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The new decade finds Jessie doing several things she never thought she would do, whether through lack of opportunity or lack of bravery or simply never knowing they were within her reach.
The first of those is her and her family’s move to London. In the year or so since the spate of murders in Wychwood-under-Ashe that claimed her late husband and her sanity, at least temporarily, the village has turned from a safe haven to a stifling reminder of sordid happenings. Wherever Jessie turns, there’s a ghost of an old friend and the pang of a reminder of their absence. Not all of which are as pleasant as being unshackled finally from Edward. On Sunday mornings she raises her voice in song and is acutely aware of the missing harmonies in the congregation.
And so, her daughter and newly-minted son-in-law return from their Lake District honeymoon to an official-looking letter confirming Dr Thomas’s new job at a hospital in the city. Plans are put in place for them all to leave the village behind in the 1950s and forge a new path forward.
****
Jessie spends the first few months of the move helping Rose get their new house in order – good-natured discussions about the best way to arrange the kitchen and the shared living and dining room furniture, alongside Jessie pretending to ignore Rose’s raised eyebrow at her decorating choices for her own quarters.
Edward always thought a liquor cabinet should be something hidden out of the way, filled with dusty bottles for use only on very special occasions, and he refused to countenance having bright colours for furnishings. Now Jessie has a sitting room all for herself, gained by converting the second bedroom on the top floor where her bedroom and bathroom are located. So of course she’s going to set-up a glass-fronted cabinet where she can view the labels of the bottles she’s picked up and dream about the various concoctions that she can make with them as she wriggles her slippered feet into the brightly-patterned rug at the foot of her two-seater sofa.
In return, Jessie leaves Rose and Geoffrey to the other floors with their bedroom and Geoffrey’s study and the debate over whether it’s jumping the gun to mark out the smallest bedroom as a nursery or not.
They settle into their new life, finding a church in their leafy suburb and the beginnings of a community from that and Geoffrey’s new colleagues. It’s not so different from their old village that Jessie feels like a fish out of water, there’s a comfort to finding commonalities with the new people she meets. But now, she’s also a short train or bus ride from the hustle and bustle and excitement of central London, and has the newfound freedom that allows her to explore that.
****
One afternoon finds her in Harrods, taking the excuse of looking for fabric options for new kitchen curtains and other haberdashery errands to finally get to see the department store. She knows it’s not a new innovation but, oh is it new to her. The uniformed employees with courteous greetings as she browses and the novelty of seeing different goods for sale all in the same building. It feels like the height of luxury compared to the small haberdasher’s of Wychwood where Mrs P would sniff at Jessie’s orders for patterned dress fabric and take the details of her purchases away to trade for village gossip.
Jessie leaves the haberdashery department with several swatches of fabric in her bag to take home and talk over with Rose. She asks a shop assistant for directions to the tearoom and gets pointed through one of the fashion boutiques towards the lift. She does not get that far, however, instead stopping sharply in front of a display mannequin clad in a blouse and trousers.
She’s never worn trousers. Even during the war when half the women in the village signed up for the Land Army and donned that practical uniform, she had not been one of them. Rose was young enough, and Edward busy enough as a doctor, that she had been needed at home still. Her war-work was all fundraising events and knitting for the Red Cross, not anything that provided a novel experience. And then afterwards. Well. It wasn’t the done thing. Trousers were a bit modern for staid, traditional Wychwood and certainly for the attire of the doctor’s wife.
The trousers in front of her now aren’t simply practical, they’re fashionable. You wouldn’t wear these for farm work, the material is far too nice a quality for that. Almost frivolous, she thinks and then banishes Edward’s voice elsewhere.
“They don’t bite, you know,” The voice comes from over Jessie’s shoulder and she startles, dropping her hand from where it had reached out to tentatively feel the material. She turns around, nervously smoothing out her skirt, wondering who’s approached her here.
It’s not a department store employee, it turns out. It’s a young lady of a type that Jessie would only expect to find in the big city – bright orange hair, a fashionable fringe, and an outfit that strikes a bolt of jealousy through Jessie as soon as she claps eyes on it. Cream blouse and green and orange checked trousers matching both her green coat and her hair, and Jessie wishes she was wearing an outfit even half that coordinated and stylish. Yes, she has her pearls and her favourite bright-red earrings but her blue cardigan and plain skirt feel dowdy and the pattern on her blouse feels… garish where previously it had felt bold and daring.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger continues.
“You didn’t,” Jessie lies. The stranger raises one eyebrow, a hint of a smile on her lips, and Jessie back-pedals, “I mean, it’s fine. All tickety-boo, no harm done.”
“I adore that pattern on your blouse, do you often wear bold patterns?” the woman forges on, barely waiting for Jessie’s answer in the affirmative, “Because a couple of pairs of plain trousers would go well with that style, maybe navy?”
Jessie opens her mouth to demur, to excuse herself and continue on with her original plan, but then she sneaks another glance at the mannequin and imagines swapping out her skirt for a pair of navy trousers. A pang of intense longing hits her square in the chest and she instead replies, “I could be convinced.”
“Then consider me the devil on your shoulder,” The stranger smiles widely and offers her hand for Jessie to shake, “Patience Mount, but people call me Patsy.”
“Jessie. And I’d be very glad of your assistance,” she returns the greeting, then looks round for a shop assistant or a clothes rack for the next steps, skin thrumming with new-found excitement that stutters as she remembers, “Oh but I don’t want to impose on your afternoon.”
“No worries there,” Patsy states, so matter-of-fact that Jessie instantly believes her even before she explains, “It’s my day off and I’ve already got the results of my errand so I am free as a bird,” she leans forward with a smile as though sharing a secret, “And if I spend this afternoon making a new friend then that’s the most perfect use for it.”
“Tip-top.”
Jessie lets Patsy lead her over to a clothes rack to browse the selection, soon garnering the attention of an assistant who advises on sizing and ushers her into a changing room. Patsy waits the other side of the curtain, passing pairs of trousers to her one at a time in a positive rainbow of colours.
Jessie tries a navy pair first, as Patsy had suggested. She sheds her skirt and pantyhose, and pulls on the pair of trousers, fingers fumbling the fastenings with her excitement. She takes stock of herself in the mirror, not sure what she expected to see. Did she think it would be an ugly duckling transformation? The ageing widow transformed into a bright, young thing?
“Getting on alright in there, Jessie?” Patsy calls through the separating curtain, “Let me have a look, I’m dying to see whether I was right with the colour choice.”
This distracts Jessie from her introspection and she pushes open the curtain for Patsy and the assistant to see.
“That suits you perfectly,” Patsy nods, satisfied. The assistant chimes in, checking the fit and proclaiming the sizing to be correct, “Do you like them, Jessie?”
“Oh, I do,” Jessie twists round, looking at her reflection again, Patsy over her shoulder in the mirror, “Although it does feel rather daring to be wearing something this close-fitting...”
“The cut is hardly scandalous,” Patsy reassures, “And you have wonderfully long legs, you should show them off.”
“Yes, but, at my age?”
“What is it they say? ‘If you got ‘em, flaunt ‘em’?,” Patsy puts on a mock American accent and Jessie giggles, then asks for the next pair to try on.
She leaves the boutique with two brand-new pairs of trousers: the navy and a second pair in burgundy, which Patsy had insisted she choose after they saw how perfectly the colour matched her earrings. The assistant asks if she’d like to wear either out and, on a whim, Jessie agrees, letting her fold the skirt up in the bag with the burgundy pair as she dons her brand-new navy trousers.
****
Jessie insists on treating Patsy to tea and cakes in the store’s tearoom as a thank you and the other woman readily agrees. They’re seated at a table and before long are deep in conversation over tea, carrot cake, and a cigarette apiece.
She learns that Patsy is a nurse and midwife, working in the East End with an order of nuns, and asks a flurry of questions about her training and work. Patsy answers each one with careful thought and precision, scattering in personal anecdotes and a dash of wit such that Jessie begins to paint a picture of the other woman in her mind.
“Do you have experience of nursing, yourself?” she asks when Jessie’s questions run out, taking a drag of her cigarette and holding it elegantly, elbow resting on the table.
“Oh, no,” Jessie demurs, “But my son-in-law is a doctor so one picks up the occasional bit of terminology,” she pauses for a sip of tea and then adds, “As was my husband.”
“Like mother, like daughter, then,” Patsy quips, “Is your husband retired now?”
“No, an old friend of mine killed him,” Jessie says.
“Oh,” Patsy blinks, bewildered, and winces sympathetically, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she breaks out a genuine smile. She doesn’t want to lie and pretend that she’s unhappy about it, be the weeping widow that people expect. But nor does she want to create an awkward social situation; it’s a fine balance, she is finding, “But that’s a story for another time, if you don’t mind. Now,” Jessie leans forward eagerly, “Have you got a gentleman friend?”
“Absolutely not,” Patsy says firmly, smirking in such a way that Jessie feels like she’s missing the joke.
The pot of tea drained, nary a crumb of cake remaining and the cigarettes smouldering in the ashtray make the two women conscious of the afternoon drawing to a close. Jessie feels panic rising in her chest, she’s enjoyed making a new friend but realises now that her skills and habits for cultivating friendships are tailored to a small village where you can pop round easily and assume that the other person will be attending all the same social events. This, in London, is something new.
She is saved by Patsy’s next question, “I say, I don’t suppose you’re free a week on Friday? It’s my next day off and I was planning on going to the pictures.”
“I’d love that,” Jessie replies instantly, before the habits of a lifetime of manners force her to add, “So long as I wouldn’t be intruding on you and your friends, of course.”
“You’d actually be doing me a favour – the shift schedule is rotten at the moment and I would have to go alone otherwise,” Patsy makes deliberate eye contact and continues, “Which is not to say that I wouldn’t have invited you otherwise.”
“Splendid,” Jessie tucks her hair behind her ear as she ducks her head with a pleased smile.
****
The trip to the pictures is an absolute delight. A couple of hours of luxuriously-comfortable chairs, complete with ice creams and a lively discussion about the film afterwards as Patsy walks with Jessie to the underground station.
The outings continue – more cinema trips, Jessie procures tickets for a theatre show and spends the next three days humming the songs, a bracing walk down by the docks for cockles and chips that Patsy assures her are worth it, various cafes and tearooms where Jessie finds she has as much to contribute to the conversation as the younger woman.
There’s an invitation to lunch at Nonnatus House for a special occasion and wasn’t that an experience for Jessie – meeting Patsy’s friends and colleagues, a mixture of the ‘bright, young things’ who Jessie envies less and less with every new experience she has, and women of her age and older who have carved out a place for them that’s not dependent on a husband and family or that exists alongside that role.
Months after that initial meeting, Jessie now counts Patsy among her closest friends and, with the younger woman’s unbridled support and encouragement, puts more and more roots down in London such that her previous life in Wychwood has all but disappeared over the horizon.
****
“It’s a great opportunity, you should both go!” Jessie says enthusiastically as she and Rose wrestle with the bedsheets. Rose had told her mother that one of Geoffrey’s old medical school friends has invited the couple up to Scarborough for a long weekend, tentative with the suggestion, “Get a bit of sea air and sunshine, lovely idea.”
“Are you sure?” her daughter gives her a searching look. The only time they’ve left her alone since Jessie’s mental breakdown was their honeymoon and even then, Rose and Geoffrey had drafted in multiple cousins and aunts to come and keep her company for the fortnight.
“Positive,” Jessie gives her daughter’s hand a squeeze to emphasise her answer, “I’ll arrange something with friends. Maybe take advantage of having the house all to myself.”
“The rugs and curtains need a good spring-clean,” Rose remarks.
“I will not be doing that.”
****
What Jessie does end up doing is inviting Patsy to stay for a couple of nights. Initially, she had invited her over for an evening of finally using her liquor cabinet to make cocktails and not just as a piece of decorative furniture. But then the logistics of that and Patsy’s work schedule had worked out so that they would be able to make a weekend of it. Patsy promises to bring cocktail recipes and any missing ingredients, and Jessie goes about her preparation for a house-guest with a spring in her step.
One cocktail in finds the pair up in Jessie’s sitting room, she’s perched on her two-seater sofa, glass in hand, watching Patsy sort through her liquor cabinet. She pulls out a bottle part-filled with bright green liquid and exclaims, “Jessie, you’ve been holding out on me! You didn’t tell me you had crème de menthe in your possession!”
“I only keep that one for the bright colour,” Jessie protests, waving Patsy off with her glass, “I tried it once and it was absolutely vile!”
Patsy frowns, “What drink did you make with it? That makes such a difference, you know.”
“Just on its own, in one of those glasses,” Jessie mimes the shape with one hand and Patsy fills in ‘martini glass’. Jessie remembers exactly when it was – barely days after her husband’s death and torn between the euphoria of freedom and the stress of it all.
“Jessie…!” Patsy fixes her with the most reproachful look, “You’ve not properly tried it then,” she looks between the bottle in her hands and the others in the cabinet, thinking, “We’re missing some ingredients, that’ll be one for tomorrow evening.”
The second cocktail has Jessie watching, entranced, as Patsy squeezes out some lemon juice and spreads out sugar on a plate, dipping the glass in the juice then the sugar to line the rim ready for the next drink.
Three cocktails and Jessie puts a record on the gramophone to play in the background and unpins her hair from where she’s worn it up all day. She lets the golden curls tumble down as she sways gently to the music, noting that dancing may be one of the few activities that she does prefer in skirts, the material swishing in time to her movements.
The fourth drink has them both sat on the sofa, Jessie with her elbow resting on the back and her head propped up by her hand listening to Patsy talking about her day at work. The midwife refers to one of her patients expecting her sixth child and Jessie cuts in, musing.
“I never understood that.”
“Hmm?” Patsy tilts her head, not following.
“How people can bear to have so many children.”
“It does make for a hectic household, not everyone’s cup of tea,” Patsy agrees, “And, of course, pregnancy itself is hardly a walk in the park. But–”
“No, no, not that part of it,” Jessie interrupts to clarify, lifting her head from where it’s resting and sitting up a little straighter, “The making of them. You hear things, don’t you? About accidental pregnancies, late in a marriage. Siblings much younger than the oldest children.”
“That’s extremely common, yes,” Jessie can see in the furrow of her brow that the younger woman is still not quite with her.
“Well, I mean… Why do they keep, you know?”
“Having sex?” Patsy fills in, perfectly matter-of-fact.
“Do you get special training on how to say that without stumbling? My oh my,” Jessie hides her sudden flush in finishing off her drink, “Anyway, once we had Rose, I never saw the point of it,” she confides, the words tumbling out secure in the knowledge of a sympathetic listening ear, “Edward seemed to enjoy it, I guess. And I am glad for Rose. But otherwise…”
She pulls a face at Patsy that she hopes communicates exactly what she thinks of the act in question. The younger woman seems pensive. There’s perhaps something else in her expression, the specifics of which the cocktails are concealing from Jessie.
“Did you really never enjoy it?” she asks, and Jessie considers the question. She thinks back to the early days of her marriage, when Edward was a dashing older gentleman and not. Well. What he became.
“There was the occasional… tingle,” Jessie admits, “But it really never seemed worth the effort. All that… fumbling.”
She shudders dramatically and opens her mouth to change the subject, but Patsy halts her with her hand on Jessie’s where it rests on the back of the sofa, “My understanding of being with someone that way, is that – when it’s done right – it’s supposed to feel like more than just a ‘tingle’,” Jessie feels her breath hitch, from what she’s not sure. The openness and honesty in her friend’s expression? Feeling listened to, for once? “If one believes the films, it feels like fireworks,” Patsy continues in a lighter tone.
“Edward was definitely doing something wrong then,” Jessie states, deadpan. She catches Patsy’s eye and they both dissolve into giggles.
A new song begins and Jessie springs up from the sofa, putting her glass on the side and gesturing to Patsy to join her, “I want to dance, I love this one!”
Patsy throws herself into the upbeat rhythm of the music alongside her. Red curls bobbing in time to the music and motions, lost in it such that Jessie sheds the last of her own self-consciousness about her dancing, swishing her skirts and trying to match Patsy’s steps.
The song fades out and the next one takes its place, a waltz. Jessie sighs, swaying along, “Oh, I haven’t danced a waltz in years.”
Patsy holds out her hand immediately, “Let’s fix that.” Jessie beams at her and takes her hand, stepping into Patsy’s hold. Her dance partner starts a count, giving Jessie a moment to prepare before leading her in the steps.
It’s possibly not the most polished waltz Jessie has ever been a part of, the small-ish dance-floor of her sitting room and their slightly inhibited states from the alcohol causing the odd stumble and narrowly-avoided piece of furniture. But Jessie is almost oblivious to all that, focussed on the feel of Patsy’s hands at her waist and holding her own, giving gentle nudges that Jessie can follow without thinking. Instinctual, as the best partnered dances are.
The song changes once more and Jessie has no desire to break the hold and stop dancing. Patsy perhaps feels the same, shifting the hold to something less formal with one hand on Jessie’s shoulder and the other on her hip. Jessie mirrors it, swaying in time still.
The change in hold has the added effect of pulling Jessie closer towards the other woman. She feels a stirring in her chest that she hopes isn’t the four cocktails. It likely isn’t, it feels more pleasant than that. Patsy’s hand on her hip shifts slightly as they dance, ruffling the hem of her blouse and there’s an eruption of sparks, a fizzle under her skin, at the point where bare skin meets bare skin.
Jessie feels like she can barely breathe, all of a sudden. Heart racing and the only thing she is aware of is all the places where her and Patsy’s bodies are touching one another and the warmth she feels there. She turns her head towards Patsy and is confronted with the desire to lay her head on the other woman’s shoulder. Just like a hug, she thinks, no harm in that between friends.
She does so, and feels Patsy stiffen ever-so-briefly before relaxing again and wrapping her arm round Jessie’s waist. They’re technically still dancing, the slightest shuffle of feet as the music plays on and eventually fades out, breaking the spell.
Patsy clears her throat and pulls away, all kind practicality again as she suggests they both call it a night. Jessie agrees, showing Patsy to Rose and Geoffrey’s room turned guest room and bidding her good night.
Jessie herself lays in bed for a good while, thinking about the events of the evening. She’s never felt like that with any previous dance partner. Maybe it was the alcohol, she reasons, but then, I’ve hardly been a teetotaller, I know what it’s like to be drunk and this… wasn’t that.
She thinks about the sparks when Patsy touched her, and the other woman talking earlier about intimacy and fireworks. Jessie’s final thought before sleep claims her is wondering whether Patsy had been speaking from her professional training there, or from personal experience.
****
The following evening, Patsy produces another bottle and some fresh cream, having disappeared for an hour or so that afternoon on ‘errands’. Jessie had spent the time focussing so completely on the task of polishing the silverware that there was no room for any pesky continuation of the previous night’s thoughts. Until, that is, she became conscious of the tune on her lips, the hum of the waltz echoing through the empty kitchen and her feet tapping in time.
She sighed, and surrendered to the feeling. She has spent far too many years sticking to the path laid out for her by other people; it’s time to pursue her own path.
In her sitting room that evening, Patsy plucks out the crème de menthe again, turning to Jessie and wiggling the bottle playfully, “I’m going to make you something with this.”
“If you think you can make it palatable,” Jessie replies, still sceptical. She’s settled comfortably on the sofa, cigarette in hand. Before Patsy returned home, she had donned her new burgundy trousers, wanting the reminder of how it felt to choose something new for herself. The other woman had greeted her with enthusiasm for the outfit, making Jessie twirl round to see it properly and bestowing a compliment that made the blonde’s heart feel full.
“I promise I can,” Patsy states and, again, Jessie believes her instantly. She relaxes, listening to Patsy talk through the ingredients for the Grasshopper and watching her measure each one out into the cocktail shaker. Patsy pours the creamy green liquid into two martini glasses and joins Jessie on the sofa, handing her one of them.
Jessie takes a tentative sip and lets out a pleased hum at the creaminess, with the chocolate and mint flavours complementing one another well enough to banish the memory of the last time she tried crème de menthe. She catches Patsy looking very satisfied with herself as she sips her own drink.
“Where did you learn how to lead a waltz?” Jessie asks, a little while into their conversation. It’s one of the questions that has been buzzing around her head to ask Patsy throughout the day.
“All girls’ school. Some of us had to learn the leading part otherwise the dance classes would have been an abject failure. The waltz, we learned in school, but there was a group of us who ran after-hours dance classes that the nuns wouldn’t have approved of – jive, jitterbug, that kind of thing.”
“What terrific fun!” Jessie exclaims, “Can you teach me?”
Patsy finishes off the last of her drink with a determined look, “Let’s see how much I can remember!” She rifles through Jessie’s records, pulling out a suitable album and setting it up on the gramophone. Jessie takes a last sip of her drink before standing up. She will admit, to herself at least, that she has an ulterior motive to suggesting this. She wants to see whether the feelings of the previous evening will repeat themselves, without the multiple drinks this time.
Patsy demonstrates the basic steps of the jitterbug, Jessie following along reasonably well, she thinks. Patsy takes her hand to commence a partnered dance, and the moment their hands touch Jessie has to suppress a gasp from the jolt she feels. Nevertheless, she continues with the dance. The jitterbug isn’t quite as close-quarters a dance as the waltz but the connection needed with your dance partner is such that all her senses are trained on Patsy. The pressure of her touches nudging Jessie one way or another, seeing her steps and trying to copy them, her voice counting and naming steps, issuing praise when Jessie nails a move.
It is an intimacy unlike any that Jessie has so far experienced.
Eventually, the record stutters to an end, concluding their impromptu dance lesson. Patsy is breathing heavily, flushed but smiling widely and Jessie is sure she looks the same way. Patsy drops the dance hold, and before she can step away Jessie steps forward. She presses a kiss to the younger woman’s cheek, thanking her as she does.
Patsy doesn’t step away. Jessie wonders if she should but, fiddle sticks, she doesn’t want to. She wants to stay there, a hair’s breadth away from this woman, close enough that she can see how the flecks of grey and blue in her eyes muddle and blend together.
Patsy’s eyes flick downwards, and Jessie’s widen as she realises why that is. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips nervously, and she asks, “May I…? I want to try something.”
Patsy nods, the barest dip of her head, and Jessie moves to press their lips together in a tentative kiss. Patsy sighs into it, emboldening Jessie to wind her arms around the other woman’s neck. They stay like that, gentle movements and the weight of Patsy’s hands at her waist. The sparks from their contact and closeness setting Jessie alight and stoking a flame, a desire that spreads throughout.
Jessie feels the other woman pull back slightly, breaking the kiss despite her protest. Patsy rests their foreheads together and murmurs, “I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”
“Really?” Jessie asks, struck with wonder at her confession.
“Since our first cinema trip – I saw that cute wrinkle of your nose when you tried the choc ice and was a goner.”
“That long?”
“Afraid so,” says Patsy and Jessie beams, kissing her again. It starts uncoordinated, Jessie not quite sure what to do with this idea of kissing for the sake of kissing itself, but then Patsy brings a hand up to cup her cheek and nudges Jessie to tilt her head, deepening the kiss. Taking the lead, just like in dancing, and Jessie follows gladly.
She weaves a hand through red hair and presses herself closer to the other woman, not sure if that will further stoke this flame or quench it. The hand on her waist slips under her blouse, igniting further fires while also holding her steady in Patsy’s embrace.
Jessie wants to stay in this moment, she does; but she also wants more, wants to see what other feelings this woman can elicit from her, wants to see what it’s like to go to bed with someone capable of kindling this desire in her.
She breaks their kiss, smoothing out where she has ruffled the other woman’s hair and collar, gently stroking the soft skin at the base of her neck, “Patsy, you’ve done this before, right? With other women?”
“I have, yes.”
Jessie drags her gaze from the hollow of the other woman’s throat to make eye contact as she asks, “Can you show me what you were talking about yesterday? With the fireworks?” Patsy nods, slowly, and Jessie answers the question in her eyes, “I’m sure. I want you to take me to bed.”
Patsy kisses Jessie almost reverently, tucking her hair back and framing her face with her hands. Then, Patsy’s hand in hers, Jessie follows her to the next room, her bed waiting just as she’d left it oh so long ago, this morning.
She slips each button of Jessie’s blouse undone, gently sliding the material off her shoulders and taking care to fold it neatly on the dresser. Then her hands move to the waistband of her trousers, pausing once more to ask if she’s sure. Jessie answers by undoing her trouser fastening herself with a grin and sees Patsy relax slightly. She pushes the material down, stepping out of them and moving to recline on her bed as Patsy folds the trousers up for her.
Jessie watches as Patsy undresses down to her underwear as well. She wonders if she should feel nervous about this, but chases the thought away. It feels like there’s a hot coal in the pit of her stomach and the moment that Patsy joins her in bed, she draws the younger woman into a kiss and feels the coal emit sparks.
Patsy gently presses her into the pillows, moving her lips away from Jessie’s and trailing down her neck. And further, she kisses the swell of her breast, stroking along the top of her bra. Grey eyes meet her brown ones in another question as Patsy’s fingers move to the fastening. Jessie thinks she breathes out a ‘yes’, or maybe it was some other sound that marked her assent.
Patsy tosses her bra in the rough direction of her dresser, although neither woman cares to confirm for sure. The redhead cups her breast, bringing a thumb to stroke at the nipple; Jessie gasps and arches, one hand curling into the bedsheets and the other flying to Patsy’s neck to pull her in for more kisses. They kiss as Patsy’s hands roam across her skin, finding the spots that cause Jessie to moan into her mouth.
Jessie feels something building, that hot coal glowing more fiercely, igniting flames within. Patsy pulls away and Jessie almost whines, the other woman issuing gentle reassurance as she eases Jessie’s underwear down her legs. Patsy pauses, kneeling between her legs, one hand rubbing gentle circles into her hip. She murmurs, “You’re so beautiful,” and Jessie twists her head to the side, her instinct to deny the compliment, or avoid it. Patsy leans forward, a hand on her cheek to ensure eye contact and repeats, “Beautiful,” sealing the compliment with the softest kiss.
The kiss turns heated as Patsy lowers her weight again, Jessie clutching at her, needing something that she doesn’t yet have the words for. Patsy understands, nevertheless, her hand venturing between Jessie’s legs.
Suddenly, her fingers find a spot that sends an electric current through Jessie’s body. She gasps out a question and Patsy replies with a name that sounds straight out of one of her nursing textbooks but that holds a burgeoning wealth of new possiblities.
She strokes at it again and Jessie hooks her leg around the back of Patsy’s thigh, as though she could pull the other woman any closer. The sensations continue, and Jessie hears herself moan, a string of yeses and Patsy’s name spilling out as the other woman kisses her breast again, taking her nipple into the wet heat of her mouth.
The fire builds and builds, and Jessie gives herself over to it completely. She puts herself fully in Patsy’s hands, trusting whole-heartedly that she will navigate the way to the other side.
Patsy’s hand between her legs strokes her firmly and she feels something detonate inside, a pressure valve released, unleashing a constellation of pleasure.
Fireworks indeed, she thinks, coming back to herself.
Patsy curls into her side, resting her head on Jessie’s shoulder and she entwines their hands where they rest on her breastbone.
“Thank you, darling,” Jessie murmurs, when she’s caught her breath. She feels Patsy smile into her shoulder. They lie like that for a while until Jessie’s thoughts clear up and she realises that this has been rather one-sided. And she’s had quite enough of that in her marriage previously. She nudges Patsy so they’re facing one another and asks, “Can I return the favour?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’d quite like to,” Jessie pauses, adding, “Though you might have to talk me through it a bit.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Patsy shifts and wriggles out of her underwear, telling Jessie to sit up against the pillows. She faces Jessie and kneels over her thigh, resting against her such that she can feel coarse hair and wet heat against her skin.
“Oh, I wasn’t expecting that to feel warm!” Jessie breathes in astonishment.
Patsy rests one hand on Jessie’s shoulder and tucks a stray bit of blonde hair behind her ear with the other, “Shows you how much of an effect you have on me, Jessie,” she says, with her characteristic straightforwardness, honesty written all over her face.
It’s not that Jessie hadn’t believed Patsy earlier, when the younger woman spilled out compliments to her beauty. But there is a startling difference between hearing the words and feeling her hot against Jessie’s thigh, the physical evidence of her attraction.
Patsy starts to move, rocking back and forward, moaning softly as she does. Jessie wants to participate, to help, to bring Patsy those same feelings she has just experienced. She brings her hand to Patsy’s breast, remembering what felt good for her and doing her best to mimic that. She’s rewarded by a gasped-out ‘yes’ and Patsy leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss.
Encouraged, Jessie trails a line of kisses down Patsy’s neck and along her collarbones. Patsy guides her movements with a heady mixture of gasps, moans and affirmations.
Patsy’s movements become irregular, her words breaking. On a whim, Jessie brings her hand to where Patsy is rocking against her. She fumbles slightly, looking for that spot that the other woman had used to great effect on her own body. Eyes fixed on Patsy, she sees her mouth fall open slightly and a frantic nod and realises she’s found it. She strokes it, Patsy rocking against her hand now, and her partner reaches climax with what is, to Jessie’s ears right now, the most beautiful sound she’s heard.
Jessie has never been such an active participant before. In sex, in her life even. As Patsy rests their foreheads together, coming down from her high, a satisfied smile creeps onto Jessie’s face and she wonders what will come next.