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Marcy frowned. "You lied?"
She nodded.
"That is so not like you. Why on earth did you lie?"
"I know, and I really wish I hadn't." She shook her head, remembering that her mother had drummed into her to always be honest. She'd told her that a liar needed a good memory to keep up the facade, and that lies built the foundation for other lies. It wasn't as bad as that, but she'd found that backtracking wasn't easy, once you'd done it. "I'll sort it out, but I was so fed up of men being intimidated by my job. I mean...I wouldn't have cared if he was a courier, but I didn't want to take that risk."
"He's not a courier?" Marcy looked thoroughly confused.
Abby laughed. "He was delivering the papers as a favor, and I really don't think he will be intimidated by what I do. I'll tell him as soon as we get together."
"So what does he do?"
"He's in arts management. He runs The Hub."
"Aha, now it all falls into place." Marcy smiled.
"Yes, I owe you for getting those tickets. I saw him that night and he invited me to come back again. When I did, we couldn't keep our hands off each other."
"Go on," Marcy whispered, fascinated.
Abby sipped her wine. "I still feel as if he's a bit of a mystery to me, that I hardly know him. I mean, I like that about him, but it's also beginning to bug me." She laughed at herself.
"You're too keen. Just let it develop in its own time."
She nodded. "He's worth it, I know that. I've been trying to work out what it is about him though."
"You mean apart from the fact that he's gorgeous and sexy and you've fallen in love with him?" Marcy chuckled.
"Yes, apart from that." It was funny. "I mean...it's not as if I haven't had plenty of hot sex before, but this is different. We're a good match in bed, but we don't just connect physically. There's an emotional, mental stimulation, like there's a flow of energy there too. Sexually, he unleashes me, lets me run wild. He brings out the woman in me—the real woman, the lusty, honest woman. He notices that, he seems to adore it. I can let go, truly be me." Saying it aloud was making her craving grow.
Marcy watched as she ran her fingers along the base her throat. "This guy really affects you." She rolled onto her belly and reached out one hand to rest on Abby's thigh. "I can feel the heat coming off you." Her eyes were filled with mischief and interest. She pushed her fingers a little higher, until they disappeared underneath the hem of Abby's fitted dress.
"Yes." She swallowed. She was aroused, undeniably horny because she was able to talk freely about Zac, and Marcy's hand had anchored the sense of crazed longing, her fingers like a magnet drawing her crazy nerve endings into focus. "Marcy..."
"Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "I'm just enjoying what this guy does to you. I love watching other people get off. Can I persuade you to share it with me, just a little?" Her hand was completely under the fabric now, her expression wayward, her fingers moving between Abby's thighs, gently easing them apart.
A tremor ran beneath her skin. "But I...you're my friend, Marcy."
"I'll still respect you in the morning."
Abby gave a crazy laugh, dizzy with wine and desire. "That's not what I meant. I don't want it to come between us."
"What, my hand?" Marcy grinned. She stretched her middle finger out and touched the surface of Abby's panties, her nail scratching infuriatingly at the surface, sending her clit wild.
"Oh..." Abby could barely reply. "You know what I mean."
"It doesn't have to come between us, just keep telling me about him and enjoy it. We'll always be friends, this doesn't mean I want to get engaged or anything." She winked.
Abby laughed. It wasn't as if she'd never touched anther woman. There'd been a girl at university. After a party, they had ended up snogging and wanked each other off. And that nail plucking at her panties was now teasing her into a frenzy. Her clit was throbbing with the need to be touched.
"Tell me more about Zac."
She sighed. She was aching for him, aching to be in his arms again. "This might sound crazy, but I believe that I truly started living when I met him." She closed her arms over her chest, locking the memory of his touch against her body.
"Touch your breasts. I can see you're dying too."
That fingertip on the surface of her underwear was driving her mad. She moaned, rolling her head against the cushion, her eyes closing. She squeezed her breasts through her dress and bra, hard, answering the demands of flesh that ached for contact.
