Chapter Text
It became the two of them when Anraj dipped to meet his friends three blocks away at some bar named whatever the fuck. The anticipation of room service catalogued preferences in Harper’s mind, presently a steak red enough to null the punishment of a forgone lunch. Tonight’s endless tequila special could have been paced with a salmon salad or venison burgers, but neither rang celebratory.
They were celebrating! Early birding the worm on biotechnology with Avacta Group and whatever real estate shitstorm was brewing in China—a market Sweetpea kept her nose in—had their books overcorrecting to green from a red zombied September. Petra was pleased enough to shutdown before noon, a reward she assured them would be exceedingly hard-earned; the true reward for high effort was higher expectations, no?
The itch of being watched tickled Harper’s left ear. She glanced up from her mirror to catch Sweetpea’s stare. “Can I help you?” She pumped a cloud of soap atop her palm. The dim overheads in the bar bathroom mellowed the zip of liquor tingling under her skin.
“Do you think I’m cute?”
Harper laughed as she clapped her hands together to suds them up. “Wow, so sudden. Whatever happened to passing a note in class? Circle yes or no…?”
“Rephrase: do you think I’m hot?”
The sensory sink jetted out a stream that warmed Harper’s arms with a pleasant rush. Brown marble and pristinely clean, the sink gurgling down bubbles held both their audience. The paper towel dispenser hung idle behind Sweetpea’s shiny blonde head.
Harper stepped in close enough to see where Sweetpea’s fresh sheen of lipgloss had overgrazed to line her lower lip pink. That’s where she looked first, of course: her mouth. Plump and pouty. Naturally, she trailed up to a button nose and higher to full, perfectly plucked brows above warm eyes. Sweetpea smelled fresh as a rose, too, a sweet, light perfume Harper got a whiff of while reaching over her shoulder.
One, two paper towels. She took her time drying her hands and tossing crumpled towels into the trash bin beneath the sink. Standing in her space, Harper held up a questioning thumb and met Sweetpea’s eyes. “May I?”
Quiet nodding, a nonverbal yes.
Harper pinched Sweetpea by the chin to steady her and ever so slowly swiped at her bottom lip. Taking her eyes again, Harper licked her thumb into her mouth and hummed at the hint of flavor. “You taste like brown sugar.”
“I should have pegged you as a tease. Go on and answer.”
“You’re cute when you’re fishing for compliments,” Harper said, patting Sweetpea’s cheek. She released her, then, stepping back to resume her own mirror analysis. “You’re hot on the regular. Hot is like your homeostasis. Not literally, of course.”
“Hot enough to fuck?”
Harper looked at her again, really looked at her. The tone mystified itself in the liminal space that was the potential and expectation of fucking; maybe it only felt abrupt because the most she was expecting out of this bathroom trip was a toilet paper cake wad surprise in the second stall—bingo!
Sweetpea had completely ditched her purse overflowing with tubes and vials of powders and scented oils to face Harper completely, her hip leant against the countertop. She was serious.
Hm.
“I can see you thinking and don’t say you’ve never thought about it,” Sweetpea blurted, nearing her limit on tongue withholding. “I’ve caught you looking at my ass when I go for a piss, you did it just a few minutes ago. And my orange blouse, the YSL—it makes my tits sit properly, don’t you think?”
Harper did think so. It was a bit embarrassing being called out, though her discretion was admittedly underutilized; it wasn’t pervy gawking anyway. It was more like an appreciative glance cast across the office that may have lingered for a moment or two. Even while celebrating the tasteful dip in the Saint Laurent shirt, Harper had never seriously thought of fucking Sweetpea. Now that the seed was planted…
“Fine, forget I asked, then,” Sweetpea mumbled, rolling her eyes. She turned back to her own mirror, cramming the lipgloss in her purse. “And don’t start thinking I’m in love with you. Anraj told me you’re pretty close with Yasmin or whatever.” Harper laughed again and caught a cutting glare from Sweetpea. “I should have asked if you think I’m funny enough to fuck since I’ve got you so tickled tonight.”
“It’s not you, it’s not you,” Harper insisted, and bit her lip to quell another pitch of laughter. “Well, it’s sort of you. And the tequila. Point being, Yas and I aren’t like that. Don’t listen to the rumors.” A lie, but shhh. “I was just thinking how you’d probably be the most interesting person I’ve fucked in the last six months.”
Sweetpea grinned, facing Harper again with her arms folded across her chest. “I can confirm without a doubt that you would be mine. I mean, Rishi is unique but rather predictable.”
Harper snorted. “You fucked Rishi?”
“Guilty. Being the mistress isn’t all they glam it up to be. I’ll admit I only feel bad ‘cause his kid’s a cutie.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Drop your skirt, please, just a little.”
“Really? You ought to show some solidarity!” Zrrip! Dragging the zipper down freed her skirt to slip below the curve of her ass, exposing her crotch hugged by plain stockings. An aside, it was a miracle the endless tequila hadn’t made a revolving door of the bathroom.
Harper tilted her head, distracted by the hot pink panties damn near glowing in the dim. “What do you mean solidarity?” she asked, flitting her eyes up to meet Sweetpea’s.
“Rishi’s a blabbermouth. Of course having multiple mistresses isn’t enough, he’s got to brag about it, too.”
“Hardly a mistress if it was only one time, right? Besides, they weren’t technically married yet.”
“Oh, I know. And I know you shagged in the bathroom.”
“Damn, he is a blabbermouth.” Harper took her by the waist, squeezing to feel the hand-filling warmth of her hips. It was a springboard, too, anchoring Sweetpea to the spot so Harper could tilt up on her tippy toes in search of a kiss that was subsequently halted by a firm finger.
“You never answered my question,” Sweetpea said flatly.
“I just did,” Harper corrected, and gave the finger against her mouth a quick peck as she lowered to her feet. “I said you were cute and in an idle state of hotness. I bet you’re a really good kisser, too.”
“I’m aces,” Sweetpea agreed, shrugging around a self-satisfied smile. “Question is am I hot enough to fuck?”
“Duh. You’ve got like a mature Cher Horowitz, financial Elle Woods, sexy-chic thing going on. Don’t take this the wrong way—tequila makes you feel her—but I’m starting to think your body is one of the less interesting things about you.”
“Keep talking.”
Harper’s cheeks curled around the points of her smile. “You’ve got a rockin’ bod, like, obviously. I just think it’s so curious that you’ve made a pass at me while knowing all that you surely know.”
Arms still guarding her chest, stood in heels with her panties pulled down, Sweetpea turned on her hyper-analytical scrutiny with the narrowing of her eyes. “How do you mean that?”
Harper deliberated for a moment. Really, how psychoanalytic did she want to get, standing with her partially undressed coworker in a bar bathroom? A subordinate at that. Ah, fuck it. If they were going to go there, she’d prefer they hit a mark. “You’re not asking me if I think you’re attractive to flatter yourself or seduce me. I think you want to know if I see you.”
“Ooh, you’re sharp. To be honest, I wanted a closer look at the Devil.”
Harper twinkled. So used to being admonished and condemned for this (alleged narcissistic tendencies) or that (plausibly deniable insider trading), it was new ground to be antagonized on her taboo judgements in a goading tease. This was a woman casually admitting to adultery with Rishi so perhaps Harper ought to slide Sweetpea firmly in neutrality on the scale of her own inner moral spectrum.
“I’m no Satan,” Harper said, drawing her arms in a lazy hug around Sweetpea’s waist, mirroring her tilt against the countertop. “I’m only his favorite trader.”
“Oh, yeah? Power is sexy on you.”
“Can I kiss you now?”
“No.” Sweetpea’s smile contrasted Harper’s immediate pout. “Not yet. I don’t fuck in bathrooms.”
“Fair. Come back to my hotel?”
“No. I don’t like a sloppy shag and you’re two shots away from being pissed. I am too, TBH. Makes me feel yucky the next morning.”
“Sorry—I’m used to British men and their biohazardous standards.”
Sweetpea pursed her lips around a smile. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll make the hassle worth your while. You’re just my type.”
“Ooh, lemme guess. Between myself and Rishi, is it covetous, cynical, charming assholes?”
“Ding ding ding! We have a winner. Here, collect your prize.”
Sweetpea reached behind her for Harper’s hand hanging prone around her waist and pulled at the front of her skintight stockings. Grinning like that dickhead cat in Alice’s Adventures in Acid Land, Sweetpea tucked Harper’s hand down the front of her panties. A thong, really.
Harper’s fingertips grazed clipped, damp curls, then was urged further down to rest against the thermal silk of a wet pussy. Harper felt her own clit twinge with envy when Sweetpea flattened her fingers to mold Harper’s hand into a firm press upwards.
“You like that?” Sweetpea murmured, smiling still.
“I can work with this.” Harper dragged the rough of her fingers against Sweetpea’s clit to make her huff, then pushed up just enough to wiggle her middle finger against the ring of her pussy. “It feels like you need it.”
Sweetpea, still clutching Harper’s wrist, nodded. “Sounds like you want to give it to me.”
“Mhm.” Harper took a scoop for tasting with her probing finger and withdrew her hand but instead of her salivating tongue, Sweetpea tugged Harper’s glossy fingertips towards her own mouth.
Pretty pink lips sucked Harper’s fingers down onto Sweetpea’s broad, rolling tongue, enclosed by the fleshy plush of her inner cheeks; Sweetpea gazed down, unflinching. Harper’s pussy clenched. “Damn, girl. Show me what that mouth do?”
With a parting lick at the webbed divot between her fingers, Sweetpea popped Harper’s hand out of her mouth. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”
Sweetpea cupped Harper’s face from below to pucker her lips and leant down into a kiss that she opened to at once. Sweetpea led with tongue, licking into her mouth to share the feathery smooth tang of her pussy. Yum.
Harper tilted her head and pulled Sweetpea’s hips against her own. Her lower belly burned with a more corporeal hunger. Her nipples were tight. Sweetpea worked her tongue in a hypnotic swirl, narrowing Harper’s focus to the odd thrill of tongue wrestling. Giving props when due, she thought Sweetpea vindicated in her self-assuredness as an excellent kisser.
“How badly do you want to fuck me?” Sweetpea demanded, parting their lips just far enough to give her words form.
The Big Boss of her brain overrode the honesty of increasingly bad on reflex; it was amazing she was still functional through the steam blowing out her ears. Instead, the Boss instructed she ask, “Do you have some intrinsic need for validation or something?”
“Pfft. No. It thrills me when people confide in me things they otherwise keep secret.” Sweetpea shrugged, trailing her hand down from Harper’s jaw to graze over her pebbled nipple and further still to rest on her lower back. “Don’t get shy now. I’m nothing like your billionaire Bruce Wayne wankers.”
“So what, am I supposed to give a scale rating?”
Sweetpea raised her brows in waiting.
“Before tonight, zero. Now we’re sitting at a healthy six.”
“Humbling.”
“Hey, it’s my turn to ask questions. What made you want to do this? Why now?”
Sweetpea grinned and dropped a wink that Harper was begrudgingly endeared to. “Come with me to Queen’s Club next Sunday.”
“You’re in a club for…the Queen of England?”
“Huh?” Sweetpea looked up from where she had stepped back to adjust her stockings and pull her hot pink panty-thongs over her ass. “No, Harper, it’s a tennis tournament.”
“Oh. Sounds fancy. Thanks for the invite but I’m—I’m a little avoidant of tennis, to be frank. No juicy secrets there so don’t press it.”
“I’m a confidant, not a Nosey Rosie. It’s only vulnerable if you choose to tell me, you know?” Sweetpea turned to her mirror to straighten her skirt. “It’s no biggie. Meet me at the country club afterwards.”
“I’m game.”
“Really? I won’t need to lock myself in a dark room with ten monitors and make a burnt offering of one thousand notes to summon thee Harper Stern for something casual?”
“Nope. Ask and you shall receive.”
Sweetpea had tucked her many vials into a neat fit for closing in her little purse. “It’s a good thing I’m inquisitive.”
“I agree,” Harper said, finally retreating to her own sink to wash her hands again.
It was deliberate, avoiding her left periphery. There was palpable tension between them, fresh and deliciously seductive. The chase and challenge excited her entirely, the coveted Ace in her deal of new lovers.
Sweetpea was quick on her toes and perceptive enough to be a real challenge—or asset—in the omnipresent positional exchange of macro life. Less of a wolf in sheep’s clothing and more of a panther. Likely pink.
“I’m going to freshen up in the toilet,” Sweetpea said, at last satisfied with the spread of her lashes and scooping up her bag. “You don’t have to wait up.”
“It’s no problem, I can wait outside. The least I could do is make sure you get in your cab.”
Sweetpea beamed in her mirror; she was seriously a beautiful woman. “How noble, my Prince Charming.”
Harper stood outside against the huge pole flagging the bar by the street digging in her coat pockets for a cig when she felt an arm loop around hers from behind.
“Thank fuck, you’re warm,” Harper muttered, ditching the pole to lean into Sweetpea’s fuzzy red trenchcoat. The wind whistled on cue, chilling the air with early November frost and the densely packed funk of a busy Friday night.
“Merino wool. Mittens, too.” She took Harper’s closest hand and slid it into her mitten, an insulated nest of wooly warmth. Their fingers conjoined to make a mess of thick, warm worms.
“I had fun tonight, Harper,” Sweetpea said, shouting a bit over the chatter static and engine grumblings. “Even before I grilled you in the loo.”
“I did, too,” Harper admitted, grinning at her. “You and Anraj are a good time.”
“My bugga-bear, I love him dearly! Be safe, wherever you are, sweetest Anraj!” Sweetpea blew kisses into the night that were surely received.
Harper raised her hand to hail a cab. Sweetpea, tapping away on her phone, had wiggled their enclosed fingers around to twine their hands together palm-to-palm in her mitten.
“I’ve wanted you since you rinsed Rishi in that faux interview,” Sweetpea said, attention still on her phone. “It felt good to remind him of his place, you know, since he loved to needle me about my life. And I got to see your claws come out.”
“That feels so long ago, wow.”
“Yeah, half a year. Real shame about his wife, too.”
“Huh? Diane?”
“Mhm. Heard she got popped in the head. Home invasion. I think that’s for us.”
Whiplash. Harper was processing Sweetpea’s casually abrupt disclosures as a black cab eased to a stop before them. How come she hadn’t heard about Diane? To be fair, she never asked…
“You’ll come see me next Sunday, right?” Sweetpea pressed, squeezing Harper’s hand as she stepped to the cab.
“Give me the details at work next week and I’ll be there.”
“Perfect! Ring me when you get home, yeah?” She reached down to pull the cab door open.
“Of course.” Harper unraveled their fingers from the wooly mitten, though she caught Sweetpea’s hand before she could step into the car. “And Sweetpea?”
“Hm?” She met Harper’s eyes, one foot on the curb, the other on the street.
“You had better make it worth my while.”