Chapter Twenty
Sharon
Like a Virgin by Madonna
I swear I’ve never had a thing for nurses, but with Kate sitting astride my lap, her uniform pushed up her thighs, and strands of her dark hair falling out of her normally tight chignon, I think I’ve just unlocked a new kink.
And who am I to have kinks? I’m a virgin. Kate is the first and only woman I’ve ever kissed. And right now, she’s the only woman I want to kiss, which is a fact that shocks me as much as it annoys me.
But I want it too much to deny it.
So I lean forward, bring one hand to the back of her neck and pull her to me.
But she doesn’t move. I feel her push back against my hand.
A hot wave of discomfort washes over me.
Have I got this all wrong? I fall back against the couch cushion and look up at her.
Her smile could be one of pure self-satisfaction or pure playfulness. I can’t decide.
“Put your hands on my thighs,” Kate tells me.
I look at her thighs. She’s wearing tights or stockings in a sheer black. They’re sinfully sexy. Like I know I’ll never forget them no matter how hard I try.
“Don’t you want to touch me there?” she asks.
My mouth goes dry. “Yeah, I do,” I croak.
“Then do it,” Kate orders.
Still I don’t move.
“I want you to touch me.” Her voice has softened. “I want you to take what you want from me.”
I lift my hands up and I swear they’ve never felt heavier. My eyes track them as they land on Kate’s thighs, just above her knee, and I’m pretty sure she’s studying them just as closely.
“Move them higher,” she tells me.
“Higher?”
“Yeah.” She gives me another knowing smile. “Don’t you want to know if I’m wearing tights or stockings?”
I lick my lips, desperate for some moisture to return to my mouth. And I slowly slide my hands up her legs.
Her skin is warm, even through the nylon, and I can feel the firmness of her muscles. Lifting my gaze from my hands to her face, she smiles at me as my fingertips disappear under her uniform and it’s a different smile than before. There’s kindness in it, and maybe some pride too.
If this was a test, I’ve passed and I hate how good that makes me feel. I hate how much I’m at Florence Fucking Nightingale’s mercy right now.
But as my fingers brush up against a rougher texture – the lacy tops of stockings, and the hard plastic nub of a garter fixing – I don’t think anything could stop me.
“Stockings,” I tell her.
Kate nods. “Do you want to see them?”
I nod before I even know my head’s moving.
She brings a hand up to the top button of her uniform.
I watch, mesmerised, as she undoes them one by one and the little hints of her it reveals – a flash of peachy-white skin, a brief glimpse of a black bra – have me holding my breath.
When she finally shrugs off the dress and is fully revealed to me, I feel lightheaded.
Her bra is black cotton and more functional than anything else, but the way her nipples push up against the fabric, small and hard and eager, I think is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
But then I look down and see a pair of red knickers in both silk and lace, and I swear the world starts spinning a little faster on its axis.
“Do you always wear knickers like that to work?” I can’t help but ask. They look incredibly sexy, but also incredibly uncomfortable.
“It’s laundry day tomorrow. Finally, a day off,” she explains with a quick roll of her eyes. “Only you would complain about me wearing my sexiest pair of undies.”
“I am not complaining,” I protest quickly. “Not at all.”
I slide my hands up her thighs even higher and touch the thin waistband of her knickers that is decorated with lace.
My fingers burn with the contact. I can hardly believe how soft and warm the skin is on her hips, and for a moment I have the urge to remove my hands.
It’s like the heat is telling me that I’m doing something wrong.
I’m too close to a flame. But then I take a breath and realise that the very opposite is true.
I’m not too close to a fire. I am the fire.
My body is on fire, because I have never wanted anything more than this woman.
“You approve?” Kate asks, resting her arms on my shoulders.
I blink up at her. Is this really happening? Is this my life?
“Yeah, I approve,” I say and wish my voice wasn’t so dry and gravelly.
“Show me,” she says and she shifts in my lap, slipping down my legs, an action that widens her own. “Show me just how much you approve.”
Oh, God. She wants me to take control? What with my grand total of seven minutes of experience…
The panic crawls across me slowly and at the same time, Kate leans in and whispers in my ear, “Remember. I’ll be very pissed off if you feel forced to do anything you don’t want to do.”
It’s not her wrath I fear. It’s the possibility that this – whatever is happening – will end, be taken away from me.
That’s what I fear. That’s what gives me enough courage to pick up where I left off moments ago – one hand on her neck, the other gripping the top of her thigh – and I stretch forward and find her mouth with mine.
While there is still hunger in our kiss, just like there was when we kissed against the kitchen counter, it’s a little more subdued.
Maybe it’s because I already have more closeness with Kate and more of her bare skin exposed for me, but while I don’t want her any less, I find myself wanting to take my time.
To commit every movement – the way the tips of our noses brush as we change sides – and every sound – her deep exhales and my barely muffled moans – to memory.
Not because I plan on forgetting this moment as Kate dives down and starts licking and sucking on my neck, but because I need to remember that it happened.
That I am not the untouched, uptight, undesirable virgin I thought I was destined to be.
That the way I look, the way I am, can be wanted, seduced and feasted upon, just like Kate is doing now as she starts to roll her hips on top of me.
“You taste a lot sweeter than I expected,” she mumbles into the skin just under my shirt collar.
“You thought I’d taste bitter?”
“I thought you’d taste… savoury.” She pulls back so we can look at each other.
That stills my hands which were lost in her hair. “Savoury? You make me sound like a packet of crisps.”
“Well, you do have a habit of being a bit salty sometimes,” she challenges me with a wicked grin.
“That’s rich coming from you,” I say, taking my hands off her, but in the process her hair falls out of its clip almost completely. An irritated sigh leaves her lips but she reaches back and pulls the clip out, and her hair tumbles all around her shoulders.
I don’t like long hair. I don’t want long hair. But I have to look away from Kate now because she has never looked more beautiful and I’m afraid my eyes will tell her exactly this if I keep looking at her.
“How are you feeling, Sharon?” She pinches my chin and brings my eyes back on her. I’m grateful for her nails digging into my skin as it makes it much easier to not compliment her right now.
“Good,” I answer truthfully.
“Want to keep going?”
“Yeah,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. If she thinks she can scare me out of this, she’s very, very wrong.
“Hmm,” is her only response until I’m aware of her arms moving behind her back and then the black cups of her bra are gone. My eyes drop. Her breasts. Florence Fucking Nightingale’s breasts are right there.
It feels like a cold sweat is breaking out on my forehead.
Fine. She can totally scare me out of this. By just taking her fucking bra off.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Before I’ve finished exhaling or opened my eyes, Kate’s voice is in my ear, soft and low.
“Touch them, Sharon,” she says. “I know you want to.”
And I do. Fuck, I do. My fingers twitch with the desire to touch those hard nipples, to cup her whole breast, to see if my hands can cover her tits completely.
“Please,” she adds, her tone pirouetting on that thin line between sickly-sweet and endearingly gentle.
I start at her waist, gripping the narrowest part of her frame in a clumsy, heavy-handed way, but it helps. It helps me find reassurance that she’s real. That she’s right here.
Then I slide my hands up either side of her body, wondering if hers is the softest, smoothest, warmest skin in the world, or if all women feel like this and I can’t figure out what I want the answer to be.
My fingertips are the first to mount the small curve of her breasts and there’s a firmness there that my own don’t have.
It's not surprising, and in a strange way, it’s also not disappointing.
I don’t feel like my body is lacking or wrong because it feels and looks different to Kate’s.
If anything, I’m pleased. It makes me so much more curious as to what else is different about Kate’s body.
With my left hand, I cup Kate’s right breast, and with my right hand, I find her left nipple.
Almost by instinct, my thumb and forefinger rub the erect point and it’s a small shock when that prompts a deep moan from Kate.
I look at her face and marvel at the closed-eyed, open-mouthed expression there.
She’s enjoying this. She likes how I’m touching her.
That does more for my confidence than anything and I play with both of her nipples.
Rolling, pinching, flicking, giving them little pulls and firm presses.
Kate whimpers and moans and starts rocking her hips again.
She does it so much that she starts to move down my legs and her groin brushes up against my stomach.
When Kate took her uniform off, I had not only panicked about seeing her naked, I had panicked at the prospect of her seeing me naked.
At that moment, I didn’t want that. But right now, I don’t know if that’s still true.
Because to have her silk-covered mound press against my bare skin – even the rolls of my stomach – would feel like a gift.
“Now with your mouth,” Kate says, a little breathless.
“My mouth?”