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Andy had spent a week saving edits of Jude Bellingham, and Emily had spent the same week pretending it didn’t bother her, and by that morning, both of them were done pretending.
The phone stayed facedown on the kitchen island for approximately twelve minutes, which was, by Andy’s standards, a personal best in the field of digital restraint. Emily drank her coffee in the measured silence of a woman who had already won and was simply waiting for the other party to notice. Bronwyn, sensing that the entertainment value of the morning had plateaued, left with the sitter who had come to take her to a friend’s for a sleepover, pausing only for a final parting shot about “twenty-eight if you count the one in drafts!” which made several expressions fight for control of Andy’s face and Emily’s mouth tighten by a fraction of a millimeter.
Roark left for training not long after, muttering something about set pieces and looking, as he always did when leaving the house, as though he were being torn from the sole source of tactical insight in the greater New York area. The front door closed. The townhouse settled into that charged quiet that only occurred when the children were gone, and both adults were still in the same room and neither of them had decided what to do about it yet.
Andy tried first. She always did.
“Em.”
Emily set her cup down with a soft, deliberate click. “Yes.”
“You’re still doing the thing.”
“Which thing?”
“The face. The one that says you’re calculating the exact emotional distance required to make me feel slightly insane.”
Emily considered her. “I am not calculating anything. I am simply existing in the same kitchen as a woman who has developed a parasocial relationship with a midfielder young enough to be her—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“—intern,” Emily finished, mild as milk.
Andy came around the island. She moved the way she always moved when she was trying to defuse something. Open hands, soft mouth, the particular tilt of her head that said she knew she had been caught and was prepared to be charming about it. Emily watched her approach and felt the familiar, inconvenient heat that arrived whenever Andy decided to be soft on purpose.
“I retired. You heard me. Retired. No more edits. Cold turkey. I am a changed woman.”
“You saved twenty-seven of them.”
“Twenty-three.”
“Bronwyn said twenty-seven.”
“Bronwyn is a liar and also my favorite person and also a traitor, but the number is twenty-three.”
Emily’s gaze flicked, once, to the phone. “Show me.”
Andy’s hand hovered. “What?”
“Show me the ones you saved. All of them, properly this time. I want another look at the competition.”
“There is no competition.”
“Then it should be easy to show me.”
Andy unlocked the phone with the air of a woman walking toward her own execution. She opened the album. Emily took the device, scrolled with one elegant thumb, and said nothing for a long time. The silence stretched. Andy watched her face the way she watched match highlights, Jude taking his shirt off, hunting for the small tells, the micro-expressions that meant something was about to happen.
Emily stopped on one specific frame. Jude looking back over his shoulder in slow motion, hair damp, jaw clenching. She held it up between them.
“This one.”
“Yeah.”
“You paused on this one this morning. You said, and I quote, ‘that is an absurdly attractive man.’”
Andy’s ears went pink. “I was among friends.”
“You were among my daughter.”
“Same thing sometimes.”
Emily set the phone down. She did not raise her voice. She never needed to. “Andrea.”
The full name landed the way it always did, soft and sharp at once, a warning and an invitation. Andy’s pulse did something undignified in her throat.
“Yes?”
“Come upstairs.”
It was not a request.
Andy followed.
The bedroom was still in the soft, late-morning light that made the white sheets look almost blue. The CHARLTON jersey was exactly where Emily had left it the night of the match, folded with military precision over the back of the chair, name facing out, a quiet accusation in polyester. Emily closed the door. The click of the lock was soft but sharp.
Andy stood in the middle of the room in yesterday’s soft T-shirt and the same jeans she had thrown on to make coffee, hair still messy from sleep. She looked like someone who had not expected the morning to turn into this kind of reckoning. Emily walked past her without touching, retrieved the jersey, and held it out.
“Put it on.”
Andy blinked. “What?”
“The jersey. Put it on.”
“Em—”
“Now.”
There was a quality to Emily’s voice that Andy had learned, over years, meant the conversation was already over. She took the jersey. The fabric was cool from the air-conditioning, the lettering stiff under her fingers. She hesitated only a second longer, then pulled her T-shirt off in one motion. Her bra followed. She shucked her jeans and underwear with less ceremony than the moment probably deserved and dragged the white England shirt down over her head.
It was too big in the shoulders and too short at the hem, the way football shirts always were when they were not made for women who had hips. The name CHARLTON sat high across her upper back. The number pressed against the soft skin between her shoulder blades. Andy’s nipples tightened immediately against the thin, slightly scratchy material. She stood there bare from the waist down, the hem of the jersey brushing the tops of her thighs, and waited.
Emily looked at her for a long time.
She looked the way she looked at a rack of samples that had somehow exceeded expectations. A little stunned despite herself. Her eyes tracked from the collar where Andy’s throat moved when she swallowed, down over the soft drape of white across her breasts, the way the fabric clung when Andy breathed, the bare stretch of her stomach where the hem lifted. Then lower, to the dark thatch of hair between her legs, and the way her thighs pressed together under the scrutiny.
“Turn around.”
Andy turned.
The name was there, bold and navy and impossible to misread. CHARLTON. Emily’s surname, printed across the body of the woman who had somehow become the center of every room Emily entered. Emily stepped in close. She did not touch yet. She simply stood behind Andy and looked at her own name on Andy’s skin as though it were a brand she had not realized she wanted until this exact second.
“My name,” Emily said, very quietly, “on your back.”
Andy’s breath hitched. “Yeah.”
“While you were watching another man.”
“Em—”
“While you were calling him Jude like you knew him. Like he might text. Like he was competition.”
Andy started to turn. Emily’s hands came up and stopped her, firm on her shoulders, holding her facing the full-length mirror so that Andy could see herself. Flushed. Bare-legged. Drowning in white polyester with Emily’s name written across her.
“Keep looking,” Emily murmured, close enough that her breath touched the shell of Andy’s ear. “I want you to see exactly what you’re wearing while I remind you who you belong to.”
One of Emily’s hands slid around, palm flat against Andy’s stomach under the jersey, then higher, cupping her bare breast. The material was thin enough that Andy’s nipple was still obvious in the mirror, stiff and sensitive. Emily rubbed her thumb over it in a slow, deliberate circle, watching Andy’s face in the mirror the entire time.
Andy made a small, helpless sound. Her hands hung useless at her sides. In the glass she looked wrecked already, and Emily had barely started.
“Sensitive already,” Emily observed, almost clinical. “You always are when you’re nervous. Or guilty.” Her other hand joined the first under the jersey. Both breasts now held bare, thumbs working the nipples until Andy’s skin grew warm and damp under Emily’s palms. She pinched lightly, rolled, then soothed with the flat of her palm. “Tell me what you thought about when you watched those edits.”
“Nothing—ah—nothing like that.”
“Liar.” Emily pinched again, gentler this time but more precise, and Andy’s knees softened. Emily caught her weight with an arm around her waist and kept her upright, still facing the mirror. “You thought about his mouth. His hands. The way he looks when he’s concentrated. You thought about what it would feel like if someone that young and that beautiful put their attention on you.”
“No—”
“Yes.” Emily’s mouth found the side of Andy’s throat, open and hot. She bit, not hard enough to mark yet, just enough to make Andy’s head tip back against her shoulder. Andy watched herself do it in the mirror, watched Emily’s auburn head bent to her neck, and the sight punched the air out of her. “You thought about it. And then you came downstairs and looked at me like I was supposed to find it charming.”
Emily’s hand left her breast and traveled down, slow, still under the jersey. Fingers skimmed the soft hair between Andy’s legs and found her already slick. Emily made a quiet sound of satisfaction against her throat and stroked once, light, just parting her. Andy’s hips jerked forward into nothing.
“Christ,” Andy breathed.
“Already wet.” Emily’s fingers slid through the mess of it, gathering slick and spreading it up over Andy’s clit in a single maddening pass. “From the jersey, or from being caught?”
“From you. Always from you.”
Emily hummed as she might almost believe it. She rubbed slow circles around Andy’s clit without quite giving her the pressure she wanted, and Andy’s thighs trembled. In the mirror Emily looked composed, still fully dressed in her morning clothes, while Andy stood bare and open and flushed under a stolen football shirt with Emily’s name stamped on her back.
“I only want you.” Andy’s voice had gone thin. “You know that. You know—”
“I know.” Emily’s voice had dropped lower, rougher at the edges. Two fingers slipped lower and pressed just inside, not deep, a tease. Andy clenched around nothing useful and made a noise she would have been embarrassed by if she had any blood left for embarrassment. “I also know that you saved twenty-seven videos of another person’s face and then looked at me with that soft expression you get when you’re trying to decide whether to apologise or dig the hole deeper. So now you’re going to stand here in my name and let me take my time.”
She pushed her fingers in properly then. Two of them, easy with how wet Andy was, curling once against the front wall just to feel Andy shake. She held them there, unmoving, while her thumb resumed those light circles on Andy’s clit. Andy tried to rock down onto her hand. Emily’s arm tightened around her waist and stopped her.
“Still. Look at yourself.”
Andy looked. Her mouth was open. Her eyes had gone dark. The jersey had ridden up where Emily’s wrist disappeared under it, and the sight of Emily’s forearm flexing as she moved her fingers inside her was almost worse than the sensation itself. Almost.
Emily fucked her like that for a while, slow and shallow, never quite enough, watching every flicker of Andy’s face in the glass. When Andy’s breathing went high, and her cunt started to flutter, Emily pulled her fingers free and wiped them deliberately on the inside of Andy’s bare thigh.
Andy made a broken sound of protest.
“Not here. Bed.”
She turned Andy by the hips and walked her backward until the backs of Andy’s knees hit the mattress. Andy sat. Emily stood between her spread thighs and looked down at her for a moment longer. Andy in the oversized jersey, bare cunt already visibly wet against the white sheets, hair a disaster, eyes dark and waiting. Then Emily reached down and dragged the hem of the jersey up, bunching it under Andy’s breasts so that her stomach and the soft hair between her legs were fully exposed.
“Lie back.”
Andy obeyed.
Emily climbed onto the bed after her, settled between her thighs, and simply looked for a long, deliberate minute. She traced one fingertip through the wetness already gathering, slow, almost idle, and watched Andy’s hips twitch toward the touch.
“Already,” she said, soft with something that might have been satisfaction. “You get this wet for me even when you’re thinking about someone else. Interesting.”
“I wasn’t—”
Emily slid two fingers through the slick folds, not entering, just spreading the wetness up over Andy’s clit in a maddeningly light pass. Andy’s sentence died in a gasp. Emily did it again, slower, and Andy’s hands fisted in the sheets.
“No more talking for a while,” Emily decided. “Unless it’s my name. Or please. Those are acceptable.”
She lowered her head.
The first drag of her tongue was slow, flat, and thorough, from the entrance all the way up to the swollen clit. Andy’s whole body arched. Emily held her hips down with both hands and did it again, and again, mapping the exact places that made Andy’s breath stutter, the exact pressure that made her thighs try to close around Emily’s head. The jersey was still rucked up under Andy’s breasts. Every time she moved, the fabric shifted, and the name on the back pulled against her skin.
Emily took her time.
She licked in long, deliberate strokes until Andy was making continuous small sounds, then switched to focused, rapid flicks against her clit that made Andy’s hands twist harder in the sheets. She sealed her mouth over her and sucked, gentle and then less gentle, and Andy’s hips fought the hold Emily had on them. When Andy got close, Emily could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her breathing went high and thin. Emily slowed. She pulled back and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the insides of her thighs instead, waiting until the edge receded.
Andy made a broken noise of protest.
“Not yet,” Emily said against her skin. “You don’t get to come while you’re still wearing someone else’s attention on your face from this morning. You come when I decide you’ve remembered whose name is on your back.”
She went back down.
This time she used the flat of her tongue in broad, messy strokes that made wet sounds in the quiet room. Andy’s head tipped back into the pillow. Her mouth fell open. Emily licked lower, pushed her tongue inside her in slow thrusts, and Andy swore under her breath, hips trying again to lift. Emily pinned her harder and fucked her with her tongue until Andy was shaking, then dragged back up to her clit and worried it with the tip, light and relentless.
“Emily—”
Emily hummed in answer, and the vibration made Andy’s stomach jump. She slid two fingers into her while she licked, easy through the ridiculous wetness, and curled them against the front wall in the exact rhythm that always made Andy’s voice go high. Her tongue stayed on Andy’s clit, firm now, and Andy’s free hand found Emily’s hair and held on without pulling.
“Fuck. Em. Please—”
Emily worked her like that until the muscles in Andy’s stomach started jumping and her cunt clenched hard around the fingers inside her. Andy was right there, right on the edge, breath held, thighs shaking.
Emily stopped.
She pulled her fingers out. Lifted her mouth. Sat back on her heels between Andy’s spread legs and simply watched her shake through the almost, the frustrated, incomplete clench of her cunt around nothing.
Andy’s eyes were wet. “Em—please—”
“Not yet.” Emily’s voice was calm, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, slow, and looked at the jersey. The white fabric was damp in places from Andy’s sweat and from Emily’s own mouth when she had pressed open kisses higher up Andy’s stomach. The name CHARLTON was still crisp and navy across the back.
Emily leaned down again without warning and licked a single, filthy stripe over Andy’s oversensitive clit. Andy cried out and tried to twist away. Emily held her still and did it once more, then stopped entirely.
“Who were you watching this morning?”
Andy swallowed. “A footballer.”
“Whose name is on your back right now?”
“Yours. Emily—yours.”
“Say it properly.”
“Charlton. Your name. Fuck. Please let me come.”
Emily’s mouth curved, small and dangerous. “Soon.”
She went back to work with a patience that bordered on cruel. Fingers back inside, three this time, stretching Andy open on the slick push of them. Tongue back on her clit in steady, focused strokes. Andy sobbed once, overwhelmed, and Emily eased off just enough to keep her from tipping over. She built her back up in waves. Close, then back. Close, then a soft kiss to her inner thigh and a murmured wait. Andy’s whole body was strung tight. Sweat shone at her temples. The jersey had twisted under her so the collar bit lightly at her throat.
“Please,” Andy said again. It came out wrecked. “Emily. I can’t—I need—”
“You can.” Emily curled her fingers and rubbed firmly over the spot that made Andy’s vision white out at the edges. “And you will. When I say.”
She sucked Andy’s clit into her mouth and flicked her tongue against it in a tight rhythm while her fingers thrust deep and steady. Andy’s orgasm gathered hard and fast this time, no gentle climb, and Emily felt the exact second Andy started to tip.
She stopped again.
Andy actually whined. Her hips chased Emily’s mouth. Emily pressed a flat hand low on Andy’s stomach and held her down against the mattress, watching her cunt flutter emptily, watching the flush climb her chest.
“Mean,” Andy got out, voice cracking.
“Jealous,” Emily corrected. She sounded almost calm. Her eyes were not. “There is a difference.”
She reached down, took the hem of the jersey in both hands, and pulled.
The sound of the fabric giving was sharp and final. She tore the jersey straight up the middle from the bottom hem, the polyester protesting and then splitting in a long, ragged line that opened Andy’s body to the air all at once. Another hard pull and the whole front came apart. The name on the back stayed intact for a second longer before Emily ripped sideways and the entire thing was gone, a ruined white scrap in her hands.
She tossed it aside.
Andy lay there fully naked now, chest heaving, the ghost of the collar still pink around her throat. Emily looked at her like she had been waiting years for this exact image.
“Better.” She lowered herself over Andy’s body, skin to skin, and kissed her properly for the first time since they had come upstairs.
The kiss was deep and claiming and a little messy. Andy could taste herself on Emily’s tongue, and it made her moan into Emily’s mouth. Emily had stripped while Andy was still shaking from the last denial, or maybe she had been undressing in pieces Andy had been too far gone to track. Either way, she was bare now, warm and solid, one thigh sliding between Andy’s and pressing firm against her cunt. Andy immediately started grinding up against it, chasing the friction she had been denied. Emily let her for a while, rolling her hips down to meet every desperate push, one hand buried in Andy’s hair to keep her mouth exactly where she wanted it.
Andy rubbed herself on Emily’s thigh in short, greedy rolls. She was so wet it was easy, filthy, the slide of it loud between them. Emily bit her lower lip and soothed it with her tongue, then kissed down along her jaw to her throat and sucked a mark into the skin just above her collarbone.
“Mine,” she said against the bruise.
“Yours. God. Yours.”
Emily shifted, knelt up, and turned, swinging a knee over so that she straddled Andy’s face the other way around, her own body stretched down the length of Andy’s and her mouth coming to rest over the wet heat between Andy’s thighs. She was already glistening. Andy’s hands came up on instinct and settled on her thighs.
“Since you seem to have so much attention to give away,” Emily said, voice rough, “you can put some of it to better use.”
She lowered herself.
Andy pulled her down the last inch, gripping her ass, and licked into her with the same desperate enthusiasm she brought to everything she loved. Broad strokes at first, tasting her, then focused, finding Emily’s clit and working it with the flat of her tongue the way she knew Emily liked when she was already this wet. Emily braced a forearm on the mattress and held herself up over the length of Andy’s body, her own breath breaking hot against the inside of Andy’s thigh.
“That’s it,” she breathed. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Andy didn’t. She licked and sucked and moaned into it whenever Emily’s hips stuttered. She sealed her mouth over Emily’s clit and flicked, then pushed her tongue lower and fucked her with it until Emily’s thighs started to shake around her head. When Emily pushed two fingers back into Andy’s cunt right beneath her mouth, deep and curling, the dual sensation made both of them shake. Emily fucked Andy with her fingers in the same rhythm Andy’s tongue was using on her, a feedback loop of wet sounds and quiet, broken curses and the creak of the bed.
Andy was drowning in it. The taste of Emily, the weight of her, the stretch of those fingers curling inside her on every downstroke. She sucked harder on Emily’s clit and felt Emily’s hips jerk. Emily swore, low and sharp, and ground down onto Andy’s mouth with less of her usual control.
“Good,” Emily got out. “Fuck. Andy—just like that—”
Andy doubled down. She held Emily’s hips and ate her like she was starving for it, messy and devoted, while Emily’s fingers thrust into her in deep, relentless strokes. Andy’s own orgasm was climbing again despite everything, built on the denial and the taste and the sound of Emily coming apart above her.
Emily came first this time. Sharp and sudden, thighs clamping around Andy’s head, a low, involuntary sound torn out of her that she would later deny making. She kept her fingers moving through it, grinding down onto Andy’s mouth until the last pulse faded. Andy licked her through every wave of it, gentler as Emily twitched, until Emily lifted her hips off Andy’s mouth with a shaky exhale and, without a word, dropped her mouth to Andy’s cunt where her fingers were still working.
Andy was so close from the fingering and the taste of Emily that it took almost nothing. Emily’s tongue on her clit, two fingers still buried and curling, and Andy came with a broken shout, hips jerking, hands fisting in Emily’s hair hard enough that it must have hurt. Emily didn’t stop. She licked her through it and then kept going, softer now, coaxing the aftershocks into a second, smaller crest that left Andy shaking and oversensitive and trying to twist away even as her body chased more.
“Em—fuck—too much—”
Emily eased back just enough to speak, mouth still wet against her. “One more.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” Emily’s fingers were still inside her, gentle now, just holding. She pressed a kiss to Andy’s clit that made her jolt. “You’re going to come on my fingers while you look at me, and you’re going to say my name when you do it, and then you’re going to remember exactly who you belong to the next time some twenty-three-year-old midfielder looks at a camera.”
Then she moved. Her fingers stayed buried and still inside her as Emily drew back from between Andy’s legs, turned herself around, and drew up the length of Andy’s body until she was facing her at last, settling over her with one knee wedged between Andy’s thighs. Face to face now, close enough that Andy could feel Emily’s breath on her mouth.
She started moving her fingers again. Slow. Deep. The pad of her thumb circling Andy’s clit in tight strokes. Andy’s overstimulated body tried to shy away and then pushed into it instead, greedy and helpless. Every pass of Emily’s thumb sent a bright, almost painful spark up her spine. Emily watched her face the entire time. The way her mouth fell open. The way her eyes went unfocused. The flush climbing her chest and throat.
“Look at me,” Emily ordered softly.
Andy’s eyes locked on hers. It took effort. Her body wanted to close down, curl in, hide from how raw she felt. Emily’s free hand came up and cupped her jaw, holding her there.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You—fuck—you, Emily—”
“Louder.”
“You. Only you. God—Emily—”
Emily curled her fingers harder, pressed her thumb down, and leaned in so her mouth was nearly on Andy’s when she spoke. “Again. Who.”
“Emily. Emily. I’m yours—only yours—”
Emily kissed her as she tipped her over. Andy came a third time with a sob into Emily’s mouth, body locking up, cunt clenching rhythmically around Emily’s fingers while she stared into Emily’s eyes and said her name like a prayer and a curse and a promise all at once. Emily worked her through it until Andy was twitching and making soft, oversensitive sounds, then carefully withdrew her fingers and brought them to her own mouth, tasting, holding Andy’s gaze while she did it.
Andy made a helpless noise.
Emily crawled up her body and kissed her again, slower this time, sharing the taste. Andy’s arms came around her and held on like she was the only solid thing in the room. Their legs tangled. Emily’s heartbeat thudded against Andy’s chest, still a little too fast.
They stayed like that for a long time, breathing together, the ruined jersey a white wreck on the floor beside the bed.
Eventually Andy’s voice came, small and amused and still a little wrecked. “So… Just to be clear. The jersey is dead.”
Emily’s mouth curved against her temple. “It served its purpose.”
“You ripped it. You actually ripped an official England quarter-final jersey with your name on it.”
“I can buy another.”
“You’re going to buy another one just so you can make me wear it and then destroy it again, aren’t you?”
Emily was quiet for a moment. Then, very dry, “The thought had occurred.”
Andy laughed, soft and warm, and turned her face into Emily’s neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I am possessive. There is a difference.”
“Possessive and ridiculous.”
Emily’s hand stroked down Andy’s spine, slow. “You called him Jude.”
“I know.”
“You will not do it again.”
Andy pressed a kiss to the underside of Emily’s jaw. “I won’t.”
“And if you ever save another edit of anyone who is not me, I will make you wear the next jersey for an entire day. In the house. In front of the children. And you will explain to them exactly why.”
Andy’s laugh this time was pure delight. “That’s evil.”
“That's consequences.”
Emily shifted just enough to pull the sheet up over them both. Andy made a small sound of protest when the cool fabric touched oversensitive skin, then settled, tucking closer. Emily’s fingers traced idle patterns on Andy’s bare shoulder. The mark she had left on Andy’s throat was already darkening. She touched it once with her thumb, satisfied.
“Still jealous?” Andy mumbled into her collarbone.
“I am always a little jealous of you. That is not new. What is new is you giving me a highlight reel of reasons before noon.”
“I said I retired.”
“Mm. We will see how long that lasts.”
Andy smiled against her skin. “Long enough. I’ve got better things to look at.”
Emily did not answer that, but her arm tightened around Andy’s waist.
They lay in the quiet for a while longer. Outside, the city made its usual indifferent noise. Somewhere downstairs a pipe ticked as it cooled. Andy’s breathing slowly evened out into something close to sleep.
Just before she drifted, Andy mumbled, almost too soft to hear, “For the record… you’re still hotter than Jude Bellingham.”
Emily’s eyes were already closed, but her mouth curved.
“Obviously.”
And then, after a long pause, so quiet it might have been the start of a dream.
“It’s coming home.”
Andy’s answering laugh was the last sound either of them made for a long time.
* * *
Three days later, Andy bought another one.
She did it on her phone at the kitchen counter while Emily was still upstairs getting dressed for a meeting. Official England store. Women’s cut this time, because Andy had hips and the last one had ridden up in ways that were only useful for one very specific activity. She typed CHARLTON into the personalization box with her thumb and stared at the preview longer than she needed to.
Emily’s name. Navy letters across a white back. Andy felt heat crawl low in her stomach and pressed her thighs together under the counter like a teenager.
She added it to the cart before she could talk herself out of it. Express shipping. She told herself it was restitution. A ripped quarter-final jersey deserved replacing.
The other reason sat warmer and less respectable under her ribs. She kept picturing the hem on her thighs. Emily’s hands fisting the fabric at her back so the name pulled tight. Saying please with CHARLTON stamped between her shoulder blades like a claim she had chosen to wear.
The package showed up Friday afternoon. Roark was at training. Bronwyn was out until dinner. Andy opened the box on the bed and shook out the jersey. Same white. Same dark trim. CHARLTON bold across the shoulders. She ran her fingers over the navy lettering and felt her pulse kick.
She stripped without ceremony and pulled the new jersey over her head. Cool. Stiff. That new-kit smell. The hem sat high on her thighs. Her nipples peaked against the thin front almost immediately. In the mirror she looked ridiculous, obvious and already a little flushed. Bare legs. Emily’s surname written across her like she had been labeled on purpose. She wanted Emily to come home and find her like this. She wanted to be bent over in this shirt until the name creased.
She texted before she could lose her nerve.
Andy: Come home when you can. I replaced something you broke.
Emily: I am in a meeting.
Andy: Then leave the meeting.
Emily: Andrea.
Andy: I’m wearing it. Just the jersey. Thought you should know.
She held the phone up in the mirror before she could think better of it. Framed herself from the mouth down so her face stayed out of it. White jersey. Bare thighs. The crest over her chest. She pinched one nipple through the fabric first, just enough to make sure it showed, then took the shot. In the photo, both peaks were obvious under the thin white polyester, stiff and dark enough to read clean through the shirt. No mistaking what she had on underneath, which was nothing.
She sent it without a caption.
No answer after that. The read receipt landed almost immediately. Andy waited on the edge of the bed with her hands curled in the hem, already wet from the idea alone and from knowing Emily was looking at that photo in a room full of people who had no idea.
The front door opened thirty-four minutes later. Heels in the hall. The bedroom door pushed wide.
She was still in her work clothes, a sharp designer blazer open over an oyster-silk blouse, bag hanging from one hand. Her eyes went from Andy’s face to the crest to the bare stretch of thigh below the hem and stayed there a second too long. Something hot and proprietary moved through her expression before she shut the door and locked it.
“You bought another one.” Emily’s voice stayed very even. “And then you sent me photographic evidence during a board update.”
“You ripped the first.” Andy’s voice came out rougher than she meant. “Seemed fair.”
Emily set her bag down with care. She walked closer until she stood between Andy’s knees. One finger hooked the collar of the jersey and tugged it lightly, checking the fit, the name, the fact of it. “You personalised it.”
“Had to. Wouldn’t be the same otherwise.”
Andy looked up at her. “I kept thinking about it. After. Wearing your name while you had me. I wanted it again. I wanted to put it on myself this time.”
Emily’s mouth curved, small and darkly pleased. “So the replacement was only an excuse.”
“The replacement was real. The rest is me being obvious.”
“You are always obvious when you want something.” Emily’s hand slid from the collar to Andy’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Stand up. Turn around.”
Andy stood. Turned. In the mirror she watched Emily’s gaze land on CHARLTON and stay there, hungry in that controlled way Emily got when she was deciding how thoroughly to take someone apart. Andy’s stomach flipped.
“My name,” Emily said.
“Your name.”
Emily stepped in until her clothed front pressed along Andy’s bare back and the jersey wrinkled between them. Her palm flattened low on Andy’s stomach under the hem, then lower, finding her slick without surprise. Andy sucked in a breath and pushed back into her.
“Already,” Emily murmured against her ear. “From buying it, or from waiting in it?”
“From your name on my back. From knowing you’d come home and see it.”
Emily made a low sound that might have been a laugh. Two fingers stroked through the wetness and circled her clit once, slow enough to make Andy’s knees soften. “You get off on belonging to me.”
“Yeah.”
“Say it properly.”
“I get off on wearing your name while you fuck me.” Andy’s hands found Emily’s forearm and held on. “I bought the jersey so you could ruin me in it again. Please.”
Emily kissed the side of her neck, open-mouthed, right over the faded mark from earlier in the week. “Since you asked so nicely.”
She walked Andy forward until Andy’s hands braced on the dresser. The mirror gave them both back. Andy in white polyester and nothing else. Emily still dressed, fingers working between her legs with unhurried precision, eyes on the black letters across Andy’s shoulders every time she arched.
“This one stays intact for now. I want to use it more than once.”
Andy laughed, breathless, then broke on a moan when Emily pushed two fingers into her and curled. “Generous of you.”
“Practical.” Emily’s other hand rucked the jersey higher and pinched her nipple until Andy shuddered. “Text me like this during another meeting, and I make no promises about the seams.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“I know you will.” Emily’s mouth was at her ear, voice gone rough. “Look at yourself. Look at my name. Then come on my fingers like the woman who ordered this on purpose.”
Andy looked. Flushed face. Open mouth. CHARLTON bold above Emily’s arm disappearing under white fabric. She came hard and sudden with Emily’s name in her mouth, thighs shaking, the new jersey bunched and damp where Emily held her through it.
Emily worked her down, then turned her and kissed her deep. Andy clung to the blazer lapels and laughed shakily into her mouth.
“Worth the shipping,” Andy managed.
“Obviously. Now take it off before I change my mind about the seams.”
Andy pulled it over her head and tossed it where she was told. CHARLTON landed face up on the cushion, neat as a promise.
Emily backed her toward the bed, already undoing her own blouse, and Andy went willing, grinning, caught in a trap she had built for herself on purpose.