Experienced

Chapter Twenty-Three

Bette’s glass had been topped up all evening; the hum of alcohol was running along every one of her veins. They’d eaten small plates of nice things, none of which she could now remember. She’d been between Niamh’s sister Louise and a friend of Erin’s from university—Maggie or Maddy or something. It was impossible to ask her to repeat it a third time. They had all told stories about Erin and Niamh; Bette had recounted the one about Niamh doing karaoke at the work Christmas party, about Erin shouting I love you (for what turned out to be the first time) from the crowd, about Niamh abandoning Blondie mid-verse in order to snog Erin silly. Bette had caught Ruth’s eye more than once while telling it and felt her stomach clench.

And now they were in a bar draped with Pride flags, the music too loud for anyone to be talking. They were still loosely in a group but there was only one person who had all Bette’s attention. Ruth was a whole-body singer, Bette had realized as they all shouted together on the dance floor. Every part of her joined in, her hands in the air, her head thrown back, her sweaty fringe plastered to her forehead. She was flushed again, the drinks bringing out a delicious pink that ran down her throat and chest, disappearing into the deep V of her top. Bette wanted to lick her, to run her teeth along her collarbone, to tug an earlobe into her mouth. She wanted to kiss her, up against the wall of the bar.

She definitely couldn’t do that. She was an enormous perv. She should probably go to the bar. Order a pint of water. Or outside. She could go outside. Fresh air would be good.

But a distinctive guitar twang through the speakers caused everyone around them to scream in delight, so loud that Michelle Branch’s first lines were almost drowned out. Ruth practically squealed.

“God, I love this song,” she yelled, squeezing Bette’s hands and pulling her closer as the drum kicked in and the crowd jumped and sang and played a hundred air guitars. The last time Bette had danced to “Everywhere” had probably been in college, ironic and too cool for it, laughing self-consciously and rolling her eyes the whole time. Now, surrounded by a sweaty mess of drunken queers, there was no scrap of equivocation, only the deep joy of realizing that she meant the words she was shouting. She got it. Ruth was everywhere. Was everything. The thrill of it filled her up.

The song was quieter, suddenly, and Ruth pulled her closer still, one hand around her waist. She’d been touching Bette so often since they’d arrived in the bar that Bette felt drunk on it, heady and delicate and almost able to convince herself that Ruth wanted her too. It felt inescapable, now, the tequila coursing through her, the lyrics intimate and low, Ruth’s face right next to hers as she sang with drunken sincerity. Ruth let out a breath, close enough to Bette’s ear that she could feel it down her spine. It was an absolutely terrible idea, Bette thought. Truly impossible to recover from. Exactly what Ruth had said she didn’t want. Except, maybe Ruth did want. Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea to just…check.

And really, the drink and the heat and the song and Ruth’s breath and her warm hand on Bette’s waist were louder than every other objection Bette’s brain offered. The objections had long been half arsed anyway.

She turned her head, just slightly, lips brushing lightly across Ruth’s cheek. There was plausible deniability, still. An excusable level of contact. She felt Ruth take a shaky breath in. Bette waited, and then Ruth turned her head too. Everyone around them was still jostling and shouting as Bette moved her hand to the base of Ruth’s throat, as she watched her eyes flutter closed, as she pressed their lips together. Ruth tasted of tequila and of lime and of sweat. Her mouth was tender and open and warm and it was probably a huge mistake to keep kissing her. But her hand settled under Ruth’s jaw, fingers brushing along the shell of her ear, palm angling Ruth exactly where she wanted her.

They definitely shouldn’t be kissing like this, regardless, here on the dance floor. But then Ruth’s hand traveled down her spine to the small of her back and it was impossible to care about anything that wasn’t Ruth’s hand, or Ruth’s tongue making its way past her lips, or Ruth pulling her even closer, or the noise Ruth was making low in her throat.

“Ruth. I want you. So badly,” Bette said, abandoning everything but hopeful honesty, and pulling back to speak into Ruth’s ear.

She felt Ruth let out a breath that was almost a laugh and then nod, grasping her back more firmly, pressing their bodies together. “Yes. Okay, yes. Let’s get out of here,” she said, reaching down to clasp Bette’s hand in hers and turning to pull her out of the throng.

They tried hailing a cab for a couple of minutes outside the club, and then abandoned the plan in favor of walking. It felt faster, in the moment. It almost certainly wasn’t. Their speed wasn’t aided by the fact that they kept turning toward each other to kiss again and again. Ruth’s hands were everywhere, hot on Bette’s hip, tracing the inside of her wrist. But they kept moving forward, determined to reach a bed of some sort, stumbling over each other’s feet, missing each other’s mouths, ending up on streets Bette had never seen before.

She wanted Ruth, wanted to press her down into the sheets of the twin bed. She wanted to taste her, to feel her shake, to run her fingers along every part of her. She couldn’t understand how they’d never done this before. Nothing had ever felt better than Ruth’s mouth, than Ruth’s breath tickling her ear, than Ruth’s hand on her skin.

By the time they reached the hotel, Bette had to actively remind herself that they were still in public. The same woman was still behind the reception desk, her eyebrows knitted together disapprovingly. They stumbled up the stairs, Ruth flushed and laughing and holding tightly onto Bette’s hand.

Once down the hall and outside their room, Bette crowded in along Ruth’s back as she struggled clumsily with the key in the lock. Ruth’s hand shook slightly until Bette’s covered it, helped her pull the key back and jiggle it until it turned right. The lock clicked and Bette smiled, her lips pressed against Ruth’s neck.

“Come on, then,” Ruth said, grasping the handle and pushing the door open. They were the first words either of them had spoken since they’d walked back into the hotel, and the thrill of anticipation that had been running through Bette amplified. The words were a cup of Ash’s fancy weekend coffee: clarifying, grounding. Utterly delicious.

Bette swallowed and followed Ruth in, grateful to finally be able to watch her the way she wanted. To see her hair sway to reveal the vertebrae at the top of her spine, to feel the memory of her hands twisted in Ruth’s belt loops, still tasting Ruth on her lips and tongue.

Ruth’s huge coat had trailed from her hand since they had reached the top of the stairs, and she laid it down across the chair by the window before bending over to unlace her boots. The momentum they had had in the street, in the foyer, everything that had threatened to boil over in the club, had reduced to a simmer now that there was a door between them and the rest of the world. Now that they could take their time. Bette worried, for a brief moment, that the simmering tension might have cooled down completely, that Ruth might have decided against it. That there was a line coming about compromising their friendship. But Ruth looked up, her eyes finding Bette’s. There was want written in a thousand languages across her face.

Quite suddenly, Bette realized that she might die if she didn’t kiss Ruth again. Right now, actually.

Right.

Now.

Ruth was already moving too, and when they met in the middle of the room they did so with their mouths already open, their hands already rising to bury into hair, to touch cheeks and jaws, to pull and grasp and seek out new skin. Their teeth clacked, and Bette laughed into Ruth’s mouth.

There was something about it, about the awkwardness and brief pain of it, about the stark reality of it, that jolted through Bette.

“Fuck. Gabe,” she said, before she could stop herself.

Ruth, already flushed, was suddenly even pinker, looking down at the threadbare carpet.

“It doesn’t…it’s not a problem. Don’t—let’s just…”

She trailed off without finishing any of the sentences and looked at Bette, her eyes clear.

“Okay,” Bette said, because it felt very definitively like Ruth didn’t want to talk about it any more. And it wasn’t like Bette really wanted to either.

And so she kissed her again.

It was nothing like the kiss in the club. There must have been an awareness of propriety, of going too far, of an unwelcome audience, that she hadn’t quite registered. Because their kisses in the club felt suddenly restrained in comparison. Ruth kissed exactly as Bette had expected, when she’d allowed herself to think about it: invitingly, warmly, teasingly, a smile evident and turning her lips up, even as she devoted her whole attention to Bette’s mouth. Too late, Bette realized that Ruth had gently been guiding her backward toward the bed, and stumbled back to sit down on it, utterly without grace. It didn’t seem to bother Ruth at all. She moved closer to stand between Bette’s legs, at least a foot taller now, her fingertips grazing Bette’s jaw and collarbone.

“Bette,” she said, considering, almost to herself.

“Yes?” Bette replied, her hands slipping from Ruth’s waist down onto her hips and then round to trace the pockets of her jeans.

“What do you want?” Ruth asked, her fingertips trailing lower and lower, from collarbone to cleavage, across the tender skin of her breasts, tantalizingly close to Bette’s nipples.

It was an impossible question, Bette thought. But not for the reason it had been when Evie had asked it. Not like it had been at the start with Netta. Not because she didn’t know. The truth was that she wanted everything. There were endless plans in her head. She wanted to make sure that Ruth never forgot this. And she wanted Ruth to help her lose control, so she could let go of all the plans, to get out of her head. There was a glistening spark of hope in her that this might change things. But she couldn’t shake the prickling, uncomfortable fear too that they’d wake up in the morning and one or other of them would blame it on tequila, on Edinburgh, on the weird wedding magic. And so, if that was going to be the outcome, then she wanted all of Ruth now, regardless of the consequences. She wanted to be reckless.

“I want to taste you,” she said, and felt Ruth shiver.

“Yeah?” Her voice was strangled, delicate, barely audible.

“Oh god, yeah,” Bette replied, pulling Ruth closer toward her, leaning her forehead against the swell of Ruth’s belly beneath her breasts. She was so soft. But the hand that grasped Bette’s hair, pulling her head backward, positioning her for a kiss, was firm. Strong. So sure and certain. It made her tense and throb in anticipation, and she groaned into Ruth’s mouth.

Bette inched backward, pulling at Ruth’s thighs as she did, encouraging Ruth to straddle her. They kissed again and again, mouths hot and lush, Ruth biting at her top lip and sucking on the bottom one. Their bodies moved closer together, Bette’s hands still behind Ruth’s knees, pulling her legs tight around her own hips. Ruth’s weight was grounding and thrilling. She felt caught, entirely hemmed in by Ruth around her and above her. She felt overwhelmed by want. Her desire to take things slow, to draw everything out, warred with her want to be naked against each other as soon as possible.

Ruth’s hands were everywhere; at the nape of Bette’s neck, fisted into her hair, trailing down her back, flirting along the neckline of her top, her fingertips finally slipping into Bette’s bra. Bette’s hands moved from behind Ruth’s knees, up her legs and then down to the seams that ran along the insides of her thighs, pressing her thumbs into the fabric, teasing and gentle. Ruth gasped and groaned, breaking the kiss to drop her forehead against Bette’s shoulder.

“Please,” she panted. “Please, please fuck me.”

Bette could do that. She grasped Ruth with both hands, lifted her out of her lap and, before she could question the impulse, give in to the fear of messing it up, flipped her over onto her back. Ruth burst out laughing as her back hit the bed.

“What?” Bette said, breathless and feeling herself blush.

“Where did that come from?” Ruth asked.

“I don’t know,” Bette admitted, the corners of her mouth turning up too. “I’ve—I’ve never done it before. I’m actually staggered it worked. I half thought one of us might end up on the floor. Or with an elbow to the face.”

She lay down beside Ruth, a hand possessively across her stomach, and hauled her closer by her waist.

“Well, the night is young,” Ruth said, her voice like a silver-screen goddess, an indeterminate mid-Atlantic accent making the words seem both cheesy and silly and somehow oddly profound. The night was young, Bette thought. They had all the time in the world.

“There’s still time to elbow you in the face. Later. But I want to—first I want…” Bette replied, her smile turning into a laugh too. She leaned down and then they were laughing and kissing again, mouths wide and clumsy. The hand that had found its way to the curve of Ruth’s waist started moving down, tracing along the waistband of her jeans. Ruth inhaled sharply, everything suddenly more weighted, more filled with intention. Bette felt Ruth nod in response to the question that lay within the gesture, and she popped open the button and pulled the zip down. Ruth hummed in approval, and Bette moved to suck on her neck as she pushed her hand down into Ruth’s knickers, seeking heat, seeking slick softness. Ruth grasped at Bette’s arm, her fingers pressing into her bicep as Bette found where she was wet. She touched her for quiet minutes, so gently and delicately that Ruth hummed and sighed in frustration against Bette’s cheek, her hips angled to try and draw Bette into her. But it was wrong, the jeans too tight to touch her properly. And so with a kiss to Ruth’s shoulder, her neck, her nose, her mouth, Bette made her way down the bed.

Ruth sat up as she did, pulling the black top over her head, revealing the bra Bette had seen earlier in the evening. She looked, Bette realized, apprehensive. Nervous. As if this, the taking their clothes off bit, might be a dealbreaker, the moment when Bette decided she wasn’t actually that interested. It was incomprehensible.

“I’ve been wanting you like this,” Bette said, surging back up the bed to kiss her mouth, bending down to press her lips to the top of each breast. “Thinking about this all day. For—for way longer than today.”

She pulled Ruth’s jeans down, along with her socks. There was an odd moment of awareness, of realizing she was still completely dressed as she stripped Ruth beneath her. But they could focus on her later. She settled herself between Ruth’s legs, pushing them wider to give herself the room she needed. The thighs on either side of her were pale, the skin delicate and soft, and she sucked kisses onto them, higher and higher as Ruth’s breaths became more ragged, her hips rocking up in pursuit of Bette’s attention.

Bette looked up and found Ruth propped up on her elbows, looking back at her, her hair hanging down into her eyes. She tucked her fingertips beneath the seam of Ruth’s knickers that sat at the very top of her thighs. Ruth gasped and nodded, muttering something that sounded like please, please, please, please. And so Bette ran her fingers beneath the fabric, the angle right this time. Ruth groaned.

“I want to go down on you,” Bette said again, reveling in knowing and articulating exactly what she wanted, her cheek pressed against Ruth’s thigh. “Is that okay?”

“How are you still asking?”

Bette laughed and then knelt up and dragged Ruth’s knickers down her thighs, down her calves, off her feet, before settling back down between Ruth’s legs. She ran a gentle thumb where she was swollen and slick and soft. Ruth groaned again, flinging an arm up and over her face. Bette pressed with more surety, holding her open, and dragged her tongue over her. She tasted of sweat and heady sweetness. Bette took her time, and when she had added to how wet she was, when she could feel her tongue gliding effortlessly over the delicate skin, she began to suck.

“Bette, fuck—oh—” Ruth breathed, a hand traveling down to grasp the back of her hair, as if there was danger of her stopping, of her ever wanting to be anywhere else.

She kicked the blankets off the bed entirely, until the sheets were all that was left beneath them. They were so starched and stiff, and Bette could feel them along her forearms. It should have been uncomfortable. It should have been too cold; November was days away. But all she could feel was the warmth of Ruth, was Ruth’s body making space for her. She took her time, her lips soft, kissing and licking and sucking Ruth over and over, aware of her hips pressing up in search of more.

Ruth’s hips were right; it still wasn’t enough. Bette wanted to be closer. She pulled Ruth’s leg tightly over her shoulder, encouraging her to dig her foot in. Ruth took the hint, pressing her heel into Bette’s vertebrae as Bette moved a hand under her, digging her fingers into the soft flesh of her arse. Her tongue was working over Ruth, finding the places that made her keen and squirm, learning a rhythm that sent her voice higher, that made her lose control of her hips and breath. Ruth’s hand was firmer in Bette’s hair, her heel pressing down harder. She worked her way further down and pressed a firm tongue inside her. Ruth’s hips jerked and she shouted out.

“Bette—can you—” There was nothing more, but Bette took a guess, closed her mouth back over her and sucked. She ran her tongue back and forth as she felt Ruth tense and then shake beneath her, crying out as the hand in Bette’s hair tightened and pulled. Bette kept her tongue gentle but relentless, not letting up, until the hand in her hair tugged her backward, Ruth gasping and whispering, “Stop, stop, I can’t—too much—”

The leg that had been over her shoulder fell to the side and Bette knelt on the bed, stroking gently at Ruth’s thighs, trying to calm her trembling. Her breathing was labored, her skin covered in goose bumps, her eyes squeezed tight. Instead of soothing, Bette’s touch seemed only to intensify things, and Ruth shook her head back and forth beneath her arm, flushed all the way down her chest to her belly.

“No, Bette. I can’t. You can’t,” she said, sounding strained and desperate.

“Unless, I mean—I definitely could? If you want?” Bette said, sweeping her hand higher, her fingers moving back through the hair that grew at the junction between Ruth’s thighs. She laughed, as Ruth’s body shook, as her hip rocked, as she sought Bette’s hand. “Tell me to stop, Ruth. I mean, you could tell me to stop. You should just tell me to stop. If you want.”

A groan started in Ruth’s chest as Bette touched her gently, bringing just her fingertips back to where she was tender and still slick. She rubbed in gentle circles as Ruth’s leg began to shake again, before bending over and biting a kiss to her belly. She closed her mouth over the lace of Ruth’s bra and sucked on her nipple, feeling it pucker and harden beneath her tongue.

“Come here, come up here,” she heard Ruth say above her, and Bette lay down on the bed next to her. Ruth wrapped an arm around her neck and kissed her fiercely, desperately, her tongue seeking out the roof of Bette’s mouth. They kissed and they kissed. Bette’s fingers continued their gentle circling until Ruth’s mouth slackened and their kisses became little more than breathing and gasping into each other’s mouths. She pushed two fingers into Ruth’s mouth to suck on and bite as she came again, her eyes still squeezed tight, her face screwed up, every inch of her gorgeous. Afterward, her mouth open, eyes still closed, catching her breath, she turned her face toward Bette and buried it, hot and damp, into Bette’s neck.

“Just give me—” she started, “and then—sorry—” Ruth said, still out of breath. “It’s your turn. Oh my god. I can’t believe you’re still dressed.” She looked down. “Bette, your shoes are still on. Get it off. Come on. All of it.”

“You don’t have to—” Bette started, but Ruth cut her off with a kiss.

“Off,” Ruth reiterated.

Bette stood beside the bed and Ruth watched her, one eyebrow cocked, still in her bra without any knickers on. It was absurdly hot.

“Come on then,” Ruth said, expectantly, pushing herself up onto her elbows with what looked like real effort.

“You don’t have to watch. This isn’t some striptease or—I don’t know—oh fuck off,” Bette said as Ruth laughed wide and bright. She kicked off her shoes without unlacing them and pulled her top over her head, tossing it to the side. “I’m taking my clothes off, but I don’t want you to think this is me trying to be sexy. Like, if I wanted to give you a striptease, I would, and it would be incredibly hot, but it’s not the time and so this is just me getting naked.”

“And yet it’s still incredibly hot,” Ruth said, her eyes trailing down to where Bette was unbuttoning her skirt, pushing it over her hips. She unclasped her bra and stepped out of her knickers, and then lay down next to Ruth again before she could think too much about the nakedness.

Ruth’s hands knew exactly where to travel to make her feel sexy: her collarbones, her nipples, the side of her rib cage, the dip of her waist, her inner thigh. Bette rocked her hips into Ruth’s, and a thigh pushed up between her legs. They moved together, sweat between their bodies, searching for a rhythm, Ruth’s breath ragged again already.

“You’re so wet,” she said, gripping Bette’s earlobe between her teeth.

It was impossible to argue now that her knickers were off. She was already so sensitive, and shuddered as soon as Ruth’s hand found her.

“Sorry, yeah, I mean—well. You’re hot. Watching you was hot. It really did it for me.”

“How could you possibly be apologizing to me? It’s so hot, Bette.” She kissed her, hard, biting. Bette tasted blood. “Can you—? Actually—come on.” She guided Bette onto her knees, encouraged her to sit astride her shoulders. Bette’s arse rested on Ruth’s chest, the lace and metal of Ruth’s bra imprinting themselves into Bette’s flesh. “I’m still not sure my limbs are working enough to fuck you with my hand. Which is absolutely your fault. So just—yeah—yeah, that’s it.”

She ran her hands down Bette’s back, gripping onto her arse and encouraging her to kneel a little higher.

“You okay?”

Bette nodded, forgetting that Ruth couldn’t see her face any more, and then gasped as she felt Ruth’s mouth. It was hot and wet, and her thighs quaked. It was going to be over so quickly. She was far too worked up already, and Ruth’s mouth was perfect. Ruth’s hands were gripping far too tightly, tightly enough to bruise, and that was perfect too.

It all went hazy impossibly quickly; she’d been determined to remember every moment, but she felt drunk on Ruth. Later, she would remember that she was technically still a bit drunk on tequila too. But at that moment it felt as if all that existed in her body was connected to Ruth, as if she’d taken over every part of her. Long before she wanted to come she was falling forward into the headboard, every extremity in her body tingling, every nerve set alight, her chest heaving.

She eased herself up and collapsed down next to Ruth, her feet against the headboard, both of them facing the ceiling, top to tail in the bed. Her body was emptied out, ringing and clear, a crystal glass traced with a damp finger. Ruth reached for her hand and threaded their fingers together.

They would talk about it in the morning.