Not that Audrey was going to take much shoving.
Because Jennifer Hallet was annoyingly, inescapably, predicably good at this. And went at it with the same Machiavellian focusshe brought to, well, everything else. It made staying self-conscious almost impossible—that and the fact they were both almost fully clothed still, Audrey’s dress flaring around them like the petals of a very suggestive flower. Of course, being a quilt-making, nose-poking, heart-bleeding pile of feelings and teddy bears, Audrey would have preferred to see Jennifer’s face somehow while all this was going on. But—while she’d insisted there would be no conversation and wouldn’t have been particularly able to have one anyway—Jennifer contrived to be…communicative.
The clutch of her fingers. The restless arching of her body. The, admittedly slightly muffled, sounds she was making. Breathless and appreciative and lewd. And everything tilting into thisAlice in Wonderlandunreality, because this was still Jennifer Hallet. The sweary Byronic telly goddess. A nightmarish razor-edged puzzle box of woman. Currently going down on Audrey like it was her whole to-do list.
It was flattering and bewildering and more than enough to undo a girl.
“Um,” Audrey told the wall breathlessly, “I might be getting quite close.”
Jennifer made an irritated sound, which, from context, Audrey took to mean,Do we need to revisit the shutting up part of this agreement?
Deliciously heavy shudders were running down Audrey’s spine. Tensing her legs. Curling her toes. “I just thought you might want to know.”
With another irritated sound, Jennifer partially extricated herself, flipping up Audrey’s skirt in order to glare better. “I can fucking tell. Would it shock you to know I’ve done this before?”
Audrey tried to glare back. Which she was finding difficultbecause her body was in the middle of dissolving into rainbows and orgasms. “I’ve done this before, too. And it’s polite to tell people.”
“Are you going to write me a thank-you card as well?”
“I’m trying”—Audrey was beginning to wish she’d stuck to thedon’t talkrule—“to…to be considerate. You might not want to be…exactly there…when I…you know.”
“Jesus, Lane,” snapped Jennifer Hallet. “Just come on my fucking face.”
“It might get…quite messy.”
“Been there. Done that. Soiled the T-shirt.”
The prospect of Jennifer Hallet’s mouth re-busying itself with something that wasn’t bickering with Audrey hovered tantalisingly. The part of her that was bold and decisive and took her pleasure where she found it was very ready to pass Go, collecting two hundred pounds as she went. Unfortunately, there was another part of Audrey that somewhere down the line had learned to second-guess itself. That expected every good thing to come with abut. “And this is okay for you?” she asked. “You wouldn’t prefer—”
“No,” interrupted Jennifer, sounding marginally more sincere than she sounded annoyed, although it was touch-and-go. “I want to be doing this. Here. Now. With you. Which is why I’m doing this. Here. Now. With you.”
“Oh,” said Audrey, trying not to break theno feelingsrule as hard as she’d broken theno talkingrule.
At the very least, she managed to not break it visibly or verbally. But it was always the feelings that got you. Like, sex was great and everything. But it got better when you liked someone and even better when you knew they liked you. And, for all of Jennifer’s obstreperousness, Audrey felt very liked just then. Which, in turn,made her feel pretty damn sexy as she vigorously rode the face of a hot irascible television executive, until she came hard and triumphantly, with a trailer-rattling whoop.
“Hang on,” she said afterwards. “Is this my quilt?”
Jennifer, looking about as bedraggled and debauched as you could while fully dressed, rolled her eyes. “It’s fine. I’ll get it dry-cleaned.”
“So. Um.” Audrey made a Jennifer-encompassing gesture. “Can I do anything for you?”
“You just did, sunshine. Now, fuck off.”
Well, that was exactly as advertised. Audrey sat up reluctantly. “I know you said there’d be no cuddling. But I’ve barely got my breath back.”
“So walk slowly.”
“Seriously? You know there’s a middle ground betweenhold me for the rest of my lifeanddon’t let the door hit you in the arse?”
“I told you how this was going to be.” Jennifer got up, went to the front of the trailer and switched on her computer. “And I really want to remember this as fantastic sex with a journalist who avoided pissing me off. Don’t ruin that for me.”
Audrey was just slightly too afterglowy to call that for the bullshit it was. She just readjusted her dress, gathered her dignity, her shoes, and her sunglasses, and—with a weaponisedly polite “See you tomorrow, Jennifer”—let herself out the trailer.
All things considered, she thought she’d handled that pretty well. She’d been mature, she’d been confident, she’d got laid, and she’d left with her head held high.
Then she remembered that she’d also left her pants on Jennifer’s desk.
Sunday
