In those moments, the choke of the world felt too much for her. Sam sat up in her desk chair and stared out the window, trying to find something, anything to focus on. Centring. Grounding. That’s what she needed. A second to forget how many hours she’d already been sat here, aching fingers clacking on the keyboard in a non-stop whirl. In her line of eye, she spotted a familiar big ball of black and white fuzz gently treading the sidewalk – Mr. Jankiewicz’s new cat, exploring the neighbourhood. Good enough.
Sam’s gaze followed the cat, while trying to regulate her breathing. She hadn’t realised how close she’d been to hyperventilating until she’d stopped to notice her own body. In a way, it was kind of shocking how she tended to not do that. It was more than not taking out time to stop and smell the roses – this was like ignoring an entire field of flowers even though you were standing in the middle of it. But when the world and your brain made that much noise at you on a daily basis, your body’s cries tended to be drowned out.
Relax. Take a break. Nap. Walk. Drink, eat, sleep. Come. Come. Come. Oh god. When was the last time she’d listened to that one? Sam sat back, her desk chair’s stubborn wheels straggly against the carpet, trying to remember. Was it last week? Two weeks ago? Two months ago? Years, even? Had she, in fact, imagined her whole sex life like some kind of extended fever dream?
She stood, the dark grey fuzz covering her bedroom-slash-office caressing her bare feet as she paced the length of what was actually a fairly large room. A large room. Large room, large airy room with windows and a door and my bed and things that are safe and good. Large room.
As she walked up and down the room, taking comfort in familiarity, she chanted those words to herself over and over again. On days like this, when her fingers and mind seemed to want to outrun Olympic athletes, it was good to remind herself this office wasn’t a locked box.
Oh god, when did she last come?
Sam froze to a halt in the middle of the room, face contorted as she tried desperately to remember. Sex had been, it was safe to say, not a particular priority of hers as of late. It wasn’t just work that had kept her from play – it was the havoc it played with her body and her mind. She rotated her aching wrists, as if she could magically will the arthritis to just cut it the fuck out for a bit and let her get on with things.
Hugo. She could call Hugo, see if he was up for a bit of fun.
No. He was probably sat on his own desk chair, suited and booted in his Shoreditch office and not particularly up for… well, her and their complicated tangle. Not while at work, anyway. Nevertheless, her body’s message was becoming ever clearer to her, as she couldn’t help thinking back to one of those times where their tangle hadn’t mattered.
“I bet I can make you come without using my hands.”
They lay side by side, him propped up on his elbows. Those baby blues of his had glinted with mischief as he let his hands drift across her body’s curves. That August afternoon was hot and pressing and swollen with promises – in the living room of his pokey flat, with curtains drawn and blankets spread out on his floor, she’d once again given in to her need for the taste of him. The both of them were already a mess of come, sticky on both her mouth and the patch of dark fuzz around his cock.
“Hmm… you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, Hugo. I mean… narrow it down a little. There’s plenty of ways.”
“How specific d’you want me to be? Would you like me to tell you that I mean that none of my fingers will touch your beautiful clit?”
He sat himself up, shuffling down and gently moving her legs apart so he was kneeling between them. Her sex-hazed brain tried to think – the obvious would have been him removing her knickers and using his tongue to fuck her much like she’d done with him. But Hugo wasn’t much one for the obvious when it came to sex.
His fingers shifted underneath the elastic of her panties, winding fabric around digits. He closed in on her, bridging the small distance between them and making her gasp as he pulled the stretch of red cotton taut enough for the friction on her clit to frazzle her senses. With deliberate, light movements, he made her curse.
“Fuck. That’s… you’re… still using… Oh god.”
“My fingers aren’t touching your vulva or your clit, Samantha. Them’s the specifics. Now…”
And then, like the cherry on top of a cupcake, he gently pressed his knee against her already heated, wet flesh.
“Fuck yourself up against me.”
“You’re… you’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Not even a little bit. I want to feel your wetness all over as you’re grinding up against me. I want these knickers to be ruined.”
In the end, it wasn’t just the memory of that one long and languid afternoon that did it. No, the thing that pushed Sam over the edge and towards her phone was the memory of sitting in a toilet cubicle in a cafe afterwards, still just a little out of breath after running all the way down Oxford Street to get to the one clothes shop still open after 9.30 at night.
I want to feel your wetness all over.
They were complicated, Hugo and Sam. They were friends, and lovers on occasion. They fought, they made up, they’d never played around with the R word but had something which seemed pretty damn close an approximation.
I want these knickers to be ruined.
How long had it been since they’d last… whatever? Talked? Texted? Had a conversation? How long since she’d last listened to her body and given into the tangle?
Too long. Them’s the specifics.
As she stood at her window, waiting for either him to pick up, or for his voice mail to kick in – whatever happened first – she caught sight of Mr. Jankiewicz’s cat again. Good. Centring. Grounding. That’s what she needed.
“Hugo. Hi. It’s Sam. I was wondering…”
Jillian Boyd is an author of erotic romance and a sex and relationships writer for hire. She can usually be found on Twitter, @JillyBoyd, and here.
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