Late September and a Bottle of Wine

The sound of a car door outside made Luke look up from the sink where he was rinsing out a wine glass. He glanced at the clock on the wall — the one he'd found at a car boot sale in March that still ran ten minutes fast — and noted it read nearly eight. That meant it was 7:45, which meant Becky was right on time, which meant Tom had dropped her off and would be halfway home by now, probably already reaching for the Xbox controller the way a drowning man reaches for a life raft.

Luke dried his hands on a tea towel that had seen better days and tossed it over his shoulder. The kitchen was looking good, he had to admit. Two years of blood, sweat, and an alarming amount of money had transformed the room from a damp, wallpapered horror show into something close to the vision he'd had when he'd bought the place. The units were in, the worktop was down, the sink worked. The floor was done — wide oak boards that he'd laid himself over a long and deeply unpleasant weekend in July. The only problem was the pile of skirting boards stacked in the middle of the open-plan space, still in their wrapping, waiting for him to get around to cutting and fitting them. You had to jump over them to get from the kitchen to the sofa. It was like having a very boring obstacle course in your living room.

The front door opened and closed. Footsteps in the hall.

"You'd better have wine," he called out.

"Of course I've got wine. What do you take me for?" Becky appeared in the doorway, blonde hair loose past her shoulders, that grin already in place — the one that made him feel like he was sixteen and in trouble. She held up a bottle of red in one hand and a bag in the other. "I've also got crisps because I'm not an animal."

"You're an absolute saint," Luke said, taking the bottle from her and reaching for the corkscrew. "How was the journey?"

"Fine. Tom dropped me off, said have a good time, drove off like a man who'd just been released from prison. I think he'd rather have a prostate exam than watch Gardeners' World."

"Can't blame him, really."

"No, I can't. It's the dullest programme on television and I love it with all my heart."

She was already across the room, navigating around the skirting boards with the ease of someone who'd done it many times before. She dropped onto the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her legs underneath her. She was wearing jeans and a soft grey jumper, her hair falling over one shoulder. She looked comfortable and warm and exactly like someone who belonged on his sofa on a Friday night.

Luke poured two glasses of wine and carried them over, stepping over the skirting boards with the long stride of a man who was six foot seven and could clear most obstacles without trying. He handed Becky her glass and sat down beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them. The distance he always left. The distance that was starting to feel like a lie.

"Cheers," she said, clinking her glass against his.

"Cheers."

The television was already on, tuned to BBC Two, the Gardeners' World theme music just starting. Monty Don was walking through his garden in that slightly smug way he had, talking about dahlias. Becky made a contented little sound and settled deeper into the cushions.

This was the routine. Every Friday that worked for both of them, Tom would drop Becky off at Luke's house, and they'd watch Gardeners' World together, and then usually Gogglebox, and Tom would pick her up around ten or eleven. Tom thought it was lovely that his wife and his best mate got on so well. Tom thought it was nice that Becky had someone to watch her boring gardening programmes with so he didn't have to. Tom was, in Luke's estimation, a genuinely good man who had no idea what was happening inside Luke's head every time Becky walked through his front door.

They'd been doing this for months. The Friday nights. The easy laughter. The way they could say absolutely anything to each other and the other person would laugh instead of flinch. The way their eyes would meet and hold for a second too long, and then one of them would look away and the moment would pass, except it never really passed. It just stacked up on top of all the other moments, building like sediment, like pressure.

Fifteen years. He'd fancied her for fifteen years. Since the first time Tom had brought her to a pub night with the lads and she'd told a joke so filthy that two of his mates had actually choked on their pints. She'd been twenty-eight then, all bright eyes and that smile that could make you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. He'd been twenty-eight too, and single, and completely undone.

But she was with Tom. His best mate. And that was that.

"Did you see what he's done with the vegetable patch?" Becky said, gesturing at the screen. "It's obscene. That man has too much time."

"He's retired. He's got nothing but time."

"I want that life. I want to just potter about in a garden all day."

"You'd hate it. You'd last about two hours and then you'd get bored and go and find someone to annoy."

"That's not true," she said, but she was grinning. "I'd last at least three hours."

Gardeners' World ended and Gogglebox started. They shifted positions slightly, Becky pulling her feet up onto the sofa, her toes inches from his thigh. Luke rested his arm along the back of the sofa, not quite behind her shoulders but close enough that he could feel the warmth of her. They sipped their wine and watched the Gogglebox families reacting to the week's television.

Then the segment came on. Some documentary about people with unusual lifestyles, and one of them was a man who dressed up as a horse. A full leather horse suit. Hooves and everything. And his wife was being interviewed about it with the kind of calm, measured tone that suggested she'd thought very carefully about this life choice and was at peace with it.

Becky made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a snort.

"Is she — is she stroking his mane?" Luke said, leaning forward.

"She's definitely stroking his mane. She's grooming him."

"That's — that is the most British thing I've ever seen. She's married to a horse and she's still grooming him. She's got standards."

Becky was laughing properly now, the kind of laugh that took her over completely, her whole body shaking, her head tipped back against the sofa. Luke was laughing too, the kind of deep, helpless laughter that made his eyes water.

"He's got a bloody tail, Becky."

"Of course he's got a tail! You can't be a horse without a tail. That would be ridiculous."

"Because the rest of it is completely sane."

"He's got a name for his horse persona, did you catch it? Thunder. He calls himself Thunder."

"That's not a horse name. That's a weather phenomenon. If you're going to be a horse, at least pick a proper horse name. Mr Whiskers. Something with dignity."

Becky howled. She actually howled. She grabbed his arm and held onto it while she laughed, and he could feel her fingers pressing into his skin through his shirt, and her face was turned toward him, flushed and bright-eyed and so close that he could see the flecks of gold in her irises.

The laughter faded slowly, the way it always did between them, leaving a warm, thick silence in its place. Becky was still holding his arm. Her hand had relaxed but it was still there, resting on his forearm, her thumb moving in a tiny absent circle against his skin.

"I really love this," she said, her voice quieter now. "Being here with you."

The words hung in the air between them. Luke looked at her. She was looking back, and the smile was still there but it had changed — it was softer, more open, more vulnerable. Her eyes held his and didn't let go.

"I love you being here," he said.

Something shifted. He felt it in his chest, that tightness he always got when she was near, that pull that had been building for fifteen years and had become, in recent months, almost unbearable. Her thumb was still moving on his arm. The television was on but neither of them was watching it.

Becky put her drink down on the coffee table. The clink of glass on wood was very loud in the quiet room. She shifted closer to him on the sofa, closing the distance he'd left between them, the distance that had always felt like a lie. Her knee touched his thigh. Her shoulder touched his chest.

"Becky," Luke said, and his voice came out lower than he intended, almost a warning. "What is this? Us? What is it?"

She looked up at him. Her face was very close. He could smell her perfume — something warm and slightly sweet, underneath the wine on her breath.

"I don't know," she said. "But tell me to stop."

He should have. He knew he should have. She was married to his best mate. This was the line he'd been standing behind for fifteen years, the line he'd built his entire friendship on, the line that kept everything simple and safe and good.

He didn't say stop.

"What if I wasn't?" Becky said, her voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, her lips so close to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath. "What would you do to me?"

The question landed in his gut like a fist. He held her gaze. He could feel his body responding, blood rushing south, his jeans suddenly tighter than they'd been a moment ago. He could see that she'd noticed. Her eyes flickered down and then back up, and something changed in her expression — a flash of hunger, raw and undisguised.

"I would lick your pussy until you were coming so intensely you forget your own name," he said, his voice low and steady. "Then I would fuck you so hard you couldn't sit down."

Becky whimpered. The sound was small and involuntary, pulled out of her before she could catch it. Her lips parted. Her breathing had changed.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she said. She pressed her thighs together and he could see the movement, the unconscious squeeze. "Do you know how wet I am right now?"

He held her gaze. He didn't look away. He reached over and undid the button of her jeans. She didn't stop him. She didn't move. She just watched his face as he slid his hand inside, past the waistband of her knickers, and his fingers found her.

She was absolutely soaking. Slick and swollen and so wet that his fingers slid through her folds with no resistance at all. He brushed over her clit and she let out a sharp breath, her hips tilting forward into his hand.

"Fuck," he said.

"Yep," she said, and her voice was shaky and thin. "Every fucking time."

Every time. Every Friday. Every time she walked through his door and sat on his sofa and looked at him with those eyes. She'd been getting wet for him every single time, and he'd had no idea, and now that he knew, it was like a dam breaking.

At that point, that was it. They were on each other.

Becky's hands were in his hair, pulling his face to hers, and her mouth was hot and urgent against his. She kissed him like she'd been thinking about it for years, like she'd rehearsed this kiss in her head a thousand times and was finally getting to perform it. Her tongue was in his mouth and her body was pressing against his and Luke was kissing her back with fifteen years of want behind it.

He pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him on the sofa, her jeans still undone, and he could feel the heat of her through his jeans, pressing against his cock, which was straining against the denim so hard it was almost painful. She ground against him and they both groaned into each other's mouths.

"We should —" he started, between kisses.

"Bedroom," she said. "Now."

They stumbled off the sofa. Becky tripped over the pile of skirting boards and Luke caught her — one long arm around her waist, hauling her upright — and she laughed against his neck and bit his collarbone. He steered her down the hallway, their mouths finding each other again, hands grabbing at clothing, pulling and tugging. His shirt came off somewhere between the living room and the hall. Her jumper went next, pulled over her head and dropped on the floor.

The bedroom was at the back of the house. He'd finished it months ago — the one room that was actually complete. Big bed, white sheets, blackout curtains. He pushed her through the door and they fell onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothes.

He got her jeans off first, then her knickers, and then she was lying on his bed in just her bra, blonde hair spread across his white pillows, and he had to stop for a moment and just look at her because this was something he'd imagined so many times that the reality of it was almost disorienting.

"You're staring," she said.

"I'm allowed to stare. I've been waiting fifteen years."

She reached up and pulled him down to her. He unclasped her bra and tossed it aside and her breasts were full and soft against his chest, her nipples hard against his skin. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. He took one nipple in his mouth and she arched off the bed, her hands gripping his shoulders.

Then he kissed his way down her stomach. Down over her hip bones. Down to the inside of her thighs, where the skin was soft and white and sensitive. She was trembling. He could see her cunt, slick and pink and swollen, and he could smell her — musky and warm — and he put his mouth on her.

He'd told her what he'd do and he did it. He licked her slowly at first, long strokes of his tongue from her entrance to her clit, tasting her, getting to know her. She was gasping already, her hands in his hair, her hips moving in small, restless circles. He found a rhythm she liked — firm pressure on her clit, circling, then sucking gently — and he kept at it, steady and patient, while she got louder and more desperate.

"Luke — oh fuck — don't stop —"

He didn't stop. He slid two fingers inside her and crooked them upward, finding that spot, and he sucked her clit at the same time, and she came so hard that her thighs clamped around his head and her whole body went rigid and she made a sound that was almost like crying.

When she finally went limp, he kissed the inside of her thigh and looked up at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes half-closed, her chest heaving.

"What's your name?" he said.

She stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. "You absolute bastard."

"I told you you'd forget it."

She grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips, and she didn't seem to care. She reached down and undid his jeans and pushed them down over his hips along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free, hard and thick and aching.

She wrapped her hand around him and stroked, and he had to grit his teeth because he was so turned on he thought he might come right there in her hand. She must have sensed it because she stopped and looked at him with that cheeky grin.

"Not yet," she said. "You promised to fuck me so hard I couldn't sit down."

He grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer — he'd bought them a few weeks ago in a moment of either optimism or masochism, he hadn't been sure which — and he rolled it on. Then he positioned himself between her legs and pushed inside her.

She was so wet that he slid in easily, but she was tight too, tight and hot, and they both groaned as he filled her. He started slow, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, and she wrapped her legs around him and dug her heels into his arse.

"Faster," she said. "Harder. Come on."

He gave her what she asked for. He fucked her hard, driving into her, the bed creaking under them, the headboard hitting the wall. She was loud — gasping and moaning and saying his name and saying fuck and saying yes and don't stop and harder. He was sweating, his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself up, his cock throbbing inside her.

He could feel her getting close again — the way she tightened around him, the way her breathing went ragged — and he reached down between them and rubbed her clit while he fucked her and she came again, even harder than the first time, her nails raking down his back, her cunt clenching around his cock so hard that he couldn't hold back anymore.

He pulled out and ripped off the condom and knelt over her, stroking himself, and he came on her tits — thick white ropes across her chest, on her collarbone, on the swell of her breasts. She watched him with wide, dark eyes, her chest heaving, and when he was done she did something that nearly broke his brain.

She lifted one breast to her mouth and licked his cum off her own nipple, her tongue swirling over the skin, cleaning him off herself, while her other hand slid down between her legs and she fingered her clit, slow deliberate circles, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Fuck, Becky, you are utter filth," he said, and he meant it as the highest compliment he'd ever given anyone.

She smiled at him — that smile, the one that had undone him fifteen years ago — and she kept touching herself, and he watched, and he was getting hard again already. He couldn't help it. She was lying on his bed covered in his cum, touching herself, looking at him like that. Of course he was getting hard again.

He pushed her hand away and replaced it with his mouth, licking her clit while she squirmed and gasped, and when she was wet and swollen and desperate again, he put on another condom and fucked her a second time, slower now, deeper, their bodies pressed together, her legs wrapped around him, his forehead against hers.

It was different this time. Less frantic, more intimate. He could feel every inch of her — the heat of her, the tightness, the way she moved with him. She was looking into his eyes and he was looking into hers and it felt like something was being said that neither of them needed to put into words.

When she came for the third time, it was quiet — just a sharp intake of breath and a shudder that ran through her whole body, her cunt rippling around him. He followed her over the edge a moment later, burying himself deep inside her, his face in her neck, her arms tight around his back.

They lay together afterward, sticky and spent, the September night cool against the window. Becky was curled against his side, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Luke stared at the ceiling and felt like the world had shifted on its axis and he hadn't even noticed it happening.

"I love you," she said. Her voice was quiet and certain, like she was stating a fact about the weather.

"I know," he said.

She tilted her head up to look at him. "You're not going to say it back?"

"I've been in love with you for fifteen years, Becky. Saying it back would be redundant."

She smiled — that amazing smile, the one that could end wars — and kissed his chest.

"We're going to have to deal with things," she said. "Tom. Everything."

"I know."

"But not tonight."

"No. Not tonight."

She settled back against him. On the television in the living room, which they'd left on, Gogglebox was still playing, the faint sound of someone laughing drifting through the open bedroom door. Luke thought about the pile of skirting boards in the middle of his living room that they'd have to jump over again in the morning. He thought about how he'd probably put them off for another month now. He thought about how Tom was going to need an explanation that didn't involve horses.

He looked down at Becky, who was already half-asleep against his chest, her blonde hair spread across his skin, and he thought that some things were worth the mess.

In the morning, he'd make her coffee and she'd complain about his mugs and he'd tell her she was welcome to bring her own. She'd tell him he was a massive twat. He'd agree. And then they'd figure out the rest of it, whatever that looked like, because fifteen years was a long time to want something and neither of them was willing to give it back now.

But that was tomorrow. Tonight, she was here, and he was here, and the skirting boards could wait.

They could definitely wait.