Work Text:
It’s a beautiful night on the lake – cool, a bit breezy, with a clear sky full of stars. Back in the city, Tee Jopson is lucky to make out a single constellation. Here, though, above her, it’s like someone upended a box of silver glitter on an ocean of blue-black velvet, bright and shining and dizzy-vast.
She takes a long pull off the blunt. Smoke swirls and mingles in her mouth, heavy, smooth, and almost-sweet, cut through with the sharp scent of the firepit. She savours it. Blinks, soft and slow.
The fire crackles merrily. Sparks trail up to meet the stars.
A rustle of shifting fabric: Tom, sprawled comfortably in a Muskoka chair a few feet away, stretches out her legs with a groan and a sigh.
It’s funny how natural Tom looks, here in the middle of the woods. The heel of her prosthetic rests easy on the instep of her well-worn, mud-stained hiking boot; the patched-and-mended denim of her jeans wraps, familiar, around her muscular thighs. Every flicker of flame carves valleys of cool shadow in the deep, cheery wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She’s not even bothered with a jumper, only her thin vest and a soft red flannel shirt.
How she manages, Tee’s not sure; perhaps Tom just enjoys the chill. She’s always off backpacking with Esther on glaciers, or whatever else they do when they hie away up north. A marvellous woman, Esther; she barely comes up to Tee’s shoulder, but Tee’s never met anyone who can fill up a room quite the same way.
Idly, Tee turns over the memory of Esther and Tom’s last anniversary do. She’d been nursing a lonely rye and ginger at the table, considering pulling out her phone to toy with Tinder, when she spotted them: Esther, all curls and curves and grinning, tucked up against Tom’s chest as they swayed to the music. They kept whispering to one another. Snickering. Sweet, private joys, shared between breaths. They weren’t particularly tall, or gorgeous, or finely-dressed. It didn’t matter. They looked at one another like they were the only ones in the whole wide world.
Tee couldn’t look away.
Now her gaze slides up the easy line of Tom’s legs, admiring the lean strength of them – years of adventuring and climbing and honest, hard, passionate work writ in neat curves. Then, in Tom’s lap, loosely wrapped around an empty beer bottle: those knobby, dextrous-fingered hands.
They’re good hands, Tee knows. Steady and capable. At dinner, Tom held her knife with the same rough grace she brings to every movement; when she and Francis cackled, she knocked her knuckles on Francis’ broad shoulder with the ease of long practice. Even when Francis and Ms Fitzjames started up their eternal bloody arguing, those hands didn’t quaver. Tom only raised her brows, palms flat on the table, still and steady and ready to intervene.
The back of Tee’s wrist tingles with the memory of calloused fingers brushing over skin, of Tom murmuring, easy, now, lass, low and warm and careful. Not your job to make grown adults behave themselves.
Thickly, Tee swallows.
Damn. Her throat is dry. It always is after she’s failed to keep herself from crying. She ought to have some water. Must keep better hydrated, what with the smoke and the night air. It wouldn’t do for her to go back to work with a rasp in her voice, not after an entire two weeks off.
She glances up.
Tom’s looking back.
It’s an unfamiliar expression – not one of Tom’s bright, cheeky grins, nor that tired, resigned determination that settled on her so often before Francis’ sabbatical. It’s subtle and incisive, resting in the creases of Tom’s eyes; amusement, perhaps, and a question seeking an answer.
If Tee were sitting here with Francis, she’d know exactly what to do – fetch a drink, make an excuse, cast a lifeline. It would be easy. A clear problem with a simple solution. But, of course, after that utter disaster of a dinner, Francis had vanished back to her room in a furious, humiliated huff, and Tee, being strictly forbidden from working, wasn’t allowed to follow.
Tom Blanky isn’t half so easy to read, and it rankles.
They’re… friends, Tee supposes, her and Tom, or as close to friends as Tee gets these days. She likes Tom, likes her crude jokes and her unflappable confidence and her complete refusal to entertain bullshit. Hell, Tom’s one of very few people Tee allows to use her full first name. But Tee’s only known Tom properly a handful of years. How in the hell is she supposed to know what to do when Tom looks at her like that?
Tom raises one eyebrow. It’s the exact face Francis makes when she’s feeling playful, which twists something in Tee’s gut out of shape. “Finished wi’ that, then?”
Tee swallows down the feeling. Sticks on a polite smile. Reaches out, crossing the vast distance between them, to offer the blunt.
Tom chuckles and leans over and plucks it from Tee’s hand.
The fire flickers. Water laps gently at the pier. Late spring leaves rustle in chorus with the chirp and click of night bugs. Tee’s hand is empty.
Tom looks back out over the lake, where the moon paints a white-brilliant path over the rippling water. She holds the blunt between her first finger and her thumb with rakish ease, like she’s barely trying, or as if the handsome angles of her – her thick-knuckled hand, her strong arms, her freckle-tanned neck – are effortless: a part of her nature, easy as breathing. She takes a long, deep drag. Holds it in. Her grin dims, but not her pleasure; her eyes fall shut, and she blows out a smooth stream of smoke, white as steam in the firelight.
Tee’s tongue sticks to the top of her mouth.
Right, a drink.
She reaches down by her ankle for her water bottle. One side of the brushed-metal surface is cool as shadow. The other side, which she turns against her palm, is fire-warm. She pops the lid open. Takes a sip through the little silicone straw.
It’s only water and a bit of lemon juice, of course; she considered one of the fancy microbrew ales Ms Fitzjames brought to share, but couldn’t stomach it. Not after this past year. Even the smell of a good whisky, which she used to find comforting, only brings to mind antiseptic and sick and the sensation of pressing a cold cloth to sweat-hot skin.
Her gut twists again, but this time it’s a familiar lurch of old, tired guilt, the sort she’s known as long as she can remember.
There’s no room for that out here.
She takes a deep breath, then lets it go.
Damn – she’s still got to find someone to take the Glenmorangie she’d bought for Francis’ Christmas gift, back before everything spiralled out of control. She’d picked it up months in advance, of course, as is her wont, never expecting, well, any of what happened, really. It worked out in the end; she’d gone, instead, for an embarrassing, badly-knitted scarf she’d never actually intended on anyone seeing. But after what Francis did, it felt like the right thing. Warm, soft. A bit vulnerable.
Francis had opened the bag, then pulled her into a long, devastating embrace, rubbing Tee’s back as they both pretended not to cry. She smelled like a pine forest, right where the crook of her neck met her shoulder.
Her square palm fit perfectly over the back of Tee’s neck.
Tee takes a long, cool sip of lemon water. Stares into the fire.
Perhaps Dr. MacDonald would like the whisky? She’ll have to leave a message with the receptionist – Tee might be able to fit in a call on Monday morning, between her gym run and picking up the mail before work. She needs to book another appointment at the salon to fix her nails, as well. Could get that all done on the drive back to town, really, if she made an effort –
“Well?” Tom says. “You gonna ask?”
Tee blinks. Looks over.
Tom’s grinning like a fox.
Abruptly, Tee groans. “Oh, God, Tom, don’t.”
Tom, the utter bastard, cackles. “Should’ve seen your face! Like Fitzie’d slapped you from clear across the table!”
“It was not.”
“Gasping like a nun in a whorehouse! What, d’you think Frank was a virgin?”
Tee narrows her eyes; unfortunately, Tom, being made of stronger stuff than the average PA, doesn’t quail. If anything, her grin widens, gaining teeth.
Tee looks away and clicks her water bottle shut. “I’m not that stupid.”
“Naw, course, dove. Clever little thing, you are,” Tom coos. “Jus’ innocent in the ways of us big bad middle-aged sluts.”
“Inno– Christ, Tom, I’m thirty years old, I’ve fucked plenty.”
Of course, this sets Tom cackling again.
Tee scowls, then tucks her water under her chair and tugs at the cuffs of her hoodie, slipping them down over her palms.
She hasn’t worn the bloody thing since uni, but it was the closest she had to the “tatty old jumper” Jamie Ross insisted she pack. Tee rather wishes she’d bought something new; the soft, baggy warmth of this old hoodie makes her feel small and young and vulnerable, like a teenager all the way back in London. It doesn’t help that she’s in one of her old skirts, too – ankle-length, light, billowy fabric in a faded floral print. It used to be her mum’s.
“Bloody odd, that.” Tom’s watching Tee again. Her lips purse at bit at the corners like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle, expression oddly soft.
“What is?”
“You’re young.”
“Not that young.”
The look softens into a wry smile. “Young enough.”
A silence; the fire crackles.
Tom shifts up and forward in her chair. “Y’know, my Essie’s eldest has a year or so on you.”
Tom always says Esther’s name like that: my Essie. Tee used to think it dreadfully romantic. She’d tried it out, once or twice, before she gave up on dating entirely; it never felt right in her mouth. It works in the bedroom, in a pinch, but Tee’s been careful never to use it more than once, and never with clothes on. It must feel strange, that sort of belonging. Intense. The thought makes Tee’s stomach squirm.
“Old enough to be my mother, the both of you, yes,” she says, dry. “I am well aware.”
Tom waves a hand, never-you-mind. “I forget sometimes, is all. You in your little suits, poshing up your accent, fussing over Frank like a broody hen…”
Whatever face Tee makes at that, Tom must find it funny; she bursts out into a bright, sharp cackle.
“There she is! Jaysus, lass. Y’know, you had me worried there, all quiet and sweet like that. ‘Bout to call Jamie, send out f’r a search party.”
Despite herself, a smile creeps up Tee’s cheeks. Her high’s settled in – nothing intense, just an easy, simple lightness in her body, and a sense that her thoughts are just a bit more syrup-slow than usual. It’s nice. Like muscles have relaxed she didn’t know were tense.
She sighs, deep and heavy, and sinks back into her chair. “Fuck right off, Tom. We’re on vacation. It’s supposed to be” – she waves a hand vaguely through the air – “relaxing. Quiet, in the woods, with nature, or something.”
Tom’s head tips to the side, and she gives Tee an appraising once-over. “S’good to see you softened up. Suits you, letting go a bit.” Her grin sharpens. “You’ve a lovely smile, my duck.”
“Flirt.”
“Been accused of it a time or two, aye,” Tom agrees, cheerfully.
The fluting call of a loon echoes over the lake, and the wind rises for a moment, rustling softly through the maples.
It’s… hard, letting go. Tee’s not the sort for it. But it’s been a hell of a year, and no matter how she protested, she did need the break, badly. It took months for her to crack – weeks of badgering from Tom and Francis and even Jamie Ross herself, wheedling and prodding her to take some of her accrued vacation. In the end, Jamie’s wife Ann had called her personally with an invite out to their property up north.
You’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders, dear, she’d said, soft and sweet and patient. It’ll still be there when you get back, I promise.
You don’t know that, Tee had almost shouted back. You can’t be sure. You don’t know this job, and you don’t know my family.
She’d packed that night.
Tom taps the ash off the blunt and onto the flagstones, then takes another deep, indulgent drag. “Never answered my question,” she says. “You asking, or not?”
White smoke plumes out from between her lips. Tee’s ears go hot. “It’s none of my business who Francis spends her time with.”
“T’is, a bit, what with you bein’ one of us accused, and all.”
(Ms Fitzjames’ voice echoes in Tee’s memory, bitter and furious: How is it I’m the only one at this table you haven’t fucked?)
“You’re well aware I’ve never slept with her,” Tee says crisply. “I’ve no idea where Ms Fitzjames even got the idea.”
At that, Tom throws her head back and cackles.
When she shows no sign of stopping, Tee flips her off, then grabs her bottle to take another moody sip, staring at the rising sparks of the fire.
Wiping at her eyes, Tom gives a long, wheezing chuckle. “Lord above, lass, the things you say. You know Fitzie was three-quarters right, aye?”
Tee chokes a little. “What do you,” she starts, then coughs, dizzy. “You’re not saying – all of you?”
It makes sense, to a point – Tee’s not stupid, and it’s obvious that Francis and Jamie have some sort of intimate history. A fling during their shared university years, at least. A dozen little clues click together in Tee’s memory: how Francis brightens when Tee brings her a call from the Rosses, the way Francis and Jamie shove and roughhouse and argue and give each other a thousand casual touches about the waist and arms and face Tee could never dream of granting, let alone receiving.
But Ann, too?
Tee’s head suddenly fills with the image of it – Francis, pockmarks and freckles and blunt, beautiful hands, kissing up the long, pale line of Ann’s throat, fist caught in Ann’s dark curls, maybe even as Jamie, with her strong shoulders and bright smile and that gleaming mop of red hair, leans up behind, pressing Ann’s delicate, lovely body between them –
And –
Tee snaps her water bottle shut, turning. “Tom Blanky, you are a bloody liar. You have not slept with Francis.”
A peal of laughter, rough and delighted; Tom leans in, elbow on the arm of her chair. The fire sets her eyes gleaming. “Cross my heart. Was a while back, though, long afore you popped up. ‘Fore I met Essie, even.” She grins, all teeth. “You ever seen Frankie Crozier blush?”
Tee’s heart does something funny in her chest. She’s seen Francis flushed, yes – from drink, from rage, from shame. But properly blushing?
“S’a lovely sight,” Tom continues. She keeps her sharp, delighted gaze on Tee. “All pink, right at the top of ‘er cheeks, like a china doll. Would drive me mad, that blush. Wanted to lick it off her like sweet cream.”
Tee swallows. Pictures it, quite against her own judgement. “She’s hardly your type.”
“Come, now, she’s a peach when you get at her jus’ right.” Tom licks at her bottom lip, chasing it with her teeth. “Butch as anything, sure – had ‘er hair buzzed an’ all, back then, were playin’ around with pronouns and the like. Before all that shite with Sophie. Was mad as a cat in heat, our Frank, chasing anything w’two legs an’ an attitude. Needed reining in.” She winks. “I like a challenge.”
Without meaning to, Tee giggles. It’s high-pitched and embarrassing, the kind of noise she never lets herself make, even alone. “Laying it on a bit thick,” she says.
Tom grins. “What can I say? Love to see a pretty girl smile.”
If Tom were close enough, Tee would smack her on the arm. Instead, she shakes her head and turns back to the fire. Her cheeks ache from smiling. “Is that your type, then?” she murmurs. “A challenge?”
“S’pose.” Tom hums, low and pleased. “I like a lass with summat to prove, who thinks she knows just what she likes. Like to show ‘em what they didn’t know they wanted.”
Tee’s pulse flutters in her throat. She runs her tongue over her top lip. It feels a bit too big in her mouth. “So, with Francis…”
“Showed her a few things, aye.”
Tee doesn’t reply right away, half-afraid of what might come out. She runs the tips of her fingers over the lid of her bottle, tracing the little circle of the logo. Faintly, she tries: “Things like…?”
Tom makes a showy so-so sort of noise. “’M not one to kiss and tell, mind, but I’ve a history taking bossy types and teaching ‘em just how nice it is to leave all that at the door. Let someone else take charge for a while.”
Jesus Christ.
“And you?”
A moment; Tee glances over, and Tom’s got the look of a cat eyeing an unwitting bird. “Me, what?”
“What’s your type, then?”
Tee forces her brain away from a sudden rush of lurid images – a hungry smirk, weathered hands, charmingly gapped teeth. “Not sure.”
“Thought you said you’d fucked plenty.”
“I have, believe me.”
“Then…?”
“All sorts,” Tee says, after a moment. It’s easier than saying anyone who wants a go, anyway. “A pretty woman wants fucked – I show her a good time.”
“And that’s what you want?”
“It’s what I do.”
Tom tilts her head, gaze sharpening, and Tee’s stomach flips. “Not what I asked, pet.”
Pet. Jesus. Tee nearly giggles again.
It’s strange, being flirted with. Flattering, yes, but strange. She gets plenty of attention at bars and clubs, even on the street, but she’s grown used to tuning it out; most of the time they’re not even flirting with her, only her costume. Out here in the middle of nowhere, she’s a shapeless pile of skirt and hoodie, fringe grown out too long, no concealer over her dark circles. Her feet are bare, no pumps to shape her legs or add that intimidating click to her walk. Her defences are down. Her mask is off. She’s not Miss Jopson; she’s just herself.
It’s terrifying.
She kind of likes it.
Carefully, she allows herself a small smile. “What is it I want, then?”
“I think,” Tom says, slow, drawing out the words like warm honey, “you’ve been working too hard. Running after Frank all bloody day, fixing her messes, then heading home just to find someone else to look after… Now, you’re a sweet lass, Tiff. Course you are. But y’been running yourself ragged, ‘aven’t you?” She taps her thumb thoughtfully right on the curve of her lip; her eyes glimmer. “Might do good, lettin’ someone else do the looking after for once.”
“And you’re offering?”
Tom grins, lopsided and handsome as anything. “Yeah. I’m offering.”
Something hot and unfamiliar rolls up Tee’s spine – a shiver of nerves and raw, fascinated interest. Tom’s proper staring, now, appreciative, taking in Tee’s chipping manicure, the bags under her eyes, the mess of her ponytail, all with a heat that makes Tee want to duck her head as much as spread her legs.
“C’n tell me to fuck off, mind, no harm, no foul,” Tom adds. “But you are a right gorgeous little thing, Tiff. An’ Lord, it’s been a blue moon or two since I had a lass like you all to myself.”
“You in the habit of seducing pretty girls, then?”
The grin spreads over Tom’s face, cheeky and earnest, baring her teeth. “Only the clever ones.”
Tee laughs, honest, startled, and it rolls through her in a wave – first, the punch of surprise, then the sudden flush of flattery, then a strange, shaky relief, like the calm that comes at the edge of a diving board when you know you’re going to jump. They’re doing this. She’s doing this. “Jesus Christ, you’re a menace,” she manages.
“Wrong Jew, but I’ll take the compliment.”
“Tom,” Tee cackles. “You utter bastard. I cannot believe you.”
Tom beams, pleased as punch. She lights up the last of the blunt as Tee tries to hold back her giggles; the evening wind stirs the silvering brown of her hair, and the firelight only sharpens the striking angles of her jaw, her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose. White smoke plumes from her nostrils and between her shining teeth.
Cheeks aching, heart racing, Tee wants.
“Bit left on this,” Tom murmurs, gaze lingering on Tee’s lips. “C’mon over ‘ere. We can share.”
Tee feels the grain of wood under her hands, the cool air on her face, the bareness of her feet. She feels light. She feels like herself, for the first time in longer than she cares to remember. Her eyes catch on Tom’s hand where it holds the blunt, on the neatness of Tom’s nails and the steadiness of her hold.
Next thing Tee knows, she’s pulling herself up out of her chair.
The flagstones are night-cool under her feet. The breeze seeps through the thin, gauzy fabric of her skirt as it brushes her ankles. One step. Two.
Tom’s watching her carefully. She’s still smiling, but it’s softer, and Tee can see the iron underneath – that focussed attention that makes Tee feel… caught. Examined. Seen. Like a rabbit in front of a hawk. A long, heady shiver crawls up Tee’s spine.
Fire to her back, she draws to a stop between Tom Blanky’s knees.
Tom bites at the side of her lip. Her eyes caress up and down the length of Tee’s body, over her wrists and waist and bare, vulnerable throat. Then, pleased, she raises that familiar eyebrow, and –
Oh, fuck.
Pats at her lap.
“Siddown an’ stay a while, ey?” Tom grins. “Take a load off.”
Tee can barely hear her through the pounding of her heartbeat. She blinks. Gawps unattractively. She’s hot all over, ill-fitting in her skin. She can’t look away from Tom’s hand where it rests on the lean, strong stretch of Tom’s thighs. “M’ bigger than you,” Tee says.
Tom only chuckles, which is fair; if an entire bear attack couldn’t kill her, Tee’s weight on her lap will hardly finish the job.
Lightheaded, Tee sets one knee on the chair, on the outside of Tom’s thigh. The seat is low enough Tee has to lean over, brace her hands on the broad fanned-out back of it, over Tom’s shoulders; Tom looks up at her, pupils wide and eyelids heavy, deep, warm smile lines bracketing her parted lips. She brushes her knuckles along the inside of Tee’s thigh, slow and deliberate.
Tee blows out a shaky breath. Leans on her shin.
Climbs into Tom’s lap.
“There she is,” Tom murmurs, soft and warm, laying her hand on Tee’s leg.
Tee’s stomach flips. Tom’s palm is hot through the fabric of her skirt, as warm as fever on the cool of Tee’s skin, and it’s been a long, long time since she’s let anyone touch her. “If I’m – squishing you, or anything,” she tries, but the words vanish as Tom rubs a thumb in soft circles over the inside of her thigh.
“Sweet as sugar, aren’t you, duck. I’ll be alright,” grins Tom. “An’ if I’m not, you’ll be the first t’know, yeah?”
Tee makes herself nod. Doesn’t let out the humiliating little noise that’s fighting to slip out from between her teeth. She can feel the idle movement of Tom’s thumb through her whole body, the shift of Tom’s legs under her thighs, the barely-there tickle of Tom’s breath on her skin.
Then: a hand in front of her, carefully holding the end of the blunt toward her lips.
Her cheeks go hot, but she doesn’t falter. She leans in. Lets her lips press to Tom’s fingers. Takes a hit.
Tom grips her thigh.
She pulls back, and tips her head up to exhale. She can’t look at Tom. Can’t bear it. She can feel Tom staring; a part of her wants to curl up and hide, but the rest bubbles over in giddy nerves. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Tom take a final hit, then expertly flick the roach into the fire.
Before Tee can turn to follow the smoldering arc of it, there’s a steady palm on her cheek, turning her in and guiding her gently down toward Tom’s lips.
A murmur: “C’mere, lovely.”
Oh, Tee thinks, lightheaded. Well, then.
Her eyes slip closed, and her mouth falls open. She can feel the heat of Tom’s skin. The tip of her nose nudges against the bridge of Tom’s, then the side. Tom steers her true, easy and soft, and – oh, she feels it, a shift of muscle under her as Tom’s lips part. Warm, thick, herbal-sweet smoke fills her mouth, and she breathes it in, lets it fill her, heat her from the inside out.
She holds it for a moment. Keeps her eyes shut. Then, in a rush of dizzy air, she lets it go.
Tom runs the pad of her thumb over Tee’s cheek, up by her temple. “’Aven’t done that in a while,” she chuckles, low and rumbling.
“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Tee says faintly.
Carefully, Tom tips Tee’s head to one side, then the other. That warm thumb runs down the side of Tee’s nose. Rests for a moment in the neat divot above Tee’s mouth. Then, gently, it catches on her lower lip.
Tee lets her jaw slacken. Lets Tom open her mouth.
Tom tucks the tip of her thumb between Tee’s lips, and gives a rumbling, indulgent groan. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
Tee blinks. Opens her eyes, finally, to see Tom staring, hungry, at her open mouth.
It’s. Certainly a look. Tee’s come over all breathless, like some dizzy little girl or something, half curious, half excited, all caught. She’s suddenly very aware of her shins pressed to wood, Tom’s palm hot on her thigh, and – ha – how she’s clinging to the back of the chair like she’ll float away if she lets go.
Tom lets out a deep, dirty chuckle. Drags her thumb down over Tee’s lip, her chin, her hoodie. Warm and easy, she plants both hands on Tee’s thighs, stroking up and down. “Always with those bloody pencil skirts,” she murmurs. “Makes a fella wonder what’s underneath.”
“Been thinking about my legs, have you?”
A fond huff. “Got eyes, ‘aven’t I?”
Fabric shifts; Tom takes the loose drape of Tee’s skirt in one hand and lifts it up, and up, and up, baring her knees.
Tee’s heart jumps.
It’s the first time in years she hadn’t bothered with nylons under a skirt, and – God, the unfiltered feeling of skin on skin – she’d thought – well, Tee isn’t sure what she’d thought, but she never expected this electric, overwhelming sensation, thoughts crowded out of her head by sheer touch.
Tom’s hand is so bloody warm on her skin, sliding higher, steady and strong and careful. Pushing up, thumb brushing in soothing arcs across the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh, higher, closer.
Close enough to catch the very edge of Tee’s sensible panties, where she hasn’t let another hand roam in years.
“There you are,” Tom says.
A horrible little whimper slips out of Tee’s throat. She’s high, over-sensitive, shivering – her back is hot from the fire, every part of her flushed with need and halfway terrified. She’s not in charge.
She has no idea what’s going to happen next.
Tom stills. “Breathe, lovey. Jus’ me, ey?”
Heart hammering, Tee nods. “It’s – I’m fine, I only – it’s. It’s good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tee says. She takes a breath, then another. Pries her fingers off the chair-back. Relaxes her shoulders – they’ve been creeping up around her ears. Tom’s safe. She’s safe. She trusts Tom, as much as she trusts anyone. More, even.
She leans in. Presses her forehead to Tom’s. Rubs their noses together, just a bit, because she has the urge to, and it makes Tom chuckle again, which lights up something pleased and new and vulnerable in her brain she hadn’t thought was there.
From this close, past the smoke from the fire and the green-herbal scent of cannabis, she can smell Tom. A bit of men’s deodorant, a hint of laundry soap. Tom’s hair is all fresh air, with an edge of the soft oat-sweet smell of that expensive shower set Ms Fitzjames gave to everyone last December – the one Francis told Tee to take home because she’d never use it, that Tee hadn’t had the willpower to even open, yet, because she looked up the price and nearly started laughing at the absurdity of it, at the number of meals you could buy for just an unused bottle of shampoo, because it felt like if she used something that fancy just for her damned hair she may as well be committing some cardinal sin –
“You smell good,” she blurts out.
Another laugh that she feels in her whole body. “Lord. What a treasure you are.”
Tee goes hot right to the tips of her ears. Before she knows it, she’s pressed her hips down, forward, into the teasing brush of Tom’s thumb.
“Oh, fuck. That’s it,” Tom groans. “That’s my girl.” She presses a bit harder, and Tee squirms, legs falling open enough to let Tom’s hand all the way up between them.
It’s – good. It’s so good. Tee bites back a humiliating whimper, slumping over into Tom’s arms. The barest touch sends a pulse of pleasure through her whole body, a coil of molten heat right under her clit that radiates out in lightning bursts.
Tom wraps her free arm around Tee’s waist, pulling her in close, steadying her. Comforting her. “I have you, lass,” she says. “Go on, let go.”
A knobby knuckle strokes up the line of Tee’s cunt.
Tee shudders, hard, at the rising roll of feeling. Tom doesn’t let up, just keeps petting at the fabric of her pants, idle and indulgent; Tee whines, low and quiet.
“Needed it, didn’t you, love,” Tom grins.
Tee ducks her head into Tom’s shoulder and nods.
Tom rubs a soothing circle on her back, then presses a bit harder. Tee rocks into the pressure, chasing the pleasure; it twists, tight and perfect, in her belly, and she moans.
Tom pulls her close. Kisses the top of her head, on her hair. “Usually you with the nimble fingers, yeah? Taking a pretty girl apart?”
Tee nods into Tom’s neck, breath coming quicker. Yes, sir sits at the tip of her tongue like she hasn’t spent the last three years being sir to dozens of girls of her own, like she’s ever trusted anyone enough to let them take control that way.
“Mm, thought so,” Tom hums. She nudges her finger lower, knuckle prodding carefully right at Tee’s entrance. “Given every girl you’ve seen to the best bloody climax of their lives, I bet. Never let ‘em touch you back, though, ey? Never let ‘em make you come.”
Rolling down onto that too-shallow press, Tee tries to curse, but it comes out a warbling, strained whine. She’s right, Tom’s fucking right, Tee never lets anyone near her, and she’s never let herself think about it too hard, always so caught up in the game of it, and now she’s here and whimpering and Jesus Christ she’s never wanted to be filled up so badly in her life.
Tom draws back, and Tee can’t help it – she tries to follow, breath hitching. Tom gives her thigh a gentle pat. “Oh, you sweet little thing, don’t you worry, it’s just for a moment – here, lift up, g’won.”
Tee lifts a bit, just enough for Tom to – to ruck Tee’s skirt up all the way, draping it up around Tee’s hips, exposing her legs to the night air and to Tom’s own hungry gaze.
Tom’s brows draw together, pained. “Bloody hell,” she groans, and slides her palms up Tee’s thighs, kneading at Tee’s vulnerable flesh. “Those pretty little panties. Christ.”
They’re just Tee’s normal pants, not even the nice ones, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Tom can’t take her eyes off them.
The feeling of it – being seen, being wanted – floods through Tee in a hot, slow wave, and she shudders, clenching down on empty nothing. Tee can’t help it; she makes a hopeless, lost little moan. The light brush of Tom’s hand, the tease of it, has her twitching; her clit throbs as she shifts, her bare skin rubbing against Tom’s soft, well-worn denim. She spreads her legs wider, as much as she can, eager for Tom’s grip, Tom’s attention, Tom’s touch.
A hiss, and Tom’s pushing her hands up further, toying with the subtle lace edge of Tee’s pants, dipping the tips of her thumbs underneath to stroke at Tee’s vulva. “Gorgeous,” she mutters, “so bloody gorgeous,” and then she’s pulling the gusset aside – carefully parting Tee’s lips to – to bare the hot, pink skin of Tee’s cunt –
Tee swallows hard. Tries not to squirm away or close her legs.
Tom chuckles, breathless. “Course you’ve got yourself all neat and trimmed. Dunno what I expected. Perfect little thing, so sweet and pretty for me, aren’t you, doll? All soaking wet for it. Gonna stain my trousers, ‘f I do my job right.”
A little laugh slips out of Tee’s chest.
“Aye, there she is,” says Tom, pleased. She gives Tee’s lips a fond stroke, then – Tee bites down on a moan of complaint – pulls back. “Lovely little thing. Come on, then. Make yourself useful.”
Oh, God. She’s gripping Tee’s hip, holding her other hand up by her crotch, fingers pointed up like a cock – like she’s wearing a harness and expects Tee to, to climb up and –
“Yeah, up here, love,” Tom rasps, warm and soft and filthy. “Siddown on my cock. Let’s give that pretty little puss a treat, ey?”
Heart hammering, Tee shuffles in a bit closer. Raises up on her knees. Pauses, just for a moment.
Tom looks like she wants to eat her whole.
Her clit throbs.
Shuddering, she reaches for her pants. Pulls the gusset aside – good God, she knew she was wet, but it’s like her fingers glide right off her skin, slick and soaked – and –
“Careful, now,” Tom soothes. “Easy does. Yeah – right bloody there. Fuck.”
Fingers. Two of them – not her own, for the first time in so long, but Tom’s capable, work-worn hands. They brush at her entrance. Slip inside – not all the way, she doesn’t think, only half, but it’s – it’s so much, she hasn’t done this in so long, she’s so full, it’s so –
“Easy there, lass. Breathe.”
Neck arching, Tee groans, broken.
Tom gasps a laugh. “Oh, good, good girl, takin’ me like that. Yeah, s’a lot, I know. You’re bein’ so good, lovey. Perfect for me.”
There’s a hand running up Tee’s side, over her tit, her neck, cupping her cheek. She leans into it. Into Tom’s steady hold. She’s breathing hard, pulse racing, need coiled spring-tight in her cunt, in her clit.
Then Tom starts to crook her fingers inside.
It’s familiar, the sensation of it – a dullish sense of movement, of stretch, the soft edgeless pleasure ratcheting higher and higher in the base of her pelvis. But it’s building fast. Faster than Tee’s used to. She makes a sound, then another, all strangled vowels and choked, meaningless pleas.
“Y’like that, ey?” Tom says. “Feel good when I fuck you?”
Tee nods. Hard.
Tom chuckles, dirty and raw and gorgeous, and speeds up. She’s doing something different, now, and in the thready half-formed thoughts Tee can manage to grasp, she recognises the steady roll of Tom’s hips, fucking up into her in deep, grinding arcs – Tee’s done this before, done it to the sort of pretty girls who look at her in bars from under their eyelashes and flush all the way to their collarbones, who begged for it, and Tee loved to watch them lose control of their expressions as she ushered them to climax – can feel herself making some stupid sort of face of her own –
Tom strokes her cheek, slides her fingers into Tee’s hair – doesn’t pull, but holds her steady in a way that makes her feel vulnerable and strange all over, like she could do anything in the whole world, collapse, fall apart, sneer and rant and cry, and Tom would just chuckle and keep her just where she ought to be, speared on Tom’s fingers with the heat of the fire at her back.
Then Tee yelps.
“Oh, shush, now,” grins Tom, all teeth. “Wouldn’t want to wake our hosts, ey?” She gives Tee another mean, circular sort of thrust, and – fuck – shoves the pad of her thumb into Tee’s mouth, barely cutting off another desperate moan. “Nah, you’re a good girl, aren’t you, lovey. Gonna stay nice and quiet for me.”
Tee can barely breathe. Heat trembles through her limbs. She’s – she can do that, she can be quiet, doesn’t want the Rosses to wake up, doesn’t want – to be seen like this, getting fucked in the yard with her panties pulled aside like she’s some sort of –
Tom makes a face, a concerned sort of squint, but within a moment it melts into a grin. “Aw, sweet thing, don’t you worry, not a one of them will see you, ey?”
Her thumb presses on Tee’s tongue, and Tee dips her head with the pressure, eyes drawn to the deep mossy hazel of Tom’s gaze.
“All for me, in’t you?” Tom purrs. “My pretty little thing.”
Tee groans, heat blooming in her thighs, in her cunt, and she squeezes hard around Tom’s questing fingers. Tom curses, fucks into her a little quicker, and – oh, God, Tee can hear it, can hear how wet she is, the humiliating sound of her arousal as Tom pulls the pleasure out of her with every stroke.
“Jeezus and all the little buggering angels – gonna make a mess of me, aren’t you, sweetheart? Yeah, look at you, all for me. So bloody gorgeous. Now arch your back, lovey. Let me see your tits.”
A shudder rolls up Tee’s spine. Something in her shrieks – it’s too much, it’s embarrassing, she’s not even in nice lingerie – but it doesn’t matter; Tom’s asking, and Tom wants her, and Tee likes it, wants it, longs for it, even as her pulse thumps hard in her throat. In for a penny, she thinks, a bit hysterical, and rolls her hips down onto Tom. Sucks hard on Tom’s thumb. Grabs at the cool, wooden arms of the chair –
Arches her back –
“Fuuuck,” Tom groans. “Lovely. Lovely, lovely little thing you are. Sucking on me, showing me just how lovely you are. Need it bad, ey? Good girl, letting me give it t’you.” She thrusts up, sharp, and Tee swallows a thready whine; Tom licks her lips, and grins. “Now, my hands are busy, aren’t they? G’won and make y’self useful, pretty. Shirt up. Show me.”
A high, choked “yessir” tumbles out of Tee’s mouth before she can pull it back, and she’s grabbing at her hoodie, at the ragged bit at the edge she meant to mend before she got here, and she’s – pulling it up.
The night air is cool on her sweaty belly, on her navel. Her ribs. Her bra is damp from perspiration, and it’s not the nicest bra she has but it’s not the worst, either, and it fits her properly, and as she tugs the hem of her hoodie all the way up to her collarbone, baring her breasts, she feels – lightheaded. Terrified. Daring, almost.
Tom misses a beat. Stares, mouth slack.
Then, with visible effort, she pulls herself back together, giving her a firm, harsh thrust. “Yeah, jus’ like that. Fuckin’ hell. Good lass, aren’t you, proper respectful, all done up in pretty lace even out here. Like a pretty little present jus’ for me.”
She slips her thumb from Tee’s mouth. Trails it down over the bundle of her hoodie and to her breast – ducks it inside the lace edge of Tee’s bra – rubs the still-wet pad of it over Tee’s nipple –
Tee throws her head back and moans.
“Fuckin’ – Christ, love that, don’t you, good fucking God, leave it on,” Tom says, words stumbling over themselves. “Leave it, dove, get your tits out the top, jus’ pull em out, let me see ‘em –”
Tee fumbles, almost losing her balance, but manages not to fall forward into Tom’s face; she pulls one breast out of the bra cup, over the edge, then the other. She wasn’t paying attention to them before, can feel, now, that when she rocks down onto Tom they’re swaying and bouncing, her nipples hard and obvious. She wants to touch them. Wants to pull on them, tug and twist the way she does those rare nights she has the patience to get herself off, because –
She’s close.
Oh, wow.
She’s never come with someone else like this. It always took too long, or she got annoyed, or got in her head about it – faked it once or twice before deciding she’d not bother even trying – but now she’s wetter than she’s ever been, skirt rucked up to her waist, jumper up halfway ‘round her neck, tits out, riding Tom Blanky’s hand like a champion slag and not the person she’s pretended to be for the last decade of her bloody life. She’ll be humiliated in the morning, but right now it’s good. So good. Deliriously fucking good.
“Perfect,” Tom growls, hot and low and long, and takes Tee’s breast in hand. Gives it a long, indulgent grope. “God, you brilliant little thing. You just wait until I get my mouth on you. I’ll have you screaming my name so’s everyone will hear for miles.”
Tee can’t think. Can’t breathe. Tom rubs a hot circle around her nipple, slow and lazy against the steady grinding rhythm of her hand inside. Tee whimpers. Grabs for the armrests. Arches into the touch, pushing her breasts out further, desperate for Tom’s touch, Tom’s eyes, Tom’s heat and attention and delight. She’s wound tight, creeping close to the edge. She can feel climax building in her fucking toes.
“Like it, don’t you. Love it. Love it when I fuck you right, ey, love? Love fuckin’ yourself on my hand?”
A frantic nod.
“Greedy girl, Miss Jopson,” Tom purrs. “’Aven’t e’en laid a finger on your clit, now, have I? D’you think I’ll have to? Might not, wi’ how you’re squirming about.”
“Please?” It’s the only word she can think of, the only thing she can catch as her brain drowns in a rising tide of brilliant, desperate need.
“Aw, sweet lass. Can’t say no to you, can I.”
A mean tug to her nipple, and Tee yelps. Falls forward, barely catching herself on Tom’s shoulders –
Tom’s breath, then Tom’s lips, then Tom’s teeth catch the inside of her breast, a mess of kisses and bites and licks that merge and multiply, and Tee has to slap a palm against her mouth to keep from shouting.
She never – no one ever touches her breasts, she doesn’t let them – she’d forgotten how good it feels. Caught between pain and pleasure, she tries to push away and push into the feeling at once, warbling out a strangled moan.
Tom laughs into her skin. Gives Tee’s arse a friendly grope. Then she digs her fingers into soft skin and muscle and starts to haul at Tee’s hips, up and down, fucking Tee onto her eager hand.
Tee’s clit throbs. Her cunt squeezes. She’s gasping, panting, whining – her thighs shake, pleasure shuddering white-hot through her with every move. Tom fucks her, and fucks her, and fucks her, and it’s so much – too much – it’s good, it feels so good, intense to the point tears start to prickle in her eyes. Tom’s nails dig into her hip. She can feel every inch of herself, the sweat and the heat and the cool night air, the ache building in her muscles, the stretch of Tom inside her starting to sting. She’s so close. God, she’s so fucking close. She needs –
“Please,” she’s saying. “Please, please, please-please-please!”
“Christ,” Tom hisses. She’s winded, choked. “Go on, let it out. Pretty thing. Good girl, takin’ me so well. Jus’ – needed a firm hand, aye? Someone to take care of you, make you feel good – oh, perfect, bloody perfect.”
Tom’s thumb finally, finally slides into position against Tee’s clit.
A sound rips out of Tee like she’s been punched.
The pleasure winding endless-tight inside catches, finally – narrows to a point, sharp and brilliant, rushing in toward her hard and fucking fast. She’s lost her rhythm. She’s shaking. She jerks into Tom’s touch, all instinct, all feeling.
“What d’you say, then?” Tom purrs.
Words spill out, uncontrollable – whimpering, high-pitched, desperate gasps. “Thank you, oh, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou–”
“Thank you, what?”
Tee chokes. “Thankyousir!”
“That’s a lass,” Tom says, then, with all the indulgence of an uncle offering a forbidden sweet, adds, “Go on, then. Come.”
Two, three, four more frantic, writhing thrusts –
Tee jolts. Hunches forward, mouth agape. Shudders blindly into Tom’s shoulder. She’s making sounds, clenching hard on Tom’s fingers, jerking her hips, too much and not enough, everything bursting all at once. She’s coming, coming so fucking hard, and she doesn’t know if she’s ever come like this, not with someone else, not with a hand on her, inside her, never like this, didn’t know she could, didn’t know she was even capable of feeling this much. The pleasure crests and crests and crests, waves of sensation, electric-shock bursts from her clit to her guts to her everything –
Tom groans. Curses into Tee’s neck, rough and hot. “There’s a lass. There you go. Easy, now. Yeah, good girl, so good.”
It wracks through her. She pants. Trembles. Clutches, rhythmic, around Tom’s fingers.
The world comes back in pieces: sweat cooling in the breeze, the heat of the fire on her back, the smell of Tom’s skin.
“There y’are, sweet girl,” Tom rasps. She gives Tee’s arse a squeeze, then strokes down Tee’s shaking thigh. “Now you stay right fucking there, lovey, don’t you move.”
All at once, Tom’s fingers slip out of her.
Before Tee can do more than gasp, they’re shoving, wet, into her mouth, and Tom growls, “Clean ‘em off.”
Tee’s – floating. Tingling. Tom tastes like her come, like cunt and salt and sweat. It’s good. So good. Tee moans, quietly, and closes her lips over Tom’s knuckles, licking and sucking as best she can while her body still fizzes from climax.
There’s a rustle; Tom fumbles with the button of her jeans.
Tee blinks. Reaches out to help. It’s easy enough; she gets Tom’s flies open with a few economical moves.
Tom laughs, breathy and hungry. “Good – good girl, bloody buggering fuck.” She shoves into Tee’s mouth a little deeper. Fucks into her. “So sweet, you are. Bloody gorgeous. All pink and wet with your tits out for me.”
Tee sucks a little harder, flushing.
A movement, down between them – Tom’s shoved her free hand down into her drawers.
She’s touching herself.
“Yeah, suck me, sweetheart,” Tom purrs, as Tee strangles back another humiliating moan. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”
Tee pulls herself up straight, as best she can; she’s still shaky, like she’s just stumbled off a roller coaster. Pulls off Tom’s hand to kiss the pads of her fingers, then looks her in the eye to suck her back in. She almost gags – she doesn’t do this much, hasn’t had anything this deep in her mouth in years – but it’s more than worth it, with the way Tom groans.
“Oh, fuck, y’got me so bloody wet. Gonna make a mess of me, aren’t you.”
Tom’s achingly handsome, even like this. Especially like this. Sweat gleams on her breastbone, her throat, the hard line of her jaw; wisps of her hair stick to her forehead, clinging in the wrinkles where her brow’s pulled tight; her ears have flushed sweetly red. She ogles Tee, hungry, raking her dark gaze from Tee’s still-bared thighs to her tits to her lips, tight around Tom’s fingers.
Tee bobs her head, just a bit. Thrills as Tom hisses out a breath.
Then, carefully, Tom slips herself out of Tee’s mouth, sliding wet fingers down Tee’s chin. “D’you wanna make me come, sweet thing?”
Oh.
She didn’t think – didn’t even imagine Tom might like that, might want to do more than play with her. Might want her to touch back.
Half-dazed, suddenly desperate, Tee nods. Hard.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Tom growls. “Gimme your hand.”
Tee clumsily tries to stuff her hand down Tom’s jeans, next to Tom’s own fingers. It’s an odd angle, and Tee has to twist a bit to fit, but Tee’s fucked all sorts of girls in all sorts of outfits and it’s hardly the tightest place she’s stuck her hand; she leans a bit to the side, cups her palm around the sudden damp heat where Tom’s touching her clit.
“Yeah – there, jus’ there,” says Tom, panting. “Two fingers. Inside. Leave ‘em still.”
Tom is – so fucking wet. Her hair is slicked down with it, wiry under Tee’s fingertips. Tee doesn’t try to look, just feels her way best she can, stroking along Tom’s slick, molten lips, down, a bit further –
Heat. Heat, and wet, and muscle, clutching tight.
Tee presses inside. Two fingers, just like Tom asked, side by side – slipping past the rim of her and finding that tight, textured, perfect place within.
Tom moans. Throws her head back. Rocks her hips, pressing Tee a bit further inside. “That’s it,” she gasps, “thassit, right there, you jus’ stay right there.” She rubs at herself, fast, practiced and rough. “Keep your – keep your tits, out, let me see ‘em.”
Another wave of heat rolls over Tee’s skin. She sits up straighter. Presses her chest out a little more. Bites at her lip – she never does that, but she wants to, right now, wants to show Tom just how good she can be, how pretty, how sweet, wants to make Tom happy, wants to make Tom come.
Tom growls, or sighs, or purrs – some great, hot, shivering sound Tee feels in her fingers – and then Tom’s got her free hand on Tee’s tit, groping hard, massaging at the flesh where it spills out over Tee’s pulled-down bra, and it hurts a bit in a way that feels good, and Tee whines, and Tom curses, and.
Oh –
Under her –
Tom goes stiff. Snarls. Rocks up once, twice, again. Clenches hard on Tee’s fingers. Jerks her hips. Lets out a hot, punched-out grunt.
Then slowly, slowly releases. Boneless. Easy.
The hand on Tee’s tit slides, softly, down to her waist.
“Fucking fuck,” Tom pants. “Oh, buggering Christ, you lovely, lovely thing.”
Carefully, Tee pulls her hand out of Tom’s jeans. Her hand is soaked halfway up her palm. Unthinking, she pops it in her mouth.
A groan, turning into a laugh – Tom wipes her own hand off on her leg, then hauls Tee in closer, arms about her waist. “Oy. Can’t just go licking up a strange fella’s come, y’dunno where I’ve been.”
Tee lets her. It feels good, curling up against Tom’s chest. A bit floaty. A bit like she’s swimming through honey, thick and sweet. She tucks her head back into Tom’s shoulder, like a little kid. “Not a stranger,” she murmurs, quietly.
There’s a silence, then. The lake washes gently on the shore; the fire crackles. Tom’s heartbeat thumps under Tee’s ear.
“Got half a mind to take you home with me,” Tom murmurs, rough and wrung out. “Essie’d love a sweet little treat like you.”
For a moment, Tee considers it: stretched out on a proper mattress, Tom all lean muscle on one side, Essie all soft curves on the other. The smell of laundry soap and home-cooked meals. A room with pictures on the walls that didn’t come with their frames. “Sounds nice,” she mumbles.
“Mhm,” says Tom. She gives Tee a little squeeze. “Be a love and give us a kiss, now, ey.”
Tee blinks, then lifts her head. They’re close together, a bit too close to focus, but she can tell Tom’s watching. “Oh. I – Alright.”
A huff. “Well, don’t let me twist your arm about it.”
Tee makes a face, which, thankfully, gets her a soft, breathy laugh. She leans up.
Lips press to lips. Easy. Simple.
Something flutters a bit under Tee’s breastbone.
She yawns.
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry, I…”
Tom chuckles. “Naw, don’t you worry a bit. Mark of pride, ey. Wore you right out.” She snickers when Tee gives her a gentle, chiding tap on the arm. “Been a long day, though, yeah? Ha. Long bloody year.”
Tee can’t think of an answer to that that doesn’t make her want to cry a bit, so she just nods into Tom’s neck.
“Oh, Tiff, my sweet girl,” Tom murmurs. “You’ll be alright.” She presses a soft kiss to Tee’s hair. “We’ll take proper care of you. Just give it some time.”
“Alright,” says Tee. It comes out a bit wobbly.
Tom’s arms tighten around her, a warm, solid embrace, and Tee lays her head back down on Tom’s chest, lulled by the steady beat of her heart.
(When Tee opens her eyes, it’s morning, and she’s laid carefully on the sunroom couch, draped in a soft blanket, her head pillowed on Tom’s flannel.)