And it turned out Audrey was not sure about it at all. Because while she was pretty certain it was Jennifer who started the kissing—mouths coming together in a hot, frantic whirlwind that felt on just the right side of angry—it was definitely Audrey who slammed into Jennifer so passionately that her satchel slipped from her shoulder, exploding papers everywhere. And then they were both on the floor, kissing and struggling in that reckless desperate way when you were so determined to get close to someone you kept bouncing off them.
“Jesus, woman.” Jennifer Hallet sounded completely approving. “You’re a fucking animal.”
Audrey had both hands buried in Jennifer’s hair. “And you’re unreasonable, high-handed and…and…really annoying.”
Jennifer just laughed, her face—and occasionally her teeth—against Audrey’s neck. “You smell like lemons.”
“That’s because I’ve been cooking with lemons, you dick. Also…” Wriggling a hand up Jennifer’s shirt, Audrey tried to do something sexy and sophisticated, and ended up palming Jennifer’s left breast like a horny teenager. “What happened to not talking?”
“I’m not talking. I made one fucking observation.”
Jennifer pushed Audrey aside for a brief moment neither of them had the patience for, tearing open her top and dragging Audrey back down on top of her. This did not help the horny teenager situation because Audrey found herself grinding as well as palming.
“Fuck,” observed Jennifer, wrapping her legs—those long, long legs—around Audrey and arching up to meet her.
“Fuck,” agreed Audrey.
It was probably the least dignified five to ten minutes of Audrey’s life and, given how Audrey’s life went in general, it was up against some stiff competition. Her glasses kept slipping down her nose. Jennifer’s trousers were too tight. Somehow Audrey’s apron ended up over her face. One of Jennifer’s shoes flew off and did fortunately irreparable damage to the godawful Tiffany-style lamp Audrey had been given by an aunt and always hated. And, really, Jennifer should have beengratefulfor all Audrey’s cushions. Because otherwise the whole enterprise would have been hell on elbows, knees, and both their backs.
But it was…it was also kind of amazing. Everything messy and slick and bitey and sweet. The sort of sex you spent your twenties thinking other people were having. Where it didn’t matter what you looked like, or what you said, only that your fingers werethereand her fingers werethereand her tongue wasthereand now you both smelled of lemons and when you came it was almost defiant. Like you didn’t need to be comfortable. Who cared if the angle was bad and your mouth was full of your own hair? It was perfect and lovely andyoursandhers.
“You know something,” said Jennifer Hallet when they were done. “I could really go for a cupcake.”
Audrey’s head was still resting on Jennifer’s chest. Her hand was still down her pants. “They’re not iced yet.”
“Is this the face of a woman who gives a fuck?”
“It should be. You run a baking show.”
“So what? TheGame of Thronesguys didn’t know how to sword fight.” Jennifer’s determination not to do anything even remotely resembling cuddling apparently got the best of her. Rising like a sweaty Venus, she strode into Audrey’s kitchenette and ate three lemon and blueberry cupcakes.
“Make yourself at home,” said Audrey. “Have something toeat if you like.”
Jennifer swept up a fourth cupcake and propped herself louchely in the doorway. “These are good. They’d get you to at least week three.”
“Fuck off.” Audrey’s attempt to throw a cushion across the room was stymied by post-orgasmic weakness and a general lack of coordination.
Apparently, Jennifer Hallet could actually mellow. But only immediately after sex. Only if you fed her cakes. Only for about thirty seconds. And only about two percent. “No, really.” She sounded oddly sincere. “They’re all right.”
“But?”
“But nothing. They’re all right.”
For some reason, the words weren’t quite going in. “Huh,” said Audrey.
“Help me out, Lane. Which line of bullshit is this? Is itBig, bad Jennifer never says anything nice? OrPoor ickle Audrey can’t believe she made a decent cake?”
“Neither actually, thanks.” Audrey rotated her apron back into its non-fucking position and sat up, with her legs tucked under her. “It’s just been a while since I’ve baked for someone. Not that I technically baked for you. I was baking for the office, and you ran interference.”
“Oh, come on. You must do this sort of thing all the time. I bet you show up on dates with a tin of muffins and a dildo.”
“I do not show up on dates with a tin of muffins and a dildo.”
“Okay, but I bet you made welcome cookies for your neighbours.”
She’d thought about it, and then wussed out, and she wasn’t sure whether the thinking or the wussing reflected worse on her. “Iprobably would have at some point in my life—”
“Hah,” said Jennifer. “Knew it.”
