The Friendship Fling

38 impatience is a virtue

38

impatience is a virtue

Ava

He closes the distance between us like he’s trying not to disturb the air; his breathing steady, no sudden movements, intention painted across every pane of his face. When we’re only a couple of inches apart, his eyes dart frantically between mine; the only giveaway there’s something erratic taking place below the surface.

My hands find their way into his hair and he brings his forehead against mine. I taste the mint from our toothpaste on the air as we breathe each other in, lips almost touching, nothing but our resolve separating us now.

‘Ava,’ he murmurs. He wraps my name in velvet and I want to curl up in the softness of it.

Finally, when it feels like my entire body is aching, our lips meet, the softness of his a stark contrast against the scratchiness of his stubble, and my brain short-circuits as it tries to make sense of what’s happening. He teases my mouth open with his tongue and I let him in, my hands snaking into the hair at the nape of his neck.

This is different. This isn’t the frenzied moments we’ve had before. This is slow, deliberate. It doesn’t escape my notice that it should be the most urgent time of all.

He kisses like he’s been away for a decade, like he’s telling me ten years’ worth of stories with every minuscule shift in position. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe he’s storing up these seconds like they’re the life source that’ll sustain him over the coming months.

The realisation hits me like a punch to the gut. I wish I were ready for Finn the way he wants. I wish we were right for each other, at the right time. Because I want to know his sleepy morning kisses and sweet welcome-home kisses and heavy-eyed carnal kisses. I want him instantly, slowly, all at once, bit by bit, now, tomorrow, always. But somehow, all we have left is tonight.

‘Can we pretend we have more time?’ My voice comes out as a whisper against his lips.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says, planting delicate kisses along my jaw. ‘We have all the time in the world.’

With the languid pace of his tongue and the slow trail of his hands down my body, I almost believe him.

When one hand makes its gentle way down my spine, resting at my lower back, it’s too chaste and I’m too eager, so in the least subtle message in history, I grip his wrist and move his hand to my ass, and he may be in the midst of attempting some kind of Regency-era gentlemanliness, but his fingertips still dig into the softness there.

‘I meant the time thing on, like, a larger scale,’ I say, tugging him closer by the hair. ‘I didn’t mean I wanted it to take an hour to get all our clothes off.’

His laugh rumbles through me and it sets off an avalanche, all coherent thought cascading down a hillside and into the valley below. Incidentally, below is where a lot of feelings are surging at the moment.

‘You’re rushing me.’ His lips press against my collarbone. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. Slowly .’ He emphasises the last word by dragging his mouth up my neck, breath sending waves of heat radiating across my skin until it settles between my thighs.

‘I’ve wanted it for longer,’ I admit, though truthfully, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I started aching for him like this.

‘I let you think you’re right about a lot of things, Ava Monroe,’ the nip of his teeth against my skin sends a current through me, ‘but I’m willing to fight you on this one.’

My hands run along his shoulders and down his chest to the hem of the stupid dinosaur top and he pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. I briefly wonder if other people are as turned on by mundane things like that as I am, or if I’m just preternaturally horny.

‘Why do you ever wear a shirt?’ I ask into his mouth, grazing his torso with my fingers and leaving a goosebump trail in my wake.

‘Why do you ever wear a shirt?’ He tugs mine off in another movement that, yes, also gets me going, and dips his lips to where my neck meets my shoulders as he mutters, ‘It’s sickening.’

I unhook my bra, and when he looks at me, lids heavy, pupils blown out, I think I might finally have the upper hand. I take the moment of distraction to press against him, and he lets out a groan as our chests touch. We must be part of the same circuit, because electricity conducts through every point our skin connects, and any time we pull apart the energy crackles, desperate for somewhere to go.

‘You’re going to be the death of me,’ he rasps, long fingers skimming my sides. All the usual warmth of his voice has burnt away, leaving nothing but texture in its husk.

‘I know.’ As gentle as he’s trying to be, one part of his body spoils the game. I run my hands up his hips, then along his waistband. ‘Did you wear these on purpose?’

‘They’re no grey sweatpants,’ he manages, mostly succeeding at maintaining eye contact while my fingers find the taut skin of his stomach, muscles flexing against my touch.

‘And yet, you’re still getting slutty.’

He laughs despite himself, and I watch his face change as one of my hands moves lower, as I apply the softest pressure over the fabric. His attempts at staying composed are admirable, but when I take hold of him through his trousers and begin to move my hand slowly, purposefully, his eyes blaze and his jaw tightens.

He grabs my wrist just as he lets out a quiet fuck . The kitchen counter presses into my lower back as he leans in to kiss me again, and more want gathers between my legs every second.

‘Off,’ I say, my hands making their way back to his waistband.

He ignores my request and moves his lips up my throat, lapse in composure all but forgotten, and his ease sends me reeling. I’ve never been willing to get on my knees and beg for a man before, but at this point, my morals are out the window.

‘Always so bossy,’ he replies, punctuating each word with a kiss.

I let my fingers tangle in his hair. ‘I like to be in control.’

‘I know you do. But can I tell you a secret?’ He takes my chin in his hand, angling my ear to his mouth, and whispers, ‘So do I.’

The sound travels down my entire body, and I can barely think straight when he finds a new target. Two new targets, in fact. I squirm as his tongue drags, as his lips close over me, and it takes everything in me to force the next words out. ‘I have a question.’

‘I’m listening,’ he says, although the way he’s using his mouth and hands feels like something that would require a lot of concentration. At least, it’s definitely taking me a lot of concentration to talk through it.

‘What do you call your penis?’

‘Are you asking if I’ve given it a nickname?’ To his credit, he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, and his words buzz against the skin of my chest.

My hands run along his neck and shoulders, so sharp from the hours he spends in the pool. ‘I mean, how do you refer to it?’

‘Do you ask this,’ he grazes my nipple with his teeth and it takes everything in me to keep from whimpering, ‘to every person you sleep with?’

‘What makes you think we’re about to sleep together?’ He pulls back, and at the sight of me practically panting, the quirk of his utterly self-confident smirk tells me he knows there’s nothing on this planet that would make me want to stop this right now. I continue, ‘And yes. It’s actually part of my standard pre-sex survey. Answer the question.’

He kisses my forehead and sighs, and the sound is half affectionate, half long-suffering. ‘My dick?’ He catches the relief on my face. ‘That’s the right answer?’

‘Correct. Not cock. Never cock.’ I kiss him, satisfied with his response, and the subject in question presses between my legs with every movement. ‘You may proceed.’

‘Thanks so much.’ His teeth pull at my bottom lip. ‘On a completely unrelated note, your dirty talk needs some work.’

‘You don’t need me to talk dirty.’

‘I don’t,’ he says into the space between our mouths. ‘But you’re a strange woman sometimes, I hope you know that.’

Not strange enough to scare him away though, I notice, because it’s then that he discovers a sense of urgency. Breaths come faster, tongues push deeper, hands grip harder, and the force of all of it pushes me backwards out of the kitchen.

‘We’ve waited this long,’ he mumbles against me as we stumble into my room. ‘I wasn’t going to let this happen on a counter next to the fucking crumpets.’

‘But crumpets are sexy,’ I say, my calves hitting the mattress. ‘All those—’

‘I swear to god, if you say “holes”, I’m gonna leave.’ I fall on to the bed and his arms cage me in. ‘And we all know the sexiest bread is focaccia, anyway. So let’s move on.’

A laugh spills out of me and his eyes light up in response, before he moves me further up the bed until I’m leaning against the pillows, half naked and buzzing with anticipation.

‘Beautiful,’ he mutters, so quietly I think he might not have meant to say it out loud. But then he meets my gaze and says it directly to me, his voice clear. ‘You’re beautiful, Ava.’

The sardonic part of my brain wants to tell him to stop using that mouth for words when he could be doing other things with it, but truthfully, he’s setting off fireworks either way.

He folds his glasses with a soft click and leans over me to set them on the nightstand, torso grazing mine, and then he moves back down to my breasts; tongue and teeth skimming skin while I scrape my nails along his scalp, his neck, his shoulders, determined to savour every point of contact. His hands snake to the waistband of my shorts, stopping at my thighs and stomach and ass on the way, digging into the flesh like he’s not convinced it’s real.

He grips the fabric at my hips and breathes, ‘Can I?’

Taking my nod as his cue to continue, he pulls my shorts and underwear off tantalisingly slowly, kissing along the inside of my thighs, my knees, my calves, all the while moving further away from where I want him, taking my restraint with him as he goes.

As the world’s current most impatient woman, I move my own hand between my legs, and a gasp escapes me at the contact, drawing Finn’s heavy gaze first to my fingers, then up to my face. I don’t break eye contact as I touch myself, enjoying the way he swallows, the way he fidgets slightly to relieve the pressure in his trousers, the way he takes short, sharp breaths through parted lips as if he’s the one doing any of the work right now.

For a few wordless moments more he watches and listens, and then he’s kneeling between my legs, gently taking my hand away and tracking the movement as I bring it up to my mouth. When I suck my own fingers clean, I swear he looks at me like I’m some kind of god. It makes sense, because there on his knees, he could be a disciple praying at an altar.

But then he pushes my legs further apart and drops his head between my thighs, and I wonder if he’s the Devil instead.

‘This isn’t fair on you,’ I say, ignoring my increasing breathlessness as he cups my ass to angle me closer to his mouth, as his fingers work in tandem in all the right places. ‘I got all the fun last time.’

‘Believe me,’ a hand presses me against the bed by the stomach while his tongue almost sends me into orbit with one deliberate stroke, ‘I’m having fun.’

It doesn’t take long before my hips take on a mind of their own, rocking forward to meet him, warmth spreading through me until the sparks ignite into an inferno that sets every nerve ending ablaze. My back arches as I grab at his hair and the sheets, dimly aware I’m crying out, so blissfully absent I don’t even know where I am, or if the fire will ever go out.

Once my contented body has burnt down to embers, I pull him on to me and register every inch; the strong line of his shoulders, the firm muscle at his back, the urgent thump of our hearts beating in time like the Doomsday Clock.

My hands tug at his hair as his lips find their way back to mine, and we move back into a heady rhythm of tongues and sighs and gentle movements that satisfy me for maybe twenty seconds, before the desperation hits me again and I remember how much more I want to do.

‘Do you trust me?’ I ask, meeting molten eyes.

An incredulous laugh tips out of him, and for the first time since we met, he replies, ‘Not at all.’

I push him on to his back and make my way down his body until I’m kneeling between his legs. He leans against the pillows, one arm folded behind his head while he watches my hands trail down his broad chest, past the dusting of dark hair below his belly button, until they’re at the top of those godforsaken pyjama bottoms.

‘Can I?’ I repeat his question to me.

‘Please,’ he says through another laugh.

Then he’s naked too, and I finally wrap my fingers around him, skin to skin, relishing the feel of this unchartered territory and the reaction it elicits from the man underneath me. I move my hand slowly at first, watching each rise and fall of his chest, listening for every deep sound he makes.

When I bend down to taste him, eyes meeting his just as I make contact, his head lolls backwards and he lets out a string of expletives that go straight to my ego.

‘Ava.’ He says my name like it’s water in a drought, and he drinks it up, and I drink him up too, completely inebriated on the way he reacts to every pump of my fist, every glide of my tongue.

Leaning forward to scoop my hair back with one hand and hold it in his fist, he murmurs, ‘I’ve always liked your hair in a ponytail.’

I hum in response, and when his eyes drop to mine again, I think he might ascend there and then.

As a man who, generally speaking, cannot shut up, I could’ve predicted him to be vocal. But I didn’t expect to enjoy the words that spill out of him as much as I do; the violent praising of my mouth, my body, even my ‘illogical cynicism’ at one point, which is a new one for the bedroom but, well, it does the job.

‘You know,’ I release him from my mouth with a quiet pop, ‘dicks are objectively kind of hideous, but yours could be a lot worse.’

‘I’m really gonna miss that way with words,’ he says hoarsely, lightly tugging my ponytail with one hand while the other roams as much of my body as he can reach, sending shivers reverberating across my skin like ripples in a pond.

‘Is it the only thing you’re going to miss?’ I run my tongue upwards and the noise that comes out of him is almost primal.

After a few more laboured breaths he lets go of my hair and reaches towards me, pulling my face back to his and tasting himself on my tongue, making the weight below my stomach ache even more than I thought possible.

I lift my legs over his hips to straddle him, aware of how painfully close we are, how my insides feel like a maze of tripwires just one mistake away from detonation.

‘I want this. But do you want to keep going?’ he asks, running his hands up my sides and resting them in the dip of my waist.

‘Obviously,’ I rasp, unsure how exactly I could make my intentions any clearer at this second. ‘I thought you were smart.’

I rest a hand on his torso to steady myself as I stretch across him to dig through my bedside table.

‘There’s nothing stupid about consent,’ he replies smoothly, tearing open the foil packet and, because he is Finn O’Callaghan, handing me the wrapper to throw in the bin while he rolls the condom on.

‘You sound,’ I lean forward to kiss him, tasting toothpaste and lust and that unnameable thing that’s been building between us for months, ‘like a sex education video they’d show in schools.’

And then I put both hands on his chest and sink on to him, and I don’t think there’s any universe where this happens and I don’t make a borderline-embarrassing noise at the feel of his body so profoundly interlocked with mine. His thumbs dig into the creases between my thighs and hips as I shift position, slowly easing him out and back in, setting a pace where every movement is torturously drawn out.

His grip on my hips tightens with each passing moment as he guides me on to him, a vein straining in his neck as he watches me. I’m certain no one’s ever looked at me like this before. The usual playful ease in his eyes is now blistering lava instead, and it sears into my skin every time his gaze moves over me. I’m probably being selfish, because what I’m doing has to feel better for me than it does for him, but nothing in his body language tells me I should stop. It’s only when I’m teetering on the edge that he slips a hand between my legs, moving his thumb in response to my quickening pace and shortening gasps. Then, that familiar warmth spills over me like bottled sunlight tipped from my head to my toes, and all I can do is ride it out until I’m a shuddering, boneless wreck against his chest.

I press against him while I attempt to regain control of my breathing; my face tucked into his neck, mouth somewhere near his Adam’s apple. I feel his quiet voice vibrate down his throat when he says, ‘My turn.’

Before I know what’s happening, he’s turned us over again, hands landing on either side of my head. He doesn’t move other than to brush my cheekbone with his thumb, and the longer he stays like that, the more eager I get.

‘What are you waiting for?’ I ask. ‘Do you want me to say please?’

He chuckles, a huff of air pulsing between us. ‘No, I don’t want you to say please.’ My lips come apart to meet his and his tongue makes a lazy journey towards mine, curls tickling my face as he moves. ‘We’re just friends, aren’t we?’

I reach between my legs to position him. ‘I’m not feeling very friendly right now.’

‘Good.’ He kisses along my jaw to my lips and then pulls back, and I watch his focus change as he pushes inside me again. ‘Me neither.’

He moves against me painstakingly slowly, never quite giving me all of him the way I want, and it turns me into a writhing mess.

‘Come on ,’ I beg, clutching his arms and shoulders, feeling the muscles move under his skin, willing him to go faster.

By the clench of his jaw I know he wants it too, but there’s a familiarity to the way he’s taunting me. The mischief in his eyes grows with every needy whine I let out, and I realise he’s handling me the way he always has; with aggravating patience and a smirk.

The heat of his mouth drags up my throat and he asks, ‘What do you need from me?’

‘I need you to stop fucking around.’

He laughs, and it appeases a little of the mess in my head. ‘Wrong answer.’

‘You already know what I need,’ I say, shifting position, trying to generate some friction.

‘Probably,’ he replies, nose nudging my jaw. ‘But I want you to tell me.’

The truth rises to the surface when his gaze meets mine. ‘I need however much you’re willing to give me.’

It’s quiet for a few moments, just our ragged breathing breaking the silence.

‘I’d give you everything, Ava,’ he whispers at last.

There’s a flicker of sadness in his eyes, but I don’t want that, not now, not when we’re doing this.

So I wrap my legs around his back and dig my heels in, pushing my hips towards his as hard as I can. The new angle forces out a low noise from deep in his throat, and that’s all it takes for him to drive into me harder and faster at last; my entire body rocking with the force of it, mattress springs complaining with every movement, moans I can’t control tumbling from my lips.

I wind my fingers into the mess of his hair and pull his face towards mine, trying to catch his kiss in the chaos and missing his lips almost every time. I refuse to forget what he feels like, sounds like, looks like in this moment; fierce eyes, sweat forming at his hairline, words spilling out of him that might be curses or compliments or both, melded together into a kind of furious reverence.

A sharp gasp escapes me when he hits a certain spot, and he slows instantly, chest heaving. ‘Are you okay?’

I lift my hips to meet his in response and he pushes into me again, forcing the headboard against the wall with a thud. Then he drops on to his forearms, and even when we’re pressed together like this, I still wish we could be closer, somehow.

We move against each other with increasing urgency and I know he needs me as much as I need him, because just before my world erupts, he breathes, ‘You.’

And I get it.

You holding the door open for me, you bringing me into the sunlight, you waiting for me to burst into colour and sound before you let yourself unravel too. You, me, two ends of the same thread unspooling as one.

You, you, you.

Finn’s fingers draw lazy circles on my hip as we face each other in the dark, the gap in the curtains casting a cool strip of moonlight over his face.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you.’ He kisses my forehead and lets out a sigh before he continues. ‘You don’t have to feel the same. But I had to say it.’

His honesty spears my heart. My own emotions are too tangled up to unpick while he’s still here. I feel the weight of time on our shoulders, and the right words stick in my throat. Instead, what comes out is, ‘You’ve always been very patient with me.’

‘Should I not have been?’

His eyebrows draw together and I reach a hand out to smooth his forehead. ‘I’m not sure I deserve it.’

‘I wanted to know you, Ava. However long it would take. For months,’ his fingers trail past my waist, up to my shoulder, dusting my skin with sparks, ‘I’ve had to pretend the sound of your laugh doesn’t make me want to fucking skip . Had to pretend watching your face light up while you do really bad karaoke doesn’t take all the oxygen out of the room. Pretend being near you doesn’t make me feel like I’m in the presence of a star exploding. It’s suffocating.’

‘Sounds painful,’ I offer weakly, stupidly. Right now, enveloped in silver moonlight, I’m an imposter in someone else’s life; a person who lets herself receive forehead kisses and comparisons to the stars.

‘I’m sorry if I keep saying things that are too intense. I just . . .’ His hand moves to cradle my face. ‘I wanted you to know. That’s all.’

‘I’m sorry for being the world’s worst compliment receiver.’ I turn my head to kiss his palm. I want to live in this feeling. In this possibility. ‘And I’m really sorry this hasn’t worked out the way we might’ve wanted it to.’

‘Me too,’ he says softly. Then he presses his lips against my shoulder and his breath tickles my skin as he laughs. ‘We’re apologising too much. What’s something you aren’t sorry for?’

I let the question sit between us. There’s so much I could say, but even the thought of it weighs on my chest. ‘I’m not sorry for lying to Josie about you being my friend.’

He tilts my chin up and our lips meet, and I wonder how much he knows I’m holding in. How deeply I wish I could be as open as he deserves. How painfully my heart wrenches, knowing that might never happen.

But tonight isn’t about never. It’s not even about tomorrow. So we kiss further, deeper, limbs intertwining, hands and mouths dragging across skin, and we have unhurried, lazy sex in our own bubble, where time doesn’t pass and people don’t leave.

By the time I wake, there’s no imprint on the pillow next to me. I squint against the light spilling through the split in the curtains, groggy but well rested. There’s something twisted about the fact it’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had since Max told me his news.

When I sit up to hunt for my phone, I spot a blue T-shirt folded up on my dresser next to a lurid green plant pot. I know I shouldn’t do it, I know I should try to make things easier for myself, but I put it on, relishing the way it smells like Finn. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what London looks like without him. Today, I’ll let myself miss him.

My phone tells me it’s just past midday, and aside from the usual meaningless notifications there are two texts from Finn.

finn : I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye, it felt too final

The second one was sent two hours later.

finn : I promise I’ll come back

Despite the walls, despite the defences, Finn worked his way in. He found the soft spots and made a home there. Now, a torn-off piece of my heart is currently miles above the Atlantic, and I feel it like a phantom limb as time and distance stretches between us. No stone left unturned, but plenty left unsaid.