In the Mood for Love E-Book

Harper Bliss

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 381

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

This collection contains seven of Harper Bliss’s signature novelettes. Set in locations from the US to Thailand, from Berlin to Tuscany, these stories are packed full of romance and lady love.

I STILL REMEMBER
Successful news anchor Elise returns to her hometown after running away from a love she couldn’t understand nor act upon twenty years ago. When she bumps into her old best friend Amy, the one she had to get away from, all that was left unspoken bubbles to the surface and they revisit the past in more ways than one.

A HIGHER EDUCATION
At an economics conference Gail Garvey ends up sharing a room with a teacher she had a crush on twenty years ago. They’re both professors now, and Gail’s crush has long faded, but finding herself in the same room as Professor Joanne Ferguson two nights in a row proves to be more challenging than Gail would like to believe.

A HARD DAY’S WORK
Jo fancies her straight, married boss Amanda. She’s convinced her crush is a hopeless one, until a performance review changes everything.

YOUNGER THAN YESTERDAY
Rose’s husband died seven years ago, but when she welcomes an unexpected guest in her Tuscan holiday home, she’s forced to remember what instant desire feels like. Desire for a younger woman no less.

LEARNING CURVE
Ada’s company relocated her to Berlin, provided that she’d take an intensive course in German. It proves to be a steep learning curve, until her teacher Giselle implements some alternative educational methods.

THE HONEYMOON
A sizzling novelette featuring a couple of newlyweds honeymooning in Phuket. When they encounter a mysterious Asian woman in their beach side resort, they decide to give each other a very special wedding gift.

PIANO LESSONS
Ruby is finding it hard to get over the break up with her girlfriend, but her piano teacher Jill is not having any of it. After Ruby’s lack of focus makes for another dismal lesson, Jill invites her reluctant student into the home she shares with her partner Charlotte for an afternoon of extreme relaxation, and getting over her ex.

At over 75,000 words, this collection is sure to provide some blissful reading.

Leseprobe

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE

HARPER BLISS

Contents

Special Offer from the Author

I Still Remember

A Higher Education

A Hard Day’s Work

Younger Than Yesterday

Learning Curve

The Honeymoon

Piano Lessons

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About the Author

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I Still Remember

Her hair is styled differently now, but her eyes are still the same dark-chocolate brown. They stare at me with the same amazement that buzzes through my unsuspecting bones. Amy Waters. Twenty years ago I loved her with an intensity I didn’t understand. I never told her, but looking at her now, at the way the edges of her mouth quirk up, suppressing that distinct pout I dreamed of for months on end, I realise she must have known.

“I have the name Jane Smith here in my appointment book.” Amy’s eyes quiz me. Or maybe they mock me for the dreariness of my chosen alias. I never was really good at reading her. Too much emotion in the way.

“People tend to freak out when I book under my real name.”

“And they don’t when you show up?” She bites her lip. There are many reasons why this situation could unsettle her. None can be as nerve-racking as unexpectedly standing eye-to-eye with the girl—a woman now—I silently adored in high school.

“Sure, but then at least I’m present to manage the fuss.” I look different in real life than I do on TV. Some call it dressing down, but I’m never more comfortable than in jeans and t-shirt. On the air, my face is covered in layers of make-up and the top half of my body—the only part visible—is styled down to a tee by Jake and Andrew, The Morning News with Elise Frost’s wardrobe managers. Sans make-up and in leisure wear, I hardly ever get recognised. This time it’s different though. Amy and I, we have history. And I had no way of knowing she owned The Body Spa.

“How long are you in town for?” Is that a tinge of accusation in her tone? Of course, it’s my fault we lost touch. We had laid out our plans. That’s what best friends do in high school. They think it will be the two of them forever, think that ten years down the line they’ll be bridesmaids at each other’s wedding. Only, I always knew my future didn’t hold the kind of wedding Amy started planning for herself as soon as she turned twelve.

“For the weekend. It’s dad’s sixtieth.” I shuffle my weight around as I try to identify the tumbling feeling in my stomach. So much has changed since we last saw each other a few days after our high school graduation. I barely even thought of Amy the past few years. We’re grown-ups now, and as good as strangers. Still, all that was left unsaid between us seems to rush through my mind now.

“How is Ralph?” Amy’s voice is still a well of calmness. It always was, even when she leafed through bridal magazines at the age of sixteen and dreamed out loud about marrying Brett. I wonder what happened to her dreams. Does she have the two suburb-required children? Good heavens, did she marry Brett?

I shrug off Amy’s question because I don’t want to discuss my father. This small talk seems so inappropriate, so lukewarm, so out of sync with my memories of her. “How are you, Amy?” I ask, painting on a smile.

She wears a black spaghetti strap tank top, showing off spectacular collarbones. Her dark curls are pinned up into a bun, but she always had a mane that couldn’t be tamed and a few stray ones frame her face. She looks tanned and healthy.

“Twice married, twice divorced.” She wiggles her fingers as if she’s proud of the fact they hold no rings. “You?”

I can’t help but think of Celia and how we left things back in New York. She moved out more than three months ago but the bed still feels empty without her. And didn’t I just ask Amy how she was doing? I didn’t even hint at inquiring about her marital status, but here she is, offering up the information freely, as if it sums up her entire life since we lost touch.

“My love life’s a bit of a disaster, but I can’t complain about the rest.” I smile apologetically. I don’t know why I always do that when I refer to my career and how it has skyrocketed over the last few years.

“I watch the news every morning. It was so strange at first, you know. That you were this girl I played hooky with…” She pauses for a moment. “Shared my first cigarette with.” The gentle lines on her face crinkle into a melancholic expression before she sends me a wide smile. The Amy smile. The one that always got me. “And gosh, you come across so well on the screen, Eli—” She hesitates again. “Do you still go by Eli?”

No one has called me Eli since Amy. Eli expired the day I left town—and Amy. I shake my head and grin, because I can’t help myself.

“Ahum.” A girl in white slacks who I hadn’t even noticed before clears her throat. I suspect she’s my designated massage therapist.

“If you don’t mind, Sarita,” Amy addresses her. “I’ll be taking care of Ms Smith myself.”

“Sure.” Sarita turns on her heels and leaves the reception area.

“I hope that’s all right,” Amy is quick to say.

My pulse quickens at the thought of Amy’s hands on my body. “Of course.” I give her my camera smile—the one that hides everything.

“Please, follow me.” She moves from behind the reception counter and leads me to a door on the right. As teenagers, we were always about the same height, but she seems so much taller now. She wears a pair of black linen trousers that flow around her long legs. We walk into a waiting area with low couches and soothing music. “Would you like some tea first?”

“Sure.” I nod eagerly. One part of me can’t wait to get on Amy’s massage table, but at the same time my heart hammers frantically in my chest. I watch her as she pours two cups of tea from a pot next to the kettle. Her movements are graceful and easy, just like I remember.

We’d been swimming in a small pond behind Amy’s house. It was cordoned off from their garden by a bunch of pine trees and, as the afternoon progressed, the sun dipped away behind the trees, leaving us with early evening shadows. We were wet from the water and the sky was the colour of summer: blue streaked with soft yellows and dashes of pink I never understood. The colours that would forever remind me of Amy.

It was the height of my crush on her, a few weeks before we’d leave high school forever. All my energy went into trying to keep my eyes off her as she adjusted her bathing suit while we let the last of the heat dry our skin. I tried so hard not to look at her that all I did was stare in the distance.

“What’s wrong, Eli?” Amy playfully pinched me in the side, catching me by surprise. I swathed her hand away as if it were a vile mosquito, quickly regretting my impulsive reaction. To mask the turmoil ripping me apart inside, I shot her a quick grin before rolling on top of her and pinning her arms above her head.

I stared down at her, every cell in my body tingling. Her dark eyes smiled up at me and a surge of something I couldn’t control swelled inside my gut. I closed my eyes for a second and saw what was going to happen next. I was going to lean down and kiss her. I saw myself do it on the back of my eyelids. I could almost taste her lips and smell beyond the heady mixture of sun and lotion on her skin.

When I opened my eyes, it seemed as if hours had passed, but it was still the same Amy squirming below me on the grass. It was the same pond giving away its summery sparkle to the falling darkness. Amy’s eyes were still the same mocha brown and her hair the same shock of wild curls, but I had changed. I’d never come so close and suddenly I realised it was the closest I would ever get.

“Eli?” Amy’s voice never really suited her until now. It was always the voice of a grown woman with endless legs, strong hands, and pronounced collarbones.

“Sorry. Miles away.” I take the cup of tea she hands me and, awkward as I feel, sip from it immediately. The tea is scalding hot and I burn the tip of my tongue but I don’t say anything.

Amy looks at me over the rim of her cup while she, wisely, blows on it to cool the liquid. Her eyes radiate a softness I don’t recognise. But we are different people now, even though I feel myself slipping into my teenage skin again—and adoring Amy silently. Me, of the endless chatter on TV, the never-ending banter I’ve made a career of. A few minutes with Amy and I’m sixteen again.

“Why don’t we get on with it.” She places her cup on a small table next to the chair she sits in, one leg folded over the other. She looks at me, her eyes almost watery now, and in that one glance I see it. In that instant, I realise she always knew. “I give a mean massage, even if I do say so myself.” She erases the moment with a quip and a smile and I don’t know what to think.

The words massage and Amy seem to flash in my mind in big red letters. My brain can’t process the two of them together, as if it has neatly shelved any physicality away from the memory of Amy.

This morning when I drove past The Body Spa in my rental car, it just looked like a good place to book a massage. Now, it seems to have become a feverish dream location from puberty. A throwback to a time in my life I remember fondly, but don’t revisit very often.

“Sure.” I get up and we stand shoulder to shoulder, just like years ago in gym class.

“This way.” Was that a tremble in Amy’s voice?

Our arms brush together and, despite being fully dressed, it still has an instant impact on the flow of blood in my veins.

“It’s only a massage,” I tell myself. I treat myself to one every weekend. Usually, I nod off about halfway through to wake up invigorated after. Usually, the person administering the massage is Raj, a man with golden hands whom I’m not attracted to in the slightest.

The situation is quite different today, because, no matter how I twist or turn it—no matter how many years have passed—Amy is still that dark-haired girl who walked to school with me every single day of our senior year. She’s a woman now, but twenty years ago, my heart beat in my throat every time she waited for me at the corner of the street. Emotions I deemed erased by life a long time ago, seep back inside my brain as we walk to the therapy room.

And I know what comes next. I’m a massage aficionado and, usually, I don’t even think twice about it. It’s second nature to me and massages are simply not a clothed activity.

“You can undress over there.” Amy points to a door. “You’ll find a towel. Please take everything off.”

She might as well have planted a kiss on my lips, that’s how flushed I suddenly feel.

Amy’s tone is professional though, as is her demeanour. She adjusts the volume of the music in the room. “Do you mind if I put on something a bit unconventional for a place like this?”

I shake my head as she locks her iPhone in the dock without waiting for my reply. I already know what she has in mind.

Legs shaking, I head for the locker room. I close the door and lean my head against it for a brief moment. From the other side of the wood I hear the first notes of ‘Round Here’. Amy and I listened to it endlessly the year we turned sixteen. No song could ever be more ours.

Nostalgia washes over me as I slowly undress. I scan myself in the mirror on the wall. A TV job has made me vain enough to hire a personal trainer. For all its shallowness, I take great pleasure in spotting a hint of tricep when I watch myself back on screen. I run a finger over my arm, but can’t begin to imagine what it will feel like when it will be Amy’s finger. I know that I somehow need to steel myself for what’s to come. But it’s just me and a towel in a dressing room. And a slew of ragged memories.

I wrap myself in the plush cotton of the towel. It’s wide enough to cover me from the top of my breasts to under my knees and long enough to fit snugly around my body. I take a deep breath before stepping back into the therapy room.

Amy waits for me with a big smile, Adam Duritz’s voice humming in the background. I may have dreamed of a situation like this twenty years ago—Adam’s warm voice and me about to get naked for an eager Amy—but if I did, I forced myself to forget long ago. My brain is busy taking it all in. I’m also nervous and, truth be told, quite turned-on by the sentimental strangeness of it all.

“Please, get comfortable on the table while I wash my hands.” Amy turns away from me to give me the privacy I need to settle on the table. I climb on and lie down on my belly while covering my backside with the towel. My face finds the hole at the head of the table and I try to at least pretend I’m relaxed.

My field of vision is limited to a basket of flowers on the floor below me. I can only rely on sound now.

“I prefer not to talk during a session as I feel it hinders relaxation.” Amy’s words float above my head. I’m fully aware of the nakedness of my skin and I wonder how she sees it. I wonder how this makes her feel. Her footsteps approach. She has taken off her shoes and she’s barefoot. She adjusts the towel briefly and the air that flows underneath is enough to instigate a mad pitter-patter in my chest.

Her hands are so close, almost as close as I dreamed they would be when we were teenagers.

All my memories of Amy seem to be bathed in the warm colours of summer. We’d ridden our bikes to a record store a few miles away, a CD-sized plastic bag dangling from both of our handlebars. When we arrived at our spot by the pond in her backyard, she tore the wrapper off the case. The album cover was orange, on it the title August & Everything After seemingly scribbled in handwriting. We’d only heard ‘Mr. Jones’ and ‘Round Here’ on the radio and had no idea this record would become the soundtrack to our friendship, the notes rousing nostalgia from my soul forever after.

Amy pried the in-lay from the case and unearthed a pen from her bag. Without explanation, she wrote something on the back of the booklet and handed it to me.

It read: ‘Amy + Eli Forever’.

She grabbed my copy from my hands and repeated the process, marking both our CDs with what looked like a couple’s inscription.

Maybe I should have said something then.

Amy starts the massage by lightly running her fingertips over my entire body. The motion is quick and over in a flash, but my skin breaks out in goosebumps nonetheless. I need to use all my energy to hold back a sigh. The next thing I feel is the drizzle of warm oil on my back and shoulders. She rubs it on my skin before applying any pressure. I melt into the table the way the lotion does on my skin.

Gradually, her fingers dig deeper into my flesh. Her thumbs press into the muscles surrounding my neck and I think I must be in heaven.

I love a good massage and I treat myself to one as much as I can, but this is something entirely different. I can feel my nipples poke into the soft towel covering the table already and my breath does not come with the relaxed huff-and-puff that I know from massages administered by Raj.

When we were teens, Amy and I spent the majority of our time together, but our relationship wasn’t a tactile one. Neither one of us were big on hugs and impulsive displays of affection. We expressed our friendship by always being there and nodding our heads to the drum beat of the Counting Crows. God knows what would have happened if Amy were a hugger.

Amy’s fingers wander along my spine and seem to dent my skin permanently. The difference between being touched intimately by someone you care for as opposed to someone whose hands you’ve simply come to admire is striking. Every touch of her hands on my skin—and I seem to count a hundred per second, but my brain lost processing power a while ago—releases a current of energy in my flesh. I know it’s sexual and the pureness of my first bouts of teenage lust bubbles to the surface. Nothing happened between Amy and me then, and I have no reason to assume it will now, but I am Eli again. Beneath Amy’s hands, there’s no sign of the national TV news anchor. There is only the memory of those very first seeds of longing, innocent but oh so present. Then and now.

She stretches her body over mine to reach the small of my back, an area dubbed by Raj as ‘my problem zone’. I sit in a chair most of the day. That’s how glamorous my life is.

It’s as if Amy can sense it—years of experience must have done that to her fingers—and she pushes deeper to undo the knots in my muscles. And I simply can’t help but wonder what those fingers must feel like inside. What it would do to me if they slipped. I shut down the thought as quickly as I can, because I can’t go there. Although it seems like the perfect place for it, this is no time for thoughts like that. The towel beneath me feels fairly absorbent, but I fear I may slide off in a puddle of my own wetness if I go down that route.

Her fingers knead the flesh of my back and shoulders. Up and down they roam for minutes on end and—despite myself and the feverish thoughts crashing through my brain—I’m about to reach that state of zen-like calm, of shutting off the world and just returning to myself. But then it happens. Her finger brushes against the side of my breast, which protrudes a bit as I lay on my belly.

Amy doesn’t apologise, she simply continues, but it feels as if my life has just changed considerably. As if the world has shifted and new possibilities have been born. This happens all the time during massage therapy, of course. The number of times Raj has accidentally brushed his fingers along my breast equals the number of times I haven’t cared an iota about it. But the furtive skating of Amy’s finger along my skin there feels more like a promise. An opening. Maybe a declaration.

Both of her pinkies glide along on either side now, and I never before realised how sensitive my skin is there. Maybe this is just the way she does her job. Or maybe she has a few buried emotions rising to the surface as well.

Every time her fingers dip a little too low, a flash of heat tumbles through my bones, all the way from my spine to my toes. Goosebumps have made way for hot flashes and then—oh no—an involuntary moan escapes me. I snap my mouth shut as soon as it happens, but it’s too late. I’ve given myself away. I lay there dying a little bit, my face pressed into a hole, my eyes fixed on Amy’s toes. Her nails are painted a deep red and—I may be losing my mind by now—it’s the most beautiful colour I’ve ever seen.

But Amy is a true professional and she pretends nothing happened. She must have heard though, her ears are not that far removed from my over-enthusiastic mouth and the volume of the music is high enough to make a point, but low enough to easily fade into the background when not given any attention.

She moves her field of action more to the middle of my back again, with long kneading motions of her hands. She covers a lot of ground and drags the heel of her hand all the way down to the curve of my ass, her fingers slipping briefly underneath the edge of the towel. This expansive movement also causes her belly to sweep against the top of my head every time she stretches forward, which does not help with the hot flashes I seem to be experiencing at regular intervals now. So much so, in fact, that I can’t distinguish the flashes anymore from the fire that has started simmering beneath my skin. How long can I hold off the inevitable explosion?

I never officially told Amy I’m a lesbian. She probably read about it in a gossip magazine when it went public a few years ago. Maybe this is her revenge. But we were sixteen back then, and while the knowledge of something being different was always very present within me, I hardly had a clue myself. Twenty years ago the word lesbian was not one you heard often. I knew I had a mad crush on Amy and sometimes I simply believed that it was completely normal but just not outspoken, while other times the sheer strength of my feelings for her obliterated any notion of it being different. All I knew was that I loved her and that, in the end, she could never love me the same way.

After a last soft caress of my back, Amy pads to the middle of the table. Without saying a word, she removes the towel. At first, I think she’s just adjusting it—that touching me underneath it has made it slip—but she doesn’t put it back. That’s something Raj never does.

The conditioned air of the room breezes across the skin of my buttocks and a new onslaught of lust rips through me. If this is revenge, or a test, I don’t stand a chance. But I don’t move and let Amy carry on wordlessly. Adam Duritz launches into ‘Anna Begins’ and I still know the lyrics by heart so I try to focus on those instead. They’re complicated and quick so that works for about thirty seconds, until Amy drizzles oil on the back of my thighs and then, all the way up the burning cheeks of my bum.

Whatever happened to a simple neck massage, I wonder, when her fingers hit my skin. They’re soft and warm and I melt again. But this time, after the brushing of her fingers against my breasts and the exposing of my butt, I melt differently, as if the wetness of my centre has spread throughout my body and has liquified every bone beneath my skin.

When her fingers dip a little too low the first time, I have no doubt she knows exactly what she’s doing. She still applies pressure to the muscles in my thighs, but it’s as if I can sense her focus shifting. She doesn’t pay nearly as much attention to the outside of my legs as to the inside, but every time she’s on the verge of touching me really inappropriately, she pulls back.

I can hear her inhale and exhale quickly over the music and I try to determine if this is the breath of a woman performing a massage or foreplay.

Then, just when I think I’m about to dissolve in a puddle of my own wetness, her hands move to my calves. Every single one of the cells between my belly button and my knees throbs wildly. A sensation I could probably cope with if this was a stranger venturing into the territory of a massage with a happy ending, but this is Amy Waters, the girl I wrote bad poetry for in high school. The girl who once told me that the two lone freckles on the left of my nose were the cutest thing she ever saw, after which I spent at least two sleepless nights thinking up ways to grow more.

Amy’s nails trail along my ankles, but they don’t stay there very long. Up they come again, and the closer they get to the massive erogenous zone every inch of skin within an arm’s length distance of my bum has become, the more moisture I can feel trickle out of me. Can she see? The room is dimly lit and my face—with cheeks as flushed as a blazing fire—is safely hidden in the hole of the table, but is my excitement visible to her at all?

The answer comes in the shape of her finger tracking the line where my butt becomes thigh. I know enough about massages to realise this is not standard procedure in respected establishments. When her bold finger meets the wetness spreading from between my legs, it doesn’t waver. Instead, it dives lower and lingers there, barely moving. Instinctively, I find myself spreading wider. I didn’t mean to, but if I try to close my legs now it could be perceived as disapproval and I don’t want this to stop.

Amy takes advantage of the better access I offer her and now traces the tip of her finger along my pussy lips. Up and down it goes, skimming my lips, which are swollen and soaked and ready to be parted. Has she ever even touched a woman like this?

Her fingertips continue to play with my pussy non-intrusively, almost tickling, but it’s enough to send wave after wave of smouldering heat through my blood. I’m afraid to make a noise that will break the spell she’s under. I’m afraid to face the consequences of having her stop now she’s gone this far.

Her fingers start probing deeper, sliding between my folds and I inadvertently press myself against them, meeting her lazy strokes. It feels as if my entire body has transformed into a slithering mass of want. I’m close to abandon, close to asking her to please fuck me, when her fingers retreat.

My heart thunders so furiously beneath my rib cage I fear my torso might pulse upwards with every beat.

“Turn around, please,” she says as if this is the normal midway point of any massage therapy session. But there’s a strain in her voice, a slight tremor informing me she might just be as turned on as I am.

And I want nothing more than to flip over, but then I have to face her. How can I meet her gaze after she has touched me like that? But I’m not the one who started it. I only came here for a massage.

I free my head from the hole and push myself up slowly. Before looking up, I try to swallow away the nerves bunching up in my throat. There are a lot of things I want to say, but I don’t want to ruin the moment by speaking.

Amy is fumbling with something at the sink when I finally turn around. She has her back to me and, silently, I lie down and wait for her.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers as she approaches.

I do as I’m told.

The process of sprinkling oil on my skin is repeated. A drop crashes down on my erect nipple and I can sense Amy’s hesitation before her fingers descend on my flesh and spread the lotion. She stands at the head of the table, her belly close to my scalp again, and I can hear her sharp intake of breath as her fingertip brushes my nipple.

It’s different lying on my back, all exposed like that. I try to keep still as Amy’s fingers knead my breasts, but it’s impossible. She’s watching me now. She’s seeing the emotions running across my face and the way my skin crinkles into goosebumps as she touches me. I only came to town to celebrate my dad’s birthday and I had no way of preparing for this level of intimacy. I decide there and then I have two choices. Shut off my brain and enjoy the physical bliss Amy’s hands provide—no matter the emotional fall-out later. Or do as I did years ago. Work myself into a frenzy over how she makes me feel, decide I can’t deal with it anymore, and leave.

But this is now, and Amy’s hands have already ventured much further than I ever dreamed they would. She’s the one who slipped her fingers between my legs and whose nails are now tracing circles around my nipples.

“Oh god,” I groan as she pinches my nipple and leaves me with no choice at all.

“Don’t move,” she says, her voice hoarse and throaty above my head.

And I stay still but I have to open my eyes. I have to see her. Just as our gazes lock, her hands squeeze my breasts.

I could cry for the teenager I was once was. A young body filled to the brim with an inexplicable burgeoning lust for Amy. If time is supposed to heal all wounds, what is it doing now? Coming home is always a fleeting exercise in dredging up the past, no matter who you see or don’t see. But then you leave and forget about it all over again, a bit more with every departure. How will I ever leave this behind?

Amy’s eyes seem to tell me everything I need to know—in this moment, anyway. Because what really happened to us are the things that didn’t happen. The conversation we never had. The feelings I never shared. If this is her way of saying we’re okay, then I’m fine with that.

She gives my breasts one last gentle squeeze before abandoning them. Her left hand trails downward along my chest as she walks to the side of the table. She leans her hip against it and I follow her with my eyes. Her face is tanned, but I can easily spot the blush below her cheekbones.

She searches for my eyes again, and arches up her eyebrows a fraction, as if asking for permission. It’s a little late for that, I think to myself, but I know what she means. The time for foreplay has ended.

I want what’s going to happen next so much, my body breaks out into a shiver. She puts her hand on my belly to calm me down, but it hardly has the required effect. Her fingers already point south, to that moist mess of a pussy of mine.

Shouldn’t it have been the other way around, I wonder? Should I not have been the one seducing her? But this role reversal—if you will—turns me on more than the prospect of Amy’s fingers inside of me.

It reminds me of hot summer nights alone in my bed. I left the curtains open to see the last of the light fade away, while I dreamed of Amy’s face before she kissed me and told me it was all real.

It can’t be more real now. Amy’s one hand travels lower, while her other one stays on my belly, driving her nails into my skin. I spread wider, because it’s all I ever wanted to do for Amy.

Her eyes are on mine when the first fingertip enters me. Something shimmers in the chocolate brown of them. As her finger slips all the way in, I realise it’s lust. The same lust shaking my bones.

It’s more shock than anything else rattling through me as Amy starts to fuck me slowly, almost leisurely. A hint of a smile plays on her lips, as if this was the only possible outcome of us running into each other the way we have.

All the years of friendship we shared flash through my mind in that moment. The time I almost kissed her. The day we took dozens of pictures at a photo booth, my face drawn into a serious frown in all of them because Amy was sitting on my lap.

But Amy has her finger inside of me and, as she slides it back, I feel the tip of another one getting ready to slip in. And yes, this is sex—unmistakably so—but it’s also much more than that. My pelvis bucks upward to meet Amy’s thrusts. Her gaze doesn’t waver and I feel moisture build behind my eyes. Because this is too much. The essence of what is happening right now has been with me as a fantasy for more than twenty years.

In the silence between two Counting Crows songs, I can make out the sucking noise Amy’s fingers produce between my legs. It stokes the fire in my belly even more, and when her other hand starts to travel south as well, her fingers tickling the trimmed hair down there, I’m about to spontaneously combust.

I know she’s going for my clit and I know that when she reaches it, I’ll be lost. The moment will pass forever. Confusion, nostalgia and years of pent-up lust descend from my mind into my blood.

Amy thrusts deep with the two fingers of her left hand as her right index finger brushes the side of my clit. My muscles contract at the touch of her finger against my swollen bud. I want to pull her close and kiss her, but Amy is calling the shots, and I don’t want to break the spell she’s under.

She finds a rhythm with her hands. A deep stroke with one hand, while the fingers of the other circle my clit. It’s more than enough to send me on my way to the deliverance I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever.

Amy in her mum’s high heels. Amy in boxer shorts and a tank top at her cousin’s sleep over. Amy by the pond, careless and with the promise of everything shimmering in the darkness of her eyes. Amy right here, right now. Eyes blazing and fingers on fire inside of me. Her muscles working underneath her skin as she takes me.

I throw my head back because her glance is too much for me to take in that moment when my body surrenders. It all crashes through me, lightning quick fireballs reaching the end of my fingers and my toes at the same time. The walls of my pussy clamping tightly around her fingers. The pleasure that shoots up inside of me through her hands, which are, in the end, mere extensions of her eyes and what I’ve seen pool in them. I had to wait twenty years and maybe that’s why it feels so good, life-changing even, but definitely shattering the world as I know it for a brief instant.

Amy doesn’t slide her fingers out of me immediately. She leaves them inside to linger for a few seconds as I find her eyes again. I know that mine are filled with tears of release and a slew of other emotions I don’t have the presence of mind to identify.

“Jesus,” I say, because, at times like this, it always seems like the only appropriate thing to say.

Amy looks at me in disbelief, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. As if she’s just slipped back into her skin after an out-of-body experience. Gently, her fingers leave me and I have as much a clue of what to say as she has.

Mute, she stares at her hands and I know, despite being the one naked on a massage table, I have to step in.

My muscles are weak and soft from the massage and the climax, but I pull myself together. “Hey,” I say, while I push myself up. I shoot her a reassuring smile. “You really do give a mean massage.”

She seems to snap out of her trance and starts looking around the room. I hope for the towel she took off me at the beginning of our session. I’m not sure if it’s possible to feel more naked than I am, but I do.

Thankfully, Amy locates the towel on a chair behind her and, instead of simply handing it to me, she steps toward me and wraps it around my bare skin.

“I wish I knew what to say,” she whispers in my ear as her arms fold around me.

For all the intimacy we just shared, this unexpected hug touches me more than Amy’s fingers inside of me.

In response, I curl my arms around her waist and hold her. I realise this is the first time I’ve intently touched her this way.

“Whatever it was you wanted to say, you’ve said it loud and clear.” My cheek is pressed against Amy’s chest and I can hear her heart hammer away at a ridiculous pace.

I can’t help myself, because the next thing I know, my fingers snake down her back, finding the hem of her tank top, wanting desperately to feel the skin underneath.

She gives me one last squeeze before freeing herself from our hug. She doesn’t pull completely away though, and in the motion, my fingers wander to her sides. I look up at her and I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more going on here than two old friends reconnecting in an unexpectedly physical way.

“Eli, I…” she starts. Her fingers play with the white towel that’s slung around my body. “I really don’t know what came over me.”

“I’m not complaining.” I slip off the table so I can stand tall and face her properly. The towel starts sliding down, but Amy catches it and fastens it with a tight fold above my breasts.

Again, it’s an intimate gesture. There’s only one way I know how to acknowledge it. My hands are back on her waist and I pull her close. The short, ragged puffs of her breath travel across my cheeks. Slowly, I slant my head to the side and lean in for that kiss I should have gone for years ago.

Amy doesn’t display any signs of hesitation as our lips meet. I figure it’s a little late for doubts after her fingers brought me to orgasm mere minutes ago.

My fingers travel the length of her arms, all the way to her face, where I cup her chin. The towel slips off me anyway—and Amy lets it—but I’m past caring. I’m ready to be naked with Amy again.

Amy’s nails trail along the skin of my back as our tongues dance with one another. The kiss seems to freeze time and I have no idea how long we’ve been at it when we finally break apart.

“We should talk,” Amy says, but her breath comes out in chopped puffs and her body language doesn’t exactly signal a talking mood.

But I probably need this conversation more than Amy, and I’m dying to hear what she has to say, so I nod before ducking down to grab the towel again.

“That thing obviously does not want to stay on your body,” she jokes. “I can see why.”

For an instant, I’m flabbergasted, and a flush rises to my cheeks. While I’m still grappling to come up with a response, Amy moves in again and pecks me on my burning cheek. “There’s a shower through there.” She points to a door behind me. “Take your time. I’ll wait for you at reception.”

I grab my belongings from the dressing room and head for the shower, all the while wondering if I’m not trapped in a dream. I don’t want to wash away the oil Amy rubbed into my skin, but as I do and my hands caress the spots she just did, my mind already wanders to the next step. I’m not leaving town until I’ve touched Amy the way she has touched me.

After I’ve put myself together as best as I can, smelling of lavender and satisfaction, I find my way to the reception area. My legs are still a bit shaky and my cheek still tingles where Amy kissed it last. I half-expect reception to not be there and wake up in my old bedroom in my parents’ house, sweaty from a passionate dream. But there’s Amy, leaning against the reception desk, one ankle crossed over the other. She looks so different from when I first walked in. A lot has changed since then.

“I presume you have a party to go to tonight.” Amy’s voice is playful, almost seductive.

I remember the reason why I’m in town and all the prying questions on my relationship status I have to look forward to. “Yes. Oh, joy.” I check my watch. “But it only starts at seven.”

Amy draws her lips into a pensive pout. “Let me check with the boss if I can take the rest of the day off.” She tucks her chin in and looks at her own chest. “Great. She agrees.” She sends me a wide smile and I’m sixteen again.

We exit The Body Spa together and I wait for her initiative as we stand around on the parking lot in front.

“Did you know I live in my parents’ old house now?”

Due to the fact I appear on TV five times a week, Amy probably has a lot more superficial knowledge of me than I of her. I realise I know nothing about her life. “Really?” But, oh gosh, the memories that place holds.

“Yep. Do you still know the way?”

I nod. I could never forget. “See you there in ten minutes.”

I step into my rental and notice my hand is shaking when I put the key in the ignition. I’m going to Amy Waters’s house. It’s the only thought occupying my mind as I drive the route I could take blindfolded—still, after all these years.

I used to ride my bike to Amy’s house. An old beat-up BMX I inherited from my older brother. I’d attach cards from a deck to the spokes with clothespins and pretend it was the scooter my parents would never allow me to have.

The Waters house is still in the same spot in the same street, but that’s about all that still resembles the memory I have of it. The bricks are no longer red and the roof is flat instead of slated.

I sit staring at the sleek, whitewashed walls of the rectangular shape in front of me, when a knock on my car window wakes me from my daze.

“Coming?” Amy’s arched-up eyebrows ask—just like they’ve always done.

I get out of the car and, apparently, I can’t hide the look of bewilderment on my face.

“If this surprises you, wait until you see the inside,” Amy teases. But I’m not really interested in the inside of her house—not for now, anyway. I want to go round the back and see if the pond is still there. That pond where we passed hours of our youth just lying around and dreaming out loud of the kind of life I knew I would never lead.

Amy catches my glance and it’s as if she can read my mind. “Come on.” She curls her fingers around my wrist and drags me to the path circling around the house. “You can admire my flair for interior design later.”

My pace quickens as we approach the backyard. To my surprise, not a lot has changed. The pine trees are still there, and so is the pond. I can see its surface flicker through the spaces between the trees.

A rush of tears pricks behind my eyes. I have to breathe in deeply to stop them from crashing through.

“I’ve spent a fortune redoing the house, but this is still my favourite spot.” Amy stands behind me and her voice sounds exactly the same as then, except, everything is different now. I turn around to face her.

“Did you know?” I ask, the words coming out a bit shaken.

Her face mellows into a soft expression foreign to me. Is this how she looked at her husbands when they proposed? How did she regard them when the divorces came through? But I’m no different, not having had a romantic relationship last longer than a few years. I broke my record with Celia, who, in the end, I also successfully managed to chase away. I blame the job. Presenting the morning news doesn’t make for a lot of date nights. Or maybe the right woman simply hasn’t come along yet.

“How could I not?” Her fingers intertwine with mine. “You were my best friend, Eli. Of course I knew.”

My heart beats in my throat. Why did I never say anything? What if our years of friendship turned out to be one big missed opportunity? What if it could have been so much more than me sneaking glances and pining for her secretly?

In my teenage mind, Amy was the cruel one for, supposedly, never being able to return my affections. But in the end, I was the one who left without looking back.

This baggage hangs heavy in the air between us, thick like the remnants of summer clouding the late afternoon.

“I’m sorry for leaving like that.” The words tumble out of me like a confession, like something that should have been said ages ago.

“Hey,” she yanks my arms up by the wrists and places my hands on her hips, “I always told myself you simply loved me too much to stay.” Amy was always the brave, hopeful one. But when she puts it like that, my defences against the tears burning behind my eyes crumble.

“Gosh.” Tears stream down my cheeks and I can’t wipe them away because Amy is holding my wrists.

“You’re here now.” Amy leans in and presses her lips against my cheek.

It’s the simple truth. I’m here, by Amy’s pond and she just kissed me again. I’m no longer Eli the lovesick teenager. I’m Elise Frost, the morning news anchor who caused a riot on a lesbian website when she dared to exchange her signature glasses for a new model.

“I am.” Amy’s been running this show long enough. Unafraid of whatever happens next, I loosen my wrists from her grip. I bring my hands to her cheeks and draw her near. When our lips meet, the past falls away and I easily shake off whatever’s left of my teenage self. We’re two grown women and this couldn’t be more perfect.

While our lips meet again and again, I trace my fingertips over the skin of her arms until they find the hem of her tank top. I don’t just want to get underneath, I want it off of her. I hoist it over her chest and break the kiss to pull the top over her head. I’ve ogled those collarbones long enough. As gorgeous as they are, I need more.