Emma Cuthbert
No one has ever looked at Belle like this. Not with hunger – she’s had that – but with patience. Like Emma has already decided what she’s going to do and is in absolutely no rush to do it.
They stare at each other, from opposite ends of the sofa. Red wine in hand; Vapour Soul playing on the record player. They know what’s coming. Belle rearranges herself, the pulsing between her legs getting harder to ignore.
Emma breaks the spell and looks away. She uncurls her legs as she stretches over to place her wine glass on a book.
Belle watches, eyes skimming the soft skin of Emma’s arms, working her way up from her hand, adorned with gold rings, to her decolletage.
Her hair is shorter than Belle remembers, swept back from her face, and Belle can’t look away from those cheekbones, her clear skin, the way her lip curls just to one side.
Emma is wearing jeans and a ribbed white tank top that fits tight against her chest – no bra in sight.
Belle bites her lip. Tries not to stare again and fails.
‘I’ve been imagining you here, on this sofa, since we first met.
’ Emma’s voice is deep, a London accent with a Scottish twang.
Belle feels her cheeks turn hot. She too had been imagining this for weeks.
Lying awake, phone hot in her hand after another late-night call, imagining the feel of Emma’s hand reaching between her thighs.
And now it was really happening and she couldn’t remember how to breathe.
‘Come here,’ Emma says. Belle puts down her glass without looking where it lands. She crawls over, the sofa soft and unsteady beneath her, and wobbles slightly – nervous, vulnerable, made worse by the way Emma’s expression deepens as she watches.
She kneels next to Emma, who takes her face in her hands, leans forward and kisses her.
Emma’s skin is soft and smooth against hers.
The absence of stubble is a joy. Belle closes her eyes and lets herself fall into it.
Emma’s kisses are more tender than she’d imagined, and she’d imagined this a lot.
She tastes like cherries, wine. She inhales the scent of Emma now: a radiating warmth, of faded perfume and saltiness.
‘Do you want this?’ Emma whispers between kisses.
‘Desperately.’ Belle feels a thrum in her chest, her hands shaking as Emma leans back and gently removes her own top.
Belle takes a sharp intake of breath at the beauty in front of her.
She notices a tiny freckle under the left breast and wants to touch it, trace it, memorise it.
Wants to run her tongue across Emma’s collarbone, down to where her nipples stand, hard and waiting.
Emma reaches forward now and removes Belle’s top, while her eyes continue to devour her.
‘Get undressed,’ she whispers.
Belle’s breath stops. A command. Emma has given her a command and Belle’s whole body wants to obey. Her hands go to her skirt before she’s decided to move them. She shimmies it down slowly, not breaking eye contact, half-terrified Emma will look away. She doesn’t.
She watches as Emma arches her hips, sliding her jeans off. Then her pants. Black. She is perfect. Belle could sit here forever, tracing the paleness of her skin, the soft dip of her waist. Except she was getting wetter, and Emma hadn’t even touched her yet.
Emma motions for Belle to come closer and, once within reach, pulls her by hips and guides her to her lap. Belle wants to press against her, wants to feel her chest against hers, but is scared to move, in case it shatters the moment.
Emma leans in and kisses Belle’s breasts, prickled with goosebumps, almost vibrating with anticipation. Belle’s hands reach for her own hair, shaking it free from her ponytail, and she can’t help it anymore, as she rolls her hips against Emma.
Emma turns Belle around on her lap. She stares out into the open room and is met with her own gaze in the mirror leaning against the bookshelf opposite.
Belle watches, mouth open, as Emma uses her leg to push Belle’s thighs apart.
She watches as Emma kisses her neck. She watches as Emma reaches around to pinch Belle’s nipple.
She watches as Emma reaches her other hand between Belle’s legs.
Watches as she draws small circles on Belle’s clit, which is wet and ready.
Belle is practically shaking.
She stops thinking now and just feels. She melts into Emma’s warm chest behind her, reaching her own hands back to Emma’s thighs, desperately pulling her body closer. Emma gets the hint.
Belle grinds into her hand and Emma’s rubbing gets harder, more urgent. She can’t help the moan that escapes her mouth as Emma inserts a finger. Belle’s body judders, unable to keep still. She feels the pressure building as Emma kisses her neck, nibbles it, breath hot and rippling against her skin.
Belle can’t think of anything apart from the feel of Emma’s fingers moving inside her. She claws her nails into Emma’s thigh. Emma’s other hand now reaches around to touch herself alongside Belle.
Emma’s fingers match Belle’s breathing, speeding up when Belle’s hips stutter, slowing when she gets close.
She teases. She draws it out. Her breath is ragged against Belle’s neck, both of them moving together, and Belle feels the wave building, unstoppable.
Emma’s fingers curl just right and when Belle comes, Emma’s name in her mouth, she feels herself let go completely.
Emma shudders behind her a moment later, breath catching, and they stay there – tangled, panting, real. No performance. No worry. Just this.