Jude had only stroked a little further. If she’d cupped her breasts and teased her nipples with a pinch, again and again. The imagined caress sent very real pulses of excitement through Abby’s body. She pictured Jude’s fingers tightening around her nipple and a lightning strike of arousal shot from her breasts to her core. At the same time, she willed Jude’s free hand around her thighs. If only she’d slid her fingers further, slowly, purposely, and slipped between her legs.
Abby moaned into her hands. “Oooooh.”
Then, “Noooooooo.”
The rules. She had rules. This was definitely against those rules. This was breaking every single one.
But that seductive beat, its slow rhythm, perfect for aching, tantalising sex. It was so evocative it was as if Jude’s hands were on her again.
“Nooooo,” Abby groaned as she pulsed between her legs. “Remember the rules.”
She pressed her fingers to her jeans, but the warmth intensified and she staggered along the kitchen island. She must not fantasise about Jude. Absolutely no fantasising. The rules. Remember the rules. She must not imagine Jude’s soft fingers stroking her clitoris.
“Oh,” she gasped. The sensation was almost real. The tips of Jude’s fingers, which Abby knew so well, virtually touched her core, tenderly circling where she throbbed.
“The rules,” she groaned. “Oh fuck the rules.”
Abby ran from the room, up the stairs, her body thrumming with arousal so strongly it beat in her ears. She stripped her shirt, tugged it from her arms, unclipped her bra in a millisecond and flung it across the room. She stamped and tripped out of her trousers and tugged her knickers off almost mid-air while she dived into bed.
Abby slipped a finger between her legs into hot, soaking desire. She moaned with the intensity. She clutched her own breast imagining Jude holding her pushing up behind her.
“Fuck.”
Her orgasm was already building, its tingling grip spreading through her body. Its warmth flooded her. It was huge. It was as if Jude squeezed and embraced every part of her body with electrifying pleasure.
“Oh,” Abby moaned out loud.
“Abby, Abby, Abby,” Jude murmured as she clicked down the street. She hadn’t fathomed what to say. “I have so many feelings. I’m without doubt attracted to you.”
The memories of Abby's buttocks stroking between her thighs was vivid and heavenly in too many places, she knew she wasn’t lying. And Jude was definitely coming round to breasts. But what would touching Abby’s clit feel like? This wasn’t something Jude could mess up. This was Abby who depended on her like no other.
The lights were on in Abby’s cottage, shining onto the pavement, and music blared from inside. Jude peeked through the door wind
ows, moving from one small square to the next, peering around.
“Abby,” she called.
Her friend didn’t hear and Abby stumbled from the kitchen further into the house.
“Abby!” Jude shouted.
Still she didn’t turn and she disappeared up the stairs.
Jude stepped back into the street and peered up, expecting the bedroom light to come on, but it remained dark.
“Abby, come on,” Jude whispered.
She rapped her knuckles on the door. They sounded weak below the music that thudded inside the house. Jude stared at the lock and tentatively tried the handle. It was open, and she went inside and pushed the door to.
“Abby?” she called. “I’m sorry. I need to talk to you.”
There was the sound of footsteps muffled upstairs then they ceased.
“Abby?”
She wouldn’t be able to hear Jude above the music. Jude started up the steps, the stairwell and upper floor in darkness.
“It’s Jude,” she said hesitantly. “I wanted to talk to you.”
There was a moan. A long, drawn-out, satisfied moan.
“Are you there?” Jude ventured.
The bedroom door was half closed, obscuring her view. Jude padded up the carpet and peered through the gap. She was about to call out again when she stopped. Dead. Completely still.
The sight effected an impressive number of things. Shock froze Jude to the spot and innumerable other feelings assaulted her body. The room was lit by streetlight through a gap in the curtains and it shone its soft light onto the naked form of her friend lying on the bed. Abby looked beautiful, the curve of her breasts and the tantalising line from her chest down her belly, straight to the triangle between her hips.
Abby was completely naked. Jude wanted to admire every inch for hours. But what transfixed her was the sight of Abby’s hand vigorously squeezing her own breast and the other between her slick loins, circling ever faster around her centre.
The blood simultaneously drained from Jude’s cheeks and filled elsewhere in her body. That look on Abby’s face. The mixture of painful ecstasy and uncontrollable satisfaction was terrifying, arousing, shocking. Jude gasped and sunk to her knees.
She thought she knew everything about Abby, every reaction and expression. But this anguished ecstasy was new. It was exciting, embarrassing, incredibly arousing. Abby was completely exposed. It was just so rude.
Abby circled her clitoris, moaning, face frowning in gratification. She stroked faster, her body tensing and arching from the bed and Jude felt her own insides tighten in empathy. Her breathing quickened as Abby’s did and the warmth intensified between her legs. Then Abby climaxed, rigid and taut except for the anguished groan which escaped her lips.
Jude shuddered with the release, chest heaving and trembling with hormones that flooded her body. It had been the most debilitating and erotic sight she’d ever seen.
“Oh God,” Abby gasped. “Oh fucking God.”
Abby collapsed onto the bed in what must have been a potent post-coital daze, so relaxed she seemed fluid. She rolled over and buried her head in a big fluffy pillow.
“The rules,” came a muffled groan. “So many broken rules.”
Jude watched as her own breathing eased back to normal. She heard Abby’s breath become slow and minutes later acquire the heaviness of slumber.
Jude walked in a daze downstairs, turned off the music and flicked the door off the latch. As she wandered home she stared at the ground, her mind incapacitated by the images she’d witnessed, and the sounds, even the scent. Her body had focussed all its resources on the sensations between her thighs and it was a primeval part of her psyche that returned her home safely to her room. And there, she removed her gown and her underwear and slipped between the sheets.
Apparently, Jude had no qualms, no rules at all, about picturing Abby and reliving that scene while her hand comforted between her legs. And now she had no doubt how she’d react if she ever touched Abby.
Chapter 26.
Maggie had been awake for hours. She gazed from the acres of space in the marital bed, watching the sun sparkle through the beech trees on the horizon and over the church grounds.
The rest of the house was silent. Her nephews were home with their father and sore mother. Eli and Selene she imagined sleeping off all kinds of excesses from the engagement party and Jude had returned with the wordless determination of a teenager and gone straight to her room.
Maggie had been left alone for too long. She did believe those souls who insisted they enjoyed their own company, but frankly she pissed herself off after a few hours and craved someone to bother. Especially when her own company and past were tormenting her.
Maggie sighed, letting the air whistle from her lips for as long as possible. She lay her head back on the mountain of pillows, which had once supported a family of four when the children had nightmares, then two, and were now hers alone, and closed her eyes.
The autumn sun danced through her eyelids and the light seemed to warm her body and spirit, one of her favourite experiences. Her mind drifted, remembering other mornings, lazily making love and lying in bed all day and the memory of Juliette’s naked breasts on her own was suddenly vivid, so much so the sensation felt real.
“Shit.” Maggie snapped open her eyes. “Fucking, buggering, shit.”
The memory had been a secret indulgence over the years. They’d luxuriated like that often in their flat overlooking the university parks. The one thing they’d found uncontentious was their love of holding the world at bay until the morning was old, banishing it entirely from their routine at the weekend. They’d nuzzled in bed for hours, dozing, love-making, talking, never letting go of each other. The forbidden memory was always followed by a wave of melancholy. Except today. Given the woman’s proximity and reality, it was fury which cantered in.
“Bollocks,” Maggie huffed.
What pissing curve ball of fate had sent Juliette? How perverse Maggie should encourage Eli in his study of the era which would lead him straight to Juliette’s lectures and her beautiful daughter. The universe had a wicked sense of humour.
Finding her right outside the door. Not there to cause trouble. Only passing by. Then showing them all that sodding picture. At least it wasn’t a nude of Maggie. She rolled her eyes at her young self. All those artful photos she’d posed for, thinking they’d be together forever. She hated to think where those intimate shots now lay.
And Tiff, with her shaved head. Maggie hadn’t thought about her in years, sloping off after the birth of Eli, finally bored with her Maggie supposed. Tiff had always been more enamoured with Juliette and Maggie was surprised she’d lasted that long. And Mike. Poor Mike. One of the losses in the terrifying wave which engulfed their scene in the eighties. And Juliette of course. Not pictured, although always present in the memory.
Maggie growled and swung her legs out of bed. She’d mellowed toward mornings over the years – the children had necessitated that – but she wasn’t going to greet this one with any benevolence. She cleaned vigorously in the shower, crashed around the kitchen as she made coffee and thumped onto the sofa. Every part of her home would feel her chagrin this morning.
There was a knock at the door.
“Who the fuck’s there?” she shouted.
Whoever it was mustn’t have heard because another polite knock ensued.
Maggie tutted and leapt off the sofa and marched into the hall. She opened the door, without bothering with a conciliatory face, to meet the amiable expression on Richard’s.
“For the love of God, come through the attic door,” Maggie snapped.
“Good morning, dear.” Always amused. He was always so damned happy these days.
“Just use the bloody internal door.”
“No. We’ve agreed our boundaries. I believe they work well.”
“I’m overrun with all sorts at the moment, you may as well have the run of the place too.” With the chaos, no-one seemed
to have noticed the changes in their living arrangements. The children were so wrapped up in their domestic bliss or blight they’d not ventured to the attic or noticed when Richard slept away. At least Jude was looking better, in fact refreshingly so.
“I will respect the rules under your roof.” He smiled. “I’m back from Caroline’s and just checking in.”
“Kind of you, dear. I’m alive and, once I warm up, will be kicking.”
“Do you fancy some company for breakfast?”
She did. “No thank you.”
“I’ll cook it.”
That would have been lovely. “No need.”
“I come with ingredients for French toast,” he said, lifting his shopping bag.
Maggie raised her eyebrow. Toast which had to be, of all things, French? Did he do that on purpose?
“Sorry,” he added. “Funny how the brain works.”
“Hilarious,” she deadpanned.
“It occurred to me when I was at the corner shop that I hadn’t cooked it for you in an age. Not in the slightest bit intentional.”
“I still don’t want it.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I know who she is.”
“I assumed you did.”
“Maggie,” he said, as exasperated as a parent, which was, of course, galling.
“You of all people should understand the impact of that woman.”
“Yes, I do,” he said gently. “Which is why I thought you might appreciate some company and moral support before you see her again.”
Maggie was silent. She stared at the hessian shopping bag in Richard’s hands, trying not to think of the irresistible French toast he’d make or the wretched woman he talked of.
He looked at her with doleful eyes. “You have to find a way to get on with her.”
“Do I? Really?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“It doesn’t fucking feel like it.” And a strike of pain burned through her.
“Oh, Maggie.” Now Richard seemed on the verge of tears. “Will it never fade?”
