Overdue

"I know. That's why I was the one to bail out on the conversation the first time around."

"The conversation?" I can't help smiling, the feel of him underneath me that night as clear as if it was yesterday. "Is that what you'd call it?"

He leans in, much closer now. "Of a sort, yes," and then, disappointingly, sits back. "I suddenly felt a complete bastard for snogging you into the mattress when your sister had just been dealt a terrible diagnosis. I mean, what kind of a shithead does that? And you were drunk."

"Is that why you left?"

"Yes. I bloody panicked. And by the time I got back from seeing Mother the next day, you'd gone. I took that to mean I had actually fucked up as badly as I'd feared."

"Oh. Shit."

"Well put," raising the corner of his mouth, a sardonic look I am familiar with.

"But --" I stop. "So --"

"And we've both avoided the subject ever since," he intervenes, saving me from my speechlessness.

"Right." I suck my teeth. "Remind me again how it is we've both managed to get higher degrees?" I look up, but he's not smiling. He's got a really intense look on his face.

"I think that's a different kind of intelligence, Rach," in that compellingly soft voice again.

It tips me off balance because it's not a tone I've really heard him use before. Neither have I really seen that light in his eyes. It's unsettling, if not exciting, to see him shift between the man I know and the one I'm only catching glimpses of; the friend and the -- what -- lover? Another shiver chases through me, his eyes sharpening their focus on me.

"This is making me nervous," I explain.

"You and me, both," he laughs back, slipping into an expression I'm more familiar with, back to the Michael I know.

I try to distract myself, taking in the people sitting nearest to us with their enormous picnic hamper, folding chairs and those collapsible crates special to horticultural shoppers, and on our other side, the surprisingly young couple scooping applesauce into their toddler-sized child, delighting in her giggles and each other, but in the end, the more pressing issue at hand is right here between me and Mike.

There's a small smile on his lips. "What do you see when you go on one of your expeditions like that?" he asks, indicating the scenes around us. "You always look so focused when you do that."

I shrug. "Just sucking the blood out of what's in front of me. Metaphorically speaking, obviously."

"Look, I meant what I said about being in love with you, Rachel, but it's not as though we have to deal with it right now. My head's not on fire, so it's nothing that can't wait until -- well, you know."

"Mmm, but if nothing else, Fliss dying has focused my mind on the fact that this is the only life we get. We think we have all the time in the world, and then we don't. Suddenly, it's over so quickly." I look away, then back. "And anyway, it's not as though I have to think too hard about this, since I've loved you for years. Ever since we were in college." I blow my cheeks out and roll my eyes, trying to outrun the embarrassment.

It's only once I stop gurning like a fairground attraction I realise he's leaning in, so close.

"What kind of fools are we, Rachel?" his eyes positively alight.

I close my eyes, to reduce the intensity of the moment. "Prize idiots?"

His face grazes mine, a prickly brush of stubble over my cheek. Everything starts hammering, nerves and panic and far too much hope.

"Wait! What if we're horrible together?" I splutter, yanking myself away from him, clear of the danger zone.

He barks out a laugh. An actual laugh. "Do you remember that night in Macek's House?" he demands, voice incredulous. "How likely is it we'll be 'horrible' together?"

"It could've been a fluke."

"A fluke?"

"Yes," I mumble. "A fluke. Plus, what if it ruins everything?"

"Honestly? I think we should finally stop fretting about it and just rip the plaster off, don't you? And find out, because I reckon we can weather it. We've got this far, after two pretty miserable attempts. What if we just go for it properly this time?"

I give him a doubtful look even as my defences collapse.

"On the count of three?"

I smile because he looks so sweet and naughty. "Actually, I don't think we need to do tha-"

"Quiet now. Too many words, Rachel. Count of three?"

"Ok, Mikey. One --"

But I don't get any further. Of course I don't. He touches his mouth to mine, very gently. It's a consideration I don't need. I want to feel alive, not mollycoddled. I lean in, trapping his lower lip in-between mine and glory in his surprised grunt. He grabs my arms, to steady him or me I don't know, but one of us knocks the glasses and champagne bubbles over my knees into the parched grass, and he's not so gentle after that.

Mercifully, my head hasn't been playing tricks on me all these years. His kissing is as good as I remember. Better for being here and now. And so very real. Good enough to make me forget I'm not a fan of public displays of affection. And, as his palm slides around the nape of my neck giving me the delicious sense of being trapped, he's good enough to relax my twisted stomach, lower my heightened shoulders and open my lungs out to life. Life-saving kisses.

I half-smile at the persistent way my brain chucks out words and phrases even when I'm not searching for them.

"What's making you smile?" he asks, looking almost ruffled.

Yes, ruffled. And flushed and, no other word for it, wanton. As wanton as is possible while still fully clothed. In fact, the contrast -- dark, wild eyes and inflamed lips against the most proper backdrop of a flower show in the grounds of a Tudor palace -- exaggerates the sex that's all over his face. He looks so thirsty it's almost frightening. Breath-taking. And despite its unfamiliarity, it suits him. It turns me into the greedy one, wanting to see him this way in my bed. To make that look mine.

"Ok, that wasn't horrible."

He throws his head back in laughter, sounding like the Mike I know, eyes returning to mine still full of sex, looking like the Mike who's still a mystery to me. The slip and slide is bewitching.

"So are we finished with your mate Emily now, or is there more to research?" he asks, his voice wavering between deep and soft.

"I've satisfied my needs with Emily, I think, but I promised myself I'd look for a new rose bush for Dad, for, you know -- a reason for him to get out into the garden and rearrange some stuff."

"Good plan. Let's go on an expedition then, but only after one more," he says, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth before planting it on mine in a demanding sort of way.

It's different -- his tongue a flickering tease in my mouth before retreating, a positively devilish glint in his eyes once I ease back far enough to see them clearly. I gather my breath, captivated at discovering this facet of him. Facets, plural, since there's apparently so much more of him for me to discover yet.

And then, because he actually is some kind of horticultural savant, he whisks us around the specialist nursery stalls, charming the underwear (metaphorically speaking) off the proprietors of any gender, before bagging me a discount on a beautiful rose with generous petals in a delicate blend of peach and pink, and insisting on carrying it all the way home, on the train, tube and bus.

+++

"Umm, so, I think we need to put the rose out on the terrace, otherwise Sebastian will kick up a fuss."

I squeeze my eyes for a couple of seconds before following her through the flat into the kitchen and wait while she unlocks the big glass doors for me. Because I'm good at obedience when I choose to be.

"I know you think I'm barmy, Mike, but remember when Dad gave me that fern to look after and I put it in the front room, and Sebastian dropped all his baby plants and went brown at the tips. He can't handle competition."

I don't even try to answer. No, I simply step out onto the raised terrace and deposit the rose bush. "Got a dish for this to sit in? It could do with some water, especially in this heat."

We fuss around with pots and water, making the rose at home, and all the while I'm trying not to rush things to where I want them to be, to where we'd left off over the picnic, unable to prevent the anxious prickle from racing beneath my skin. Replaying her words in my head, parsing them to work out if she meant the same as me, if she feels the same as me. It's too hot to think straight. I appraise our rearrangement of the potted plants, apportioning out the last of the water between them before standing up and realising she's back inside already.

She's propped herself against the kitchen counter, fiddling with her neckline, looking distant. I wash my hands over the sink, enjoying the rush of barely-cold water over my skin, bracing myself for when she tells me to leave and trying to come up with reasons to persuade her otherwise. When I turn around in search of a towel my gaze snags on her.

She's not fiddling with her neckline, she's pulling it open, and for a few seconds my face must show my confusion because she smiles. Nervously, but it's definitely a smile.

"I thought we were just going to rip off the band-aid, as it were, and hope it doesn't cause too much damage?"

My heart doubles in size and I step close, crowding her, pulling at the ties of her blouse. They're bright green with tiny tassels at the end which I roll between my finger and thumb to stop myself from ploughing into her at warp speed.

"Shit, Mike, don't tell me you're having second thoughts now."

It's odd -- but exciting -- to see this unfamiliar look in her eyes. A comfortable teasing mixed with flashes of trepidation. I crowd her some more until she has to tip her face up to see mine.

Her lips open a little in a perfect invitation. Her mouth is so beautifully soft and warm, and as I explore it, my hands slide around her waist, still wet, causing her to wriggle in surprise, and that -- just that -- makes my blood surge. It's been a while since I've been to bed with a woman. Over the years, Rachel has seen to that -- other women paling in comparison. And now, my desire for the soft flexibility, ellipses, and textures of a female body has become a craving.

As my back complains at the way I'm having to bend to reach her, I abandon her mouth to straighten up. Her lips and cheeks look like they've been stained with broken raspberries.

"I'm not having second thoughts, Rach. Not even close."

She giggles, a silent rush of air, because everything has gone very still and quiet. A burning hot Sunday afternoon that's chased everyone indoors for a nap in the shade. She looks expectant; curious as to what's next. Where are we taking this? How far?

The thought brings me up short, since this is so far from what I'm used to. A quick and casual fuck where both parties know what's what. I think about how to say what I want to say, even if her hands moving around my lower back is fierce distracting.

"This isn't casual for me, Rachel."

She presses her palms harder to my back. "Ok. Good," an undertone of relief in her voice.

I revel in how she's holding me, how big it makes me feel against her. She leans in, kisses my chest through my shirt. I stare down at her, at the jumble of colours that make up her hair, from fair to dark honey, excitement coursing through my veins because this is actually happening. Rachel is in my arms.

She makes a noise of surprise as I lift her onto the draining board. I step in, pushing her thighs wider to accept me and as we shuffle closer, I kiss her again in search of her warm secrets. She feels wonderful. Soft and sure. I open my eyes. Hers are shut tight, the faintest of blues in her eyelids hinting at poor sleep.

"Are you sure this is ok?" I ask her, concern for how vulnerable she is washing through me.

"Yes, Mike. Yes, this is ok. I need to feel alive and I need you to help me."

Her eyes brighten, but the tears don't fall. I kiss them away until her cheeks curve in a smile, until we're crushing together as tightly as possible. It's completely intoxicating. Instinct kicks in and my hips thrust into her of their own accord, and then again when she releases a low groan. I tip my face away and we share a look and a grin that pumps blood and oxygen and endorphins hard around my body.

"We're really doing this," she murmurs, sounding bemused.

"Yes, we are," I reply, following the curve of her thighs with my palms, rolling the hem of her skirt upwards until my fingertips meet the edges of her underwear. "I'll confess to having imagined this more than once or twice," as I let my fingers drift along the lacy seams, relishing the tiny muscle twitches under her soft flesh and the catch of her breath.

"Have you? How long have you been doing that for?"

"Truth?"

She nods, a little solemnly, eyes wide.

"Since that night in your room. On and off."

Her head drops into a slow shake. "Lord, what are we like?"

"I think we were both too young and stupid back then."

"And later?"

"Later? Well, you had Joseph, didn't you? In Kenya." I laugh to myself. "I got into quite a jealous snit about him."

"Did you?" she looks genuinely surprised and as I nod, she adds, "Well, that's bloody ironic, because after you came to visit us that second time, he ended it because he said it was obvious I'd never love him as much as I loved you."

"I didn't know that was why."

"Of course not, Mikey. I wasn't going to tell you, was I? You seemed more than happy with your energetic social life."

I make a noncommittal noise, since she's half right and half wrong and bury my face in her hair and repeat her name to myself, to convince myself this is where we really are.

"This is going to take some getting used to."

"There's no mad rush, Rach, we can take our time," I reply even as my body expresses its stiff opposition to that offer.

"What happened to all your bravado? Ripping the plaster off?"

And, hell and damnation, if she doesn't lift her hips to me so beautifully I can practically feel the tight slide into her, fabric and elastic and zips nothwithstanding. I can't stop my responses, hips thrusting to their own needy rhythm. Our breathing comes more obviously now, sounding noisy in the quiet of the heat. Her head drops back, an abandonment that takes me by surprise as I've always thought of Rachel as being constantly alert. I watch her, how she's trapped her lips together as if to contain her pleasure. That sight, and the rub of cotton on my cock, so close yet so far, forces a low sound out of my throat. Her eyes spring open.

"I like that. I like hearing you."

Even though this is what I want -- to be irretrievably in love with my best friend -- the reality of what we're doing still feels shocking. Unexpected. Frightening. I'm pretty sure more involuntary noises come out of my mouth but instead of embarrassment, I feel something akin to relief. I'm here with someone who knows me, someone I can trust.

Her pretty hands cup my face and I begin to hear her words as she urges me closer.

"Yes, show me how you feel, Mikey. Let me see behind your poker face." Her face is lit with animation, eyes bright. "Are you going to let me in there?" as she taps the side of my head.

"You're already in there," I promise her.

"Show me."

This time the growl is completely voluntary and I practically bite her neck before lifting her onto my hips. "Bedroom," I order, "because whatever else I am, I'm not an exhibitionist," and I indicate the glass doors behind us and beyond them, Rachel's neighbours, who'll be getting an eyeful of my bare arse if we take this much further.

She laughs, a throatier sound than I'm used to. "Ok, but you can't carry me, Mike. Put me down, I'm too heavy."

I don't though. I want to feel the weight of her, to make my body sore from being with her. I only put her down as we get inside her bedroom, where her arms fly up and wheel around in agitation.

"Shit, I only got halfway through making the bed." She starts pulling at the pile of laundered pillowcases folded on the mattress.

I reach over her and sweep everything onto the floor; duvet, pillows and the clean linen, leaving just the sheet that's already fitted over the mattress. "We're not going to need any of that," I explain before placing a knee onto the bed.

Her "Oh!" makes me pause. It's possible I'm rushing too hard. "What? What is it?"

She sits down and takes a deep breath. "Nothing." And then, "No, that's not true. The thing is, I, um, I don't know -- well, if I'm going to be adventurous enough for you. You know, once the novelty wears off."

"Adventurous?" and I'm sure my poker face is all but destroyed by now.

"Well yes. I mean, you've had sex with women and men. And lots of it."

I sit next to her. "What's worrying you? Because you do know I've read all your books, don't you? And I know there's a difference between reality and imagination, but even if you've only ever imagined those things, you must surely be willing to at least experiment with them in real life?"

"You make it sound like I write porn," her vanity complains.

"We both know that's not true. But you do write a pretty good sex scene when it's called for."

It almost makes her smile. "But what if that's not enough? If I'm not enough?"

The tense divot in-between her brows is going to kill me. "Christ, Rach, I don't believe that's going to happen, but if it does, if you don't want that with me, then that's what toys are for."

"Oh." Fire darkens her eyes and she sucks at her bottom lip. "If you ever do that to yourself, can I watch?"

And fuck, I almost boil over right then and there. How such a clear-eyed soul as Rachel can accommodate such complexities of the human libido -- of my varied tastes -- is a mystery and a miracle.

"Wow," she's giggling, "look at you. I don't think I've ever seen you so completely lost for words, Michael, and --"

And nothing, because I practically throw her up the bed to make room for me, ignoring her squealing as I crawl over her, caging her slim body beneath mine.

"You're going to be the death of me," I tell her, but she's still giggling, wriggling and getting in my way until she resolves the struggle, sliding her legs either side of my knees. Another perfect invitation. I let my hips sink down to hers and both of us make noises like nesting animals and I don't care if that sounds ridiculous, because she feels glorious.

My eyes slide shut as we fit our bodies together, the jut of her hip bones and the curve of her thighs cradling me so beautifully. A brief flash of memory, of the one time I've seen Rachel naked, skinny dipping in a pool at the end of someone's twenty-first birthday party, sends my hands greedily exploring. Mapping her through touch to re-imagine what she'll look like now.

I begin with her hair, which I've always had a bit of an obsession with, since it's thick and wavy and although I know she'd prefer it to be straight, I've always liked it on the days when she's let it fall naturally around her face and shoulders. We alternate between kissing and touching and kissing again, our exploration veering between sweet, slow patience and hot, fast desire; between wanting to spin this out for as long as possible -- our first time together -- and wanting to reach those moments of ecstatic oblivion -- to share this last unknown thing with each other.

It's so hot we slip and twist around each other, a mess of rucked fabric and sweat, of soft lips and flesh, of muscles and tendons contracting and relaxing, of breaths taken shallow and deep.

We're on our sides facing each other, a surprisingly (to me, anyway) intimate position, when she cups me in her hand, moving it along a gear because the touch is so exquisitely longed-for my hips take over until I'm grinding her into the mattress, panting, eyes wide.