The car door clicked shut and Jackie sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel, watching Sally's house in the rearview mirror. The morning light caught the upstairs window, a flash of gold that made her squint. She didn't look long enough to see if they were still at the door. She didn't need to.
The engine turned over and she pulled away from the curb, the street unspooling in her side mirror like a thread she'd tied to something that would hold.
She drove with the window down, the air cool against her face, drying the damp ends of her hair where the shower hadn't quite caught everything. The scent of Sally's soap—something floral, something that sat on the skin like a second thought—faded as the wind took it, replaced by cut grass and exhaust and the particular blankness of a morning that hadn't decided what it wanted to be.
The phone sat in the cup holder, screen dark. She'd checked it at the last red light—a reflex, a muscle memory—and found nothing. No messages from Anna. No missed calls. Just the black glass staring back at her, empty as a promise she hadn't made yet.
The travel mug was still warm from Sally's kitchen. She'd filled it without asking, pressed it into Jackie's hands like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Jackie had taken it because what else do you do when someone hands you something hot and tells you to drive safe?
She took a sip. Coffee. Black. One sugar. The same way she'd ordered it at the B&B. The same way Nicky had watched her stir it, filed the detail away somewhere quiet.
She didn't let herself think about what it meant that Sally had known.
The houses changed as she drove, the old Victorian terraces giving way to something newer, cleaner, more uniform. Identical new-builds with identical bay windows and identical front doors in shades of grey that were supposed to look modern but just looked like someone had drained the colour out of the street. The numbers climbed, brass-plaques and stick-on digits and one house that had its number worked into a ceramic tile shaped like a cat. Jackie passed it without slowing.
Number 47. That was the address in her calendar. Anna. No surname, just a first name and a time and a note that read Referral — said you'd understand.
The house was easy to spot. Not because of the number, but because of the sign.
FOR SALE, it read, in letters that had started to fade. An estate agent's logo at the bottom, a phone number, a strip of plastic that fluttered in the breeze like it was trying to wave her down.
The front garden was tidy but tired—a lawn that had been mowed one too many times, borders where the soil had cracked and no one had bothered to water. A pair of pots flanked the door, both empty, one with a dead stick still poking up from the dirt.
And in the window, a woman stood watching the street.
Jackie saw her before she'd even killed the engine—a silhouette against the glass, backlit by the room behind her. She was standing perfectly still, her hands at her sides, her head tilted just slightly as if she'd been waiting long enough that she'd stopped checking the clock and started simply looking.
The woman raised a hand. A small wave. Deliberate. Like she'd been practising it.
Jackie's fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
She knew that shape. Not the woman herself—she'd never met Anna, never seen a photo, only had a name and an address and a note that said you'd understand. But she knew the posture. The stillness. The way a woman stands at a window and watches for a car that isn't just delivering a package.
She had been waiting longer than the appointment time suggested.
Jackie turned off the engine. The silence settled around her, thick and sudden, the way it always did when the road noise died and she was left alone with her own breath. She picked up her phone—still no messages—and slipped it into her jacket pocket. The case was in the boot. She'd get it after she'd read the room.
The front door opened before she reached the path.
Anna was younger than Jackie had expected—maybe early forties, but with the kind of face that hadn't quite decided how old it was going to settle at. Brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her jaw. She wore jeans and a cream-coloured jumper that looked soft, well-worn, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows like she'd been in the middle of something and had stopped to answer the door.
She was barefoot.
"You're early," Anna said. Her voice was calm, almost flat, but there was something underneath it—a current running through the stillness.
Jackie checked her watch. "Five minutes."
"I know. I was ready anyway." Anna stepped back, holding the door open. "Come in."
The hallway was clean and sparse. A coat rack with nothing on it. A shoe rack with two pairs of trainers, both worn. A mirror on the wall that had been wiped recently—Jackie could see the streak marks at the edge, the place where the cloth had stopped.
Anna led her past the living room—the one with the window, Jackie noted, catching a glimpse of the street through the glass—and into a kitchen at the back of the house. It was the kind of kitchen that came with the house, fitted and modern and completely neutral. Grey cabinets. White worktops. Nothing on the counters except a kettle and a single mug, upside down on a drying rack.
"Tea?" Anna asked. "Coffee? I have both. I think there's juice somewhere, but it might be from last week."
"Coffee would be good."
Anna nodded and turned to the kettle, filling it from the tap with a practised efficiency that suggested she'd made coffee for strangers before. Or maybe she just knew her own kitchen.
Jackie set her bag on the floor by the table and watched her work. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was present—a third person in the room, waiting to be acknowledged.
"I saw the sign," Jackie said. "Moving out?"
Anna's hand paused on the kettle for just a fraction of a second. Long enough. "Something like that."
"Something like that." Jackie leaned against the counter, giving her space. "You don't have to tell me. I'm just making conversation."
"I know." Anna turned, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed, the kettle forgotten. "That's why I called you. Because I figured you'd be good at that."
"Making conversation?"
"Knowing when to stop asking."
Jackie smiled. It was a small thing, barely a movement of her mouth, but she let it sit there. "What else did you figure?"
Anna's eyes held hers for a moment, measuring. Then she pushed off the counter and went back to the kettle, switching it on with a click. "I figured you'd be older. No offence."
"None taken. I'm fifty-eight. I think I qualify."
"You carry it well." Anna said it without a trace of flattery, just a statement of fact. She spooned coffee into two mugs, added sugar to one, and waited for the kettle to boil.
The pause stretched, and Jackie let it. She'd learned long ago that silence was a better sales tool than any pitch. Women who called her usually had something they needed to say, and they'd say it faster if they weren't being asked.
"My husband left three months ago," Anna said finally. Her voice was still flat, but the current underneath it had grown stronger. "He didn't want the house. Didn't want the furniture. Didn't want any of it. Just wanted out."
Jackie said nothing. The kettle boiled, clicked off, and Anna poured water into each mug with steady hands.
"I thought about staying. Keeping the house, making it mine. But every room has his ghost in it. I walk into the living room and I see him on the sofa, watching football. I go into the bedroom and I see the side of the bed he slept on, the dent in the pillow. Even the kitchen—" She gestured at the space around her. "—I still catch myself making two cups of tea."
She slid one of the mugs across the counter toward Jackie. Steam curled up, carrying the scent of fresh coffee.
"But that's not why I called you."
Jackie wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms. "Why did you call me?"
Anna didn't answer right away. She picked up her own mug, blew across the surface, and took a careful sip. Then she set it down and looked at Jackie with an expression that was harder to read than the one she'd worn at the door.
"Because I've spent three months being the woman whose husband left her. I've eaten dinner alone, watched films alone, slept alone. I've told my mother I'm fine. I've told my friends I'm fine. I've told myself I'm fine so many times I've started to believe it." She paused. "And then a friend of mine—someone who used to work with me, before I left my job—she told me about you."
Jackie's thumb traced the rim of the mug. "What did she tell you?"
"She told me you came to her house and made her feel like a woman again. Not like a wife. Not like a mother. Like a woman." Anna's voice cracked, just slightly, on the last word, and she cleared her throat to cover it. "She said you brought things. Lingerie. Toys. And that you didn't just sell them to her. You showed her. You touched her. You made her remember what her body was for."
The air in the kitchen had shifted. Jackie could feel it, the way she always could—that moment when the conversation stopped being about products and started being about truth.
"Who was she?" Jackie asked. Not because she needed to know, but because she wanted to hear Anna say it.
"That's not important." Anna's jaw tightened. "What's important is that I'm not her. I don't have her courage. I couldn't just pick up the phone and book an appointment. I looked at your website four times. I saved it as a bookmark, then deleted it, then Googled you again two days later. I wrote out the number on a piece of paper and shoved it in a drawer because having it in my phone felt too real."
"But you called."
"I called." Anna let out a breath, and something in her shoulders loosened, just a fraction. "I called because I'm tired of being fine. I'm tired of this house and this silence and this version of myself that doesn't feel like mine anymore. And I thought—" She stopped. Started again. "I thought maybe if someone touched me like I mattered, I'd start to believe it."
The words hung in the air between them, raw and unadorned. Jackie didn't rush to fill them. She let them sit, let Anna feel the weight of what she'd said, let the admission settle into the space like a new piece of furniture.
Then she set down her mug and reached for her bag.
"Show me the bedroom," she said.
Anna's eyes widened, just for a second. "What?"
"The bedroom. Or the living room. Wherever you're comfortable." Jackie unzipped the bag, revealing the black velvet cases inside. "I have a lot to show you, and I want you to be able to see yourself in something before you decide whether you want it."
Anna stared at her for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, and turned toward the hallway.
"This way."
The bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking a garden that had gone feral—long grass, a broken fence, a birdbath tipped on its side. The room itself was neat, the bed made with hospital corners, the wardrobe doors closed. A single book lay on the bedside table, spine cracked, a receipt marking a page partway through.
But it was the wall that Jackie's eyes went to. The wallpaper—a pattern of small blue flowers, faded at the edges where the sun had hit it. Old-fashioned. The kind of thing a couple picked out together, thinking it would make a house a home.
Anna followed her gaze. "He hated it. Said it looked like his grandmother's house." Her voice was quieter now, stripped of the bravado she'd carried in the kitchen. "I picked it anyway."
"Good," Jackie said. "You should pick things you like."
She set the bag on the bed and unzipped it fully, pulling out the first case. Velvet-lined, the contents nestled in neat compartments. She opened the lid and let Anna see: colours arranged like a painter's palette, burgundy and navy and deep green and black, lace and satin and sheer mesh.
"These are samples," Jackie said. "I have more in the car. But I wanted you to see what's possible before I start pulling everything out."
Anna stepped closer, her hand reaching out before she seemed to realise she was doing it. Her fingers hovered over a burgundy bra—demi-cup, French lace, delicate straps—and then she touched it. Just the edge of the lace. A barely-there brush of her fingertips.
"I haven't worn anything like this in..." She trailed off.
"You don't have to know how long it's been," Jackie said. "That's not what matters."
"What matters?"
Jackie stepped around the bed until she was standing beside Anna, close enough to smell the soap on her skin—something clean, something neutral. She reached out and took Anna's hand, lifting it away from the lace, and turned her so they were facing each other.
"What matters is what you want. Right now. In this room. Not what you think you should want, not what your husband would have wanted, not what your friend told you you'd feel. What you want."
Anna's breath caught. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but her hand didn't pull away from Jackie's grip.
"I want to feel something," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I want to feel something that isn't tired."
Jackie held her gaze. "Then let me show you."
She released Anna's hand and reached into the case, pulling out the burgundy set—the bra, the matching knickers, a suspender belt in a coordinating shade. She laid them out on the bed, smoothing the lace with her palm.
"This is your colour," she said. "I knew it the moment I saw you. The way you stand, the way you hold yourself. You're not a beige woman. You're burgundy. You just forgot."
Anna's hand went to her throat, a nervous gesture. "I don't know if I can—"
"You don't have to know." Jackie's voice was warm, unhurried. "You just have to try."
The silence stretched. Anna's hand stayed at her throat. Her eyes moved from the lace to Jackie's face and back again, as if she was trying to find a reason to say no and coming up empty.
Then she reached for the hem of her jumper and pulled it over her head.
Underneath, she wore a plain white bra—functional, unlined, the kind of thing you bought in a three-pack and never thought about again. Her skin was pale, the marks of the bra straps pressed into her shoulders like she'd been carrying something heavy.
Jackie didn't comment. She just picked up the burgundy bra and held it out, the cups facing Anna like an invitation.
Anna took it. Her fingers were steady as she reached behind herself to unhook her own bra, but Jackie noticed that she didn't drop it. She held it for a moment, looking down at the plain white cotton, and then let it fall to the floor.
The burgundy lace settled over her skin like it had been waiting for her. Jackie stepped forward, her hands finding the clasp at the back, fastening it with a practised touch. She adjusted the straps, her fingertips brushing Anna's shoulders, and then she stepped back.
"Look," she said.
Anna turned to the mirror on the wardrobe door. Her reflection looked back at her—a woman in burgundy lace, her breasts lifted and shaped by the underwire, the colour bringing warmth to her skin. She touched her own collarbone, tracing the edge of the lace.
"I forgot," she said, and her voice cracked again, but this time she didn't clear her throat. "I forgot what I looked like."
Jackie came up behind her, not quite touching, close enough that Anna could feel her presence. "You look beautiful."
Anna's eyes met hers in the mirror. "Show me what else you brought."
Jackie smiled. She reached into the case and pulled out a second set—black this time, but not plain. Sheer panels, strategic cutouts, a suspender belt that would sit low on the hips. She laid it out beside the burgundy, and then she reached in again, pulling out a velvet pouch that clinked softly when she set it down.
Anna's eyes went to the pouch. "What's that?"
"Something for later." Jackie's hand rested on it, not opening it yet. "If you want."
Anna looked at the black lace, at the velvet pouch, at Jackie's reflection. She was still wearing the burgundy bra, her arms crossed loosely over her stomach, and something in her posture had shifted. She wasn't holding herself the same way she had at the door.
"I want," she said. "I've been wanting for three months. I just didn't know how to ask."
Jackie's hand found hers, warm and sure. "You don't have to ask. You just have to let yourself have it."
Anna's fingers tightened around hers. She didn't let go.
Outside, the for sale sign creaked in the breeze. Inside, the woman in the burgundy lace took a breath that felt like the first one she'd taken in months, and let Jackie Bartlett lead her toward the edge of something new.
Anna's hands were warm against Jackie's cheeks. Her palms pressed flat, fingertips curling just slightly into the hollows beneath Jackie's cheekbones, and for a long moment neither of them moved. The burgundy lace held Anna's breasts in perfect shape, the colour bringing a flush to her chest that hadn't been there a minute ago. Her eyes moved across Jackie's face like she was reading something written in a language she was only just learning.
"You're real," Anna said. Not a question. A discovery.
Jackie lifted her own hands slowly, letting Anna see every inch of the movement before her fingers settled over Anna's wrists. Not pulling them away. Just holding them there, a point of contact that said I'm not going anywhere.
"I'm real."
Anna's thumbs traced outward, brushing the corners of Jackie's mouth, the line of her jaw, the skin just below her ears. Each touch was deliberate, unhurried, like she was memorising the geography of a face she'd only just met and already trusted with something fragile.
"When I booked this," Anna said, her voice low, "I told myself I'd just try things on. See how they felt. Maybe buy something pretty and wear it under my clothes and know it was there even if no one else did." She paused, her thumbs resting at the hinge of Jackie's jaw. "I didn't think I'd want to touch you."
"And now?"
Anna's breath came out uneven. "Now I don't want to stop."
Jackie turned her head just slightly, pressing her lips to the inside of Anna's wrist. A soft kiss. Barely there. Anna's pulse jumped against her mouth, a rabbit-quick flutter that spoke louder than any confession.
"Then don't," Jackie said.
Anna's hands slid from Jackie's face into her hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands, and she leaned in and kissed her.
It was not a tentative kiss. It was not a question. Anna's mouth met Jackie's with a hunger that had been banked for three months, for longer, for a marriage that had starved her without her even realising the plate was empty. Her lips parted, her tongue found Jackie's lower lip, and she made a sound low in her throat—a small, desperate noise that she tried to swallow and couldn't.
Jackie answered her. One hand stayed on Anna's wrist; the other found the bare skin of her waist, just above the waistband of her jeans. Warm. Soft. The faint tremor of a woman who hadn't been touched in months and was remembering what it felt like to want.
They kissed until Anna broke away for air, her forehead resting against Jackie's, her breath coming in short, sharp pulls. Her hands were still in Jackie's hair, gripping like she was afraid Jackie might dissolve if she let go.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Anna whispered.
"That's fine." Jackie's voice was low, steady, a handrail in the dark. "You don't have to know. You just have to feel it."
"I feel—" Anna stopped. Swallowed. "I feel like I've been underwater for three years and I've just broken the surface."
Jackie's hand smoothed up Anna's side, tracing the edge of the burgundy lace, her thumb brushing the underside of Anna's breast. "Then breathe."
Anna did. A long, shuddering inhale that seemed to pull something loose in her chest. Her eyes were dark, wet at the edges, but she didn't look away.
"What's in the pouch?" she asked.
Jackie almost laughed. The question was so grounded, so practical, after the weight of everything Anna had just said. She glanced at the velvet pouch still sitting on the bed, then back at Anna.
"A glass wand," she said. "Silicone. A small bullet vibrator. Nothing you couldn't buy from a website." She paused. "But I'd rather show you than sell you."
Anna's fingers tightened in her hair. "Show me."
Jackie kissed her again—softer this time, a promise rather than a claiming—and then stepped back just enough to reach for the pouch. She untied the drawstring with deliberate slowness, letting Anna watch, letting the anticipation build like a note held past its natural length.
The glass wand came out first. Clear, curved, smooth as water, the bulb at the end catching the light from the window and throwing a small arc of brightness across the ceiling. Jackie held it up, let Anna see it fully.
"It's beautiful," Anna said.
"It's functional," Jackie said with a small smile. "But yes. It's beautiful too."
Anna reached out and touched the glass with her fingertip, drawing a line along the curve. "Cold."
"It warms up." Jackie set the wand down on the bed beside the pouch and reached in again, pulling out the bullet vibrator—small, unassuming, matte black. "This one's for more precise work."
Anna's mouth quirked. "Precise work."
"Mm." Jackie set the bullet beside the wand. "And then there's the silicone." She pulled out a slender dildo, pale pink, the kind that didn't try to be realistic but knew exactly what it was for. "This one's for when you want to feel full."
Anna's breath caught. Just a hitch, barely audible, but Jackie heard it. She set the dildo down with the others, lining them up on the bed like a display in a gallery.
"Which one do you want to start with?"
Anna didn't look at the toys. She looked at Jackie. "I want to start with your hands."
Jackie felt something shift in her chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. She reached out and took Anna's hand, lifting it, pressing her lips to the palm.
"Lie down," she said.
Anna moved to the bed, her legs unsteady, and sat on the edge. She looked up at Jackie—the burgundy bra still perfect, her skin flushed, her hair escaping its ponytail in dark strands that clung to her neck—and then she lay back, her head finding the pillow, her hands resting at her sides.
Jackie stood over her, taking her in. The lace against her skin. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled into the duvet, holding onto something solid.
"You're safe," Jackie said. "Do you understand that?"
Anna nodded. "I know."
"Say it."
Anna's throat worked. "I'm safe."
Jackie smiled—a real smile, warm and unguarded—and then she climbed onto the bed, settling beside Anna on her side, propped on one elbow. She didn't reach for the toys. She didn't reach for the bra. She reached for Anna's face again, cupping her jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of Anna's mouth.
"Tell me what you want," Jackie said. "Not what you think you should want. What you want."
Anna's hand came up, covering Jackie's against her cheek. "I want to feel your mouth on me." Her voice was steady, even as the colour deepened in her face. "I want to remember what it feels like to be wanted like that. Like someone can't get enough of me."
Jackie's thumb traced the line of Anna's jaw, down her throat, to the hollow at its base where her pulse was beating fast and full. She followed it with her mouth, pressing a kiss to that pulse point, feeling it flutter beneath her lips.
"I can do that," she murmured against Anna's skin.
She kissed a path down Anna's throat, slow and deliberate, each press of her lips a small claim. Anna's head tilted back, her throat bared, her breath coming in shallow pulls that grew deeper as Jackie's mouth found the curve where her neck met her shoulder. The burgundy lace was in the way, and Jackie hooked her finger under the strap, pulling it down just enough to press her lips to the bare skin beneath.
"You smell good," Jackie said. "Not like perfume. Like—you. Clean. Warm."
"I showered before you came." Anna's voice was breathless, a little embarrassed. "I didn't want to—"
"I know." Jackie kissed the swell of her breast where it rose above the lace. "I'm glad you did."
Anna's hand found Jackie's hair again, gripping gently, guiding without pressure. Jackie let herself be guided, her mouth tracing the edge of the bra, dipping lower, tasting the salt of Anna's skin where the lace ended and the soft curve began.
"Can I take this off?" Jackie's fingers found the clasp between Anna's breasts.
"Yes. God, yes."
Jackie unfastened it with one hand, a neat flick of her fingers, and the burgundy lace fell away. Anna's breasts were pale and full, her nipples already hard, the areolas dark against the lighter skin. Jackie—she took a moment to look. To let Anna feel the weight of being seen.
"You're beautiful," Jackie said. "Every inch of you."
Anna's hand tightened in her hair. "Show me."
Jackie lowered her mouth to Anna's breast, taking the nipple between her lips, her tongue circling slow and wet. Anna's back arched, a sharp inhale hissing through her teeth, and Jackie pressed her palm flat against the other breast, feeling the heartbeat thrumming beneath the skin.
She worked her mouth over Anna's nipple with the same unhurried attention she'd given the lace, tasting, learning, listening to the small sounds Anna made and adjusting her pressure in response. A flicker of tongue when Anna's breath caught. A gentle suction when she moaned. Anna's hips shifted on the bed, her thighs pressing together, seeking friction she wasn't getting yet.
Jackie switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and slid her free hand down Anna's stomach, over the waistband of her jeans, resting there. Not pushing. Just present.
"I want to touch you," Jackie said against her skin. "But I want you to tell me when you're ready. Not before."
Anna's breathing was ragged. "I'm ready."
"You're ready for my hand? Or you're ready for me to take my time?"
Anna let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. "Is that a trick question?"
"No." Jackie lifted her head, meeting Anna's eyes. "I just want to make sure you get what you actually need, not what you think you're supposed to say."
Anna looked at her for a long moment. Then she reached down and took Jackie's hand, guiding it to the button of her jeans.
"I need you to touch me," she said, "but I need you to do it slow. Because if you go fast, I'll—" She stopped. Started again. "I'll come apart too fast and I don't want to miss any of it."
Jackie's fingers curled around Anna's, squeezing gently. "I can do slow."
She unfastened the button, pulled the zip down, and slid her hand into the gap, her palm flat against the soft cotton of Anna's knickers. The heat of her body seeped through the fabric, and Anna's hips lifted, pressing into her hand before she could stop herself.
"Easy," Jackie murmured. "I've got you."
She didn't push inside. She just held her hand there, letting Anna get used to the weight of it, the reality of being touched after so long. Her thumb traced a slow circle over the cotton, feeling the shape of Anna through the fabric, the soft swell of her mound, the damp heat that was already starting to spread.
"Jesus," Anna breathed. "I'm so—" She flushed, the colour rising from her chest to her throat.
"Wet?" Jackie's voice was low, intimate. "That's good. That means your body knows what it wants even if you've been telling it to be quiet."
Anna's hand gripped the duvet. "It's been so long."
"I know." Jackie pressed her palm more firmly, a steady pressure rather than a rub. "But your body remembers. It hasn't forgotten how to feel."
She slid her fingers under the edge of the knickers, finding the slick heat beneath. Anna's breath stuttered, her hips tilting into Jackie's hand, and Jackie held still for a moment, just feeling her—the damp curls, the slickness of her folds, the way her whole body seemed to be leaning into the contact like a plant toward light.
"Tell me," Jackie said.
Anna's voice was raw. "Don't stop."
Jackie didn't. She slid one finger through the slick heat, finding Anna's clit with the lightest touch, circling once, twice, watching Anna's face as the sensation hit her. Anna's mouth fell open, her eyes closing, and she made a sound that was almost a sob.
"That's it," Jackie said. "Just feel it. You don't have to do anything else."
She kept the pressure light, her finger tracing slow circles through the wetness, building the sensation like a tide coming in. Anna's hips moved with her, a slow, unconscious rhythm, her hand still fisted in the duvet, her breath coming in short, punched-out gasps.
Jackie slid a second finger in, slow, letting Anna adjust to the stretch. Anna's inner walls clenched around her, hot and slick, and Jackie curled her fingers just slightly, searching.
Anna's whole body jerked. "There—"
"Here?" Jackie pressed again, finding the spot, a small patch of textured flesh that made Anna's thighs tremble.
"Yes. God, yes."
Jackie worked her fingers in a steady rhythm, pressing against that spot with each stroke, her thumb finding Anna's clit and circling in time. Anna's breathing turned to moans, low and broken, and her hand left the duvet and grabbed Jackie's wrist, not to pull her away but to hold her there, to keep her exactly where she was.
"You're close," Jackie said. Not a question.
"I'm—I don't—I can't—"
"You can. Let it happen."
Anna's back arched, her hips lifting off the bed, and she came with a cry that was half relief, half release, her body shuddering around Jackie's fingers. Jackie worked her through it, slowing gradually as the tremors subsided, until Anna's hand relaxed on her wrist and her breathing started to even out.
Jackie withdrew gently, her fingers slick, and brought them to her mouth, tasting Anna without ceremony. Anna watched her, eyes dark and dazed.
"That was—" Anna started.
"That was just the beginning," Jackie said. She smiled, soft and crooked. "If you want."
Anna reached for her, pulling her down into a kiss that tasted of her own salt and Jackie's patience, and when she broke away, her voice was steady. "I want the rest."
Outside, the for sale sign creaked in the breeze. Inside, Jackie Bartlett reached for the glass wand, its curve catching the light, and Anna watched her with eyes that had finally stopped being tired.
Anna's hand caught Jackie's wrist before she could close her fingers around the glass curve. The wand caught the light, a slim arc of refracted brightness that slid across the ceiling as Jackie's arm stopped mid-reach, and Anna's grip was warm and steady, a different kind of current running through her touch.
"Not that one first," Anna said. Her voice had found its footing again, steadier now, the tremble banked into something quieter and more certain.
Jackie looked down at her, the wand still in her hand, and waited.
Anna guided Jackie's free hand back to her stomach, pressing it flat against the warm skin just below her navel. The burgundy bra was still unfastened, the cups fallen open, the lace pooled on either side of her breasts. She made no move to close it. Her hand stayed over Jackie's, holding it against her, and her eyes held Jackie's with a directness that hadn't been there when she'd opened the door.
"The bullet," Anna said. "I want to start with the bullet."
Jackie's thumb moved in a slow arc against Anna's belly, a small answer. "Why that one?"
Anna's breath came out in a slow exhale, her chest rising and falling beneath the fallen lace. "Because I want to feel it right where I need it. Not—" She gestured vaguely at the wand. "—not somewhere I have to work for. I want it exactly where I tell you to put it, and I want to watch your face while you do it."
The words landed in the space between them, clean and deliberate. Jackie set the glass wand back on the bed, the curve settling against the duvet with a soft click, and picked up the bullet vibrator instead. Small. Matte black. Unassuming in her palm.
"Like this," Jackie said, holding it up so Anna could see it clearly. "You press the top to turn it on. One setting at a time. Low to high, no skipping." She placed it in Anna's hand, folding her fingers around it. "You can hand it to me when you're ready."
Anna looked down at the bullet in her palm, then back up at Jackie. Her fingers tightened around it, and she held it out.
"I'm ready."
Jackie took it from her, her fingers brushing Anna's, and pressed the top. The bullet hummed to life, a low, steady vibration that she could feel through her palm. She held it against her own wrist for a moment, testing, then lowered it to Anna's stomach, resting it just above the waistband of her jeans.
"Close your eyes," Jackie said.
Anna did. Her lashes settled against her cheeks, dark and still, and her breathing deepened as she waited.
Jackie moved the bullet in a slow circle across Anna's belly, the vibration a low hum against her skin. Anna's muscles jumped, a reflexive twitch, and her lips parted but she didn't open her eyes.
"Just feel it," Jackie said. "No destination. Just the sensation."
She traced a path up Anna's sternum, between her breasts, the bullet buzzing against her skin. Anna's breath caught, her nipples tightening in the cool air, and Jackie circled one with the vibrator, barely brushing the tip of the bullet against the hard peak.
Anna made a small sound, her hips shifting on the bed.
Jackie moved the bullet to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and then traced a slow line back down Anna's stomach, over the waistband of her jeans. She didn't unfasten them yet. She just held the bullet there, the vibration pressing through the denim, letting Anna feel the promise of where it was going.
"Open your eyes," Jackie said.
Anna's eyes opened. Dark. Focused. Watching.
Jackie unfastened Anna's jeans with her free hand, the button giving way easily, the zip sliding down. She didn't pull the jeans off—just opened them, revealing the plain cotton of Anna's knickers, the damp patch already visible at the centre.
"Look," Jackie said. "See what your body does when you let it want something."
Anna's gaze went to the dark stain on the cotton, and colour rose in her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "Is that—"
"That's you." Jackie pressed the bullet against the damp cotton, the vibration humming through the fabric. "That's what wanting looks like."
Anna's breath stuttered. Her hips lifted into the pressure, her thighs parting, and Jackie held the bullet steady, letting the vibration build through the barrier of the knickers. The cotton grew damper, the fabric darkening, and Anna's hand came up to grip Jackie's wrist, not pulling, just holding.
"Can I—" Anna's voice was rough. "Can I take these off?"
"You can do whatever you need to do."
Anna reached down with her free hand and pushed her jeans down her hips, kicking them off her ankles with an ungainly urgency that made Jackie smile. The knickers followed, pulled down and discarded, and then Anna was bare beneath her, her thighs open, the curls between them dark and wet, her clit visible and swollen.
Jackie looked at her. Not a quick glance, but a deliberate, unhurried study—the way the light caught the dampness on Anna's inner thighs, the way her stomach rose and fell with each shallow breath, the way her hands lay open at her sides, palms up, like she was receiving something.
"You're exquisite," Jackie said.
Anna's throat worked. "I don't feel exquisite. I feel like I've been wound too tight for years and someone's finally loosened the first knot."
"That's the same thing."
Jackie lowered the bullet to Anna's clit, pressing it directly against the swollen nub, and Anna's whole body bowed upward, a sharp, strangled cry escaping her throat. The vibration was low, the first setting, but the direct contact after all the barriers was enough to make her grab the duvet with both hands, her knuckles white.
"Breathe," Jackie said, keeping the bullet steady. "Don't hold it. Let it move through you."
Anna's breath came out in a shuddering exhale, and her hips began to move, a slow, unconscious roll against the vibration. Jackie watched her, watched the way her mouth fell open, the way her eyes lost focus, the way her thighs trembled on either side of Jackie's hand.
"Does that feel good?" Jackie asked.
Anna managed a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Yes."
"Do you want more?"
"Yes."
Jackie pressed the button. The vibration doubled, a deeper, fuller hum that seemed to resonate through Anna's whole body. Her back arched, her head pressing into the pillow, and a long, low moan rolled out of her, unstoppable.
Jackie kept the bullet exactly where it was, pressed against Anna's clit, the vibration steady. She didn't speed it up or slow it down. She just held it there, watching Anna come undone in small, incremental waves—the tremor in her thighs, the flutter of her stomach muscles, the way her mouth kept shaping sounds she couldn't quite release.
"You're close," Jackie said. Not a question.
"I'm—" Anna's voice broke. "I'm right there. Don't stop."
Jackie didn't. She held the bullet against her, steady as a heartbeat, and watched Anna's face as the orgasm built and crested and broke over her. Anna's mouth opened, a silent cry, and her whole body clenched around nothing, her thighs pressing together, her hands fisting in the duvet as the wave rolled through her.
Jackie eased the pressure, letting the vibration taper as the aftershocks subsided. She didn't pull the bullet away completely, just let it rest against Anna's hip, a low hum against bone and skin.
Anna's eyes were wet at the edges, her breath coming in deep, shuddering pulls. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and then she turned her head and looked at Jackie with an expression that was hard to read.
"That's the first time I've come without thinking about him," she said. Her voice was raw, scraped clean. "In three months. The first time my body was mine."
Jackie set the bullet aside and lay down beside her, not quite touching, close enough that Anna could feel the warmth of her. "It's yours," she said. "It always was. You just had to remember."
Anna turned onto her side, facing Jackie, the burgundy lace still pooled around her breasts. She reached out and touched Jackie's face, her fingers tracing the line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth, the skin beneath her eye.
"I want to touch you," Anna said. "I want to make you feel the way you made me feel."
Jackie's hand found Anna's waist, her thumb brushing the soft skin above her hip. "You don't have to—"
"I know." Anna's voice was quiet but firm. "I'm not doing it because I owe you. I'm doing it because I want to. Because I spent three months thinking I'd never want to touch anyone again, and right now, I want to touch you more than I've wanted anything in a long time."
Jackie felt something shift in her chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. She lifted Anna's hand from her face and pressed a kiss to the palm, then held it against her own cheek.
"Then touch me."
Anna's fingers curled against Jackie's skin, and she leaned in, her mouth finding Jackie's in a kiss that was slower than the first one, deeper, a conversation rather than a confession. Her hand slid from Jackie's face down her throat, over the collar of her blouse, to the buttons that ran between her breasts.
She unfastened them one by one, not rushing, her eyes on her own fingers as they worked. The fabric parted, revealing the navy lace beneath, the matching suspender straps that crossed Jackie's shoulders, the swell of her breasts held in a bra that matched exactly.
Anna's breath caught. "You wore matching."
"Always." Jackie's voice was low. "Part of the job."
"No." Anna's hand pressed flat against the lace, feeling the warmth of Jackie's skin through the fabric. "That's not the job. That's who you are."
Jackie didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Anna pushed the blouse off Jackie's shoulders, revealing the full set—the navy bra, the suspender straps, the stockings that disappeared into the darkness of her skirt. She traced a suspender strap with her fingertip, following it from Jackie's shoulder down to the clip at the top of her stocking.
"I've never been with a woman," Anna said. "I thought about it, in college. Had a dream once that woke me up with my heart pounding. But I never—" She shook her head. "I was always too afraid to find out if it was real."
"And now?"
Anna's fingers found the clasp of Jackie's bra, fumbling for a moment before it gave way. The navy lace loosened, and Jackie shrugged it off, her breasts falling free, her nipples already hard in the cool air.
Anna looked at her. At the curve of her breasts, the weight of them, the soft skin that held the faint marks of the lace. She reached out, hesitated, and then cupped one breast in her hand, her thumb brushing across the nipple.
"Now," Anna said, "I'm not afraid."
She lowered her mouth to Jackie's breast, her tongue circling the nipple with a tentative curiosity that hardened into confidence as Jackie's breath quickened. Jackie's hand found the back of Anna's head, her fingers threading through the dark hair, holding her there without pressure.
Anna's mouth worked her breast with a hunger that was still learning itself, her lips and tongue exploring the shape of her, the taste of her, the way Jackie's body responded to each small adjustment. Jackie let her take her time, let her learn, let her feel the power of making someone else fall apart.
"You're a natural," Jackie said, her voice rough.
Anna pulled back, her lips wet, her eyes bright. "I've had good instruction."
Jackie laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her—and pulled Anna down into a kiss that tasted of her own skin and Anna's discovery. They rolled together on the bed, the burgundy lace and navy lace tangled, the glass wand forgotten on the duvet, the bullet vibrator lying silent where Jackie had set it aside.
Anna's hand slid down Jackie's stomach, beneath the waistband of her skirt, finding the heat of her through the damp silk of her knickers. Her fingers were uncertain, searching, and Jackie guided her, pressing her hand where she needed it, showing her the rhythm without words.
"Like this?" Anna asked.
"Like that." Jackie's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."
Anna's finger slid inside her, slow and careful, and Jackie closed her eyes and let herself feel it—the tentative intrusion, the warmth of Anna's hand, the sound of her breathing, the weight of her body half-sprawled across Jackie's own.
It was not the most skilled hand that had ever touched her. But it was the most present. The most deliberate. The most earned.
Jackie came with her eyes open, watching Anna's face, watching the focus and the wonder and the quiet pride that spread across her features as she felt Jackie's body tighten and release around her finger.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, the lace crumpled beneath them, the light from the window beginning to shift toward afternoon. Anna's head rested on Jackie's shoulder, her hand flat on Jackie's stomach, her breathing slow and even.
"I don't want to buy anything," Anna said. Her voice was muffled against Jackie's skin.
"That's fine."
"I mean it. I called you here pretending I wanted to shop, but I didn't. I just wanted—" She lifted her head, meeting Jackie's eyes. "I wanted to feel like a woman who could have this. Even once."
Jackie's hand smoothed Anna's hair back from her face. "You can have it more than once."
Anna's eyes held hers, searching. "Is that an offer?"
"It's a possibility." Jackie's thumb traced the line of Anna's cheekbone. "You have my card. You know how to call."
Anna was quiet for a long moment. Then she pressed a kiss to Jackie's collarbone, soft and final, and sat up, reaching for her jeans.
"I'll keep it in mind," she said.
Jackie watched her dress, the burgundy lace still lying open on the bed, the glass wand still catching the light. The for sale sign creaked outside, a rhythmic sound that had become the background of the afternoon.
Anna paused at the bedroom door, her hand on the frame. She didn't turn around.
"Thank you," she said. "For not selling me anything."
Jackie smiled, a small thing that didn't need Anna to see it. "You didn't need to buy a thing."
Anna walked out of the room, her footsteps soft on the hallway floor. Jackie lay still for a moment longer, feeling the warmth of the afternoon, the faint hum of the bullet vibrator where it had fallen to the floor, the shape of Anna's hand still imprinted on her skin.
She reached for her blouse, began buttoning it slowly, the navy lace still visible at her collar.
Outside, the for sale sign creaked. The breeze had picked up, and the dead stick in the terracotta pot swayed, scraping against the brick. Jackie finished dressing, tucked the bullet back into its pouch, and left the glass wand for last, wiping it clean with the edge of the duvet before sliding it into the velvet sheath.
She found Anna in the kitchen, standing at the counter with her back to the door. Her shoulders were straight, her hands resting on the edge of the worktop, and she didn't turn when Jackie entered.
"The kettle's just boiled," Anna said. "If you want another cup for the road."
Jackie picked up the case from the floor by the table and settled it on her shoulder. "I'm all right."
Anna nodded, still not turning. "Drive safe."
Jackie walked to the front door, her hand on the handle, and paused. She looked back at the kitchen, at the woman standing alone at the counter, at the light falling across the floorboards in long, golden rectangles.
"Anna."
Anna turned. Her face was composed, but her eyes were red at the edges, and she was holding something in her hand—a business card. Jackie's card. The one she'd left on the bedside table.
"I already have your number," Anna said. Her voice was steady. "I just wanted to make sure I could find it when I was ready."
Jackie smiled—the same small, knowing smile she'd worn at a dozen doorways on a dozen streets. "You know where I am."
She stepped out into the afternoon, the door clicking shut behind her, the for sale sign casting a long shadow across the path. The car was warm from sitting in the sun, and she opened the boot, sliding the case inside beside the others, the velvet pouches rubbing together with a soft, private sound.
She sat in the driver's seat for a moment, the key in the ignition, not turning it yet. Her phone sat in the cup holder, screen dark. She picked it up, unlocked it, and saw a notification she hadn't noticed before—a text from Clara, sent an hour ago, the preview reading I know you're busy but I was thinking about tomorrow and I wondered if—
Jackie didn't open it. Not yet. She set the phone face-down in the cup holder, turned the key, and pulled away from the curb, the house with the FOR SALE sign shrinking in her rearview mirror.
Anna didn't come to the window. Jackie hadn't expected her to.
But she looked anyway, just for a second, before she turned the corner and drove on.