“I think we broke that rule a long time ago.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Jennifer Hallet, kissing her.
Which was definitely something Audrey already knew how to do and something they already knew they liked. And kissing flowed into caressing, which flowed from gentle into heated, with Audrey riding Jennifer’s thigh, and Jennifer riding Audrey’s fingers, and from there it seemed the most straightforward thing in the world to push Jennifer onto her back.
She looked especially good that way, at once fierce and surrendered, her hair snarled all over the pillow. And because Audrey couldn’t feel what she was doing, she had to look as she guided herself inside—and that was way, way hotter than she could have imagined it would be. Getting to see someone’s body open for you, red and slick and hungry.
“Fuck,” said Jennifer. And they’d had enough sex—and for that matter enough conversations—that Audrey could read Jennifer’sfucks like music. This was one of her softfucks. One of her pleasedfucks. And Audrey, as ever, was filled with pride and triumph to have inspired it.
It took Audrey a while to get the rhythm—to learn how deep to go and how far to pull back, the best way to angle her hips to make Jennifer swear and groan—and it was fucking hard work. Nobody told you it was fucking hard work.
But in a strange way the hard work was part of the joy of it. Getting hot and sweaty and breathless with someone else. Sex turned into something you strove for. Worked for together.
And then, towards the end, Jennifer rose up in a carnal fury, flipped Audrey over, and rode her like a wave. One of those wild,white-topped waves that surfers spent their lives chasing. Dizzily Audrey clung to Jennifer’s hips, pushing up into her until she came, her back arched with bliss, and her face as fleetingly still as the heart of a storm.
Afterwards they lay on the emperor-sized bed with the curtains half-drawn, perusing the menu for room service.
“You know what,” said Jennifer, twirling one finger idly in Audrey’s hair, “let’s fucking do it.”
Audrey looked up at her, wondering if there was a first half to this conversation that she’d blanked on. “Do what?”
“Dead Fish and Sad Children.”
For a moment Audrey had zero clues what she meant, not least because until about two minutes ago, she’d been in a situation in which dead fish and sad children were definitely the absolute last thing she wanted to be thinking about. “You want to make documentaries?”
“I wantusto make documentaries. I think we’d fucking smash it. We could even start withThe Saga of Doris and Emilyif you wanted to.”
This was a sufficiently unexpected twist that Audrey felt a strong need to play for time. “I’m not sure which name is worse:The Saga of Doris and EmilyorDead Fish and Sad Children.”
“One’d be for the series, one for the pilot episode. But don’t worry. They’re just working titles.Expectationswas pitched asWholesome Baking Show TBC.”
Thoughts of room service entirely banished, Audrey sat up. “Okay, but—what, do I just quit my job and come work at Inveterate?”
“Basically.”
“So you’d be my boss?”
“We could structure around that. We can be co-showrunners with somebody else from the company in overall control.”
That just about managed to fix the ethics problems. But there was another slightly elephantine issue still at least partly in the room. “Wasn’t trying to make a TV show together what ruined yourlastserious relationship?”
For once, Jennifer looked more vulnerable than scornful. “No, being young, crap, and unable to communicate ruined my last serious relationship. Then we tried to fix it by making a TV show together, and for some reason that strategy failed. Who can say why?”
“I hate to point this out, Jennifer, but you’re still not very good at communicating.”
“Firstly, fuck off. Secondly, I’ve actually communicated my needs very effectively. Like, for example, when I said take two minutes basking time, then fuck me.”
Audrey opened her mouth to dispute this. Then realised it was, in a very broad sense, correct. “And what about my needs?”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been doing nothing but communicating your needs since we fucking met.”
Audrey also opened her mouth to dispute this. Then realised it was, in a very broad sense, also correct. And, perhaps more importantly, that Jennifer had—in her own way—fulfilled basically every need Audrey had communicated. Plus a fair few she hadn’t. “I don’t even know how to…make a documentary.”
“Of course you do, it’s just fucking quilting.”
That seemed tenuous. “Pretty sure it’s not.”
“There’s some technical bits around production, but I’ll have that covered. What I wantyouto do is gather up scraps nobody else would look twice at, find how they fit together, and turn them intosomething beautiful. That’s quilting. And it’s what you do. I’ve watched you do it.”
