Girlfriends

“There are approximately a hundred coffee shops on this street, next time you could be more specific?”

She rolled her eyes and indicated the latte on the table before me.

 “I got you the usual didn’t I? I apologised that I didn’t realise there was a branch of Caffe Nero at either end. I bought you a brownie.”

The cake had a thick layer of white chocolate coating the top.  

 “Forgiven, then.” I gave in and sat down next to her. Our booth was the furthest from the front door, partially hidden behind the awkward angle of a wall to nowhere between the counter and the kitchen.

 She sipped her tea and broke the corner off my brownie.

 “I should bloody well hope so.” The chocolate disappeared between her lips, but one or two crumbs fell and landed on her breasts. She was wearing a velvety top which was very low cut, even for her.

 “Meeting someone?” I asked idly. She looked at me a bit funny.

 “Yes. You.”

 “Oh.” I said. I think I blushed, even though I didn’t know why. I shifted my gaze from her cleavage to the plate in front of me with difficulty.

 Sometimes in the course of a text conversation – often late at night – our interactions get flirty. Friendly compliments seem to be become slightly tinged with something else. I’ve been asked to critique tasteful nudes before she sent them to her partners. She would listen as I described in a little too much focus how wet a one night stand had made me, or the rush of blood through my body when my boss stood over me, ogling my tits and demeaning me in full view of my colleagues. How I wanted to jump him right then and there. I stopped abruptly and apologised for oversharing but she wanted me to go on, falteringly admitting how turned on she was.

 Something changed. Neither of us knew why but neither wanted to stop it.

 We talked about work for a bit, just a general catch up really.

“I got fitted for a new bra. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing matching top and bottoms!” She was gleeful, like a child. I’d noticed the corner lick of lace when I was staring at her breasts, earlier.

“Let’s see!” I said, half joking half desperate all of a sudden and she grinned, made a great show of looking about her to make sure the coast was clear and then suddenly the warm velvet ripples of her bodice had melted away and her breasts were all I could see, creamy-white and caressed by pale blue and black lace. The material was flimsy, her nipples extremely visible even in the unreliable cafe light. She slowly made herself presentable again. Sipped her coffee. I couldn’t really think straight. Of course I couldn’t.

“Now you.” She said, neutrally. A passing waitress slowed her steps, wondering if we were trying to flag her down but she went merrily on her way when she saw neither one of us needed her.

“I don’t match.”

She didn’t say anything; instead she reached over matter of factly as the waitress vanished behind us, and brazenly snaked her hand inside the collar of my blouse, finding my shapeless, mumsy bra with my nipples pressed tightly against the ancient fabric.

Her face was very close, I could feel her breath on my neck, her shoulder and thigh pressed very firmly against my own. She took my hand, lying uselessly in my lap, and drew it towards her, between her legs, under her skirt and up, between her thighs where the sister in black lace was damp and fragrant.

Her lips left a glossy red heart on my neck.

“I don’t care.” She whispered.

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