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I picked her up, legs round my waist, and carried her up the stairs with her mouth on my neck. We tiptoed past our bedroom door like teenagers. She was giggling into my shoulder, which made it worse. Or better.
The spare room smelled of her: coconut, perfume, warm sheets. Her suitcases were open on the floor, bras spilling out. I laid her on the double bed, pulled off her knickers and just looked at her. Soft thighs, a full curve of belly, a neat strawberry-blonde triangle already glossy.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I’m appreciating.”
“Then appreciate harder.”
I knelt between her thighs and licked her, one long wet stroke, and she grabbed the headboard and swore. She tasted sweet and salty. I circled her clit with my tongue and slid two fingers in, curling them, until her thighs shook against my ears and she came with a stifled yell into the pillow.
She dragged me up, tugged my shorts off and wrapped her hand round my cock. “Condom in my bag,” she panted. “Side pocket.”
I found it. Then she stopped, propped on one elbow, flushed and gorgeous and a little bit unsure.
“Your bed’s bigger,” she said. “Hannah’s nights, nobody’s going to know. Mine’s got a wonky leg.” She bit her lip. “But I’ll stay here if you want.”
The wonky leg creaked as she shifted. Down the landing, our bed waited.