Three days had passed since the twilight beach walk, and Lily had spent every one of them carrying the memory of Jane’s almost-kiss like a live ember beneath her tailored suits.
In the office, she was flawless. Her voice calm and cutting, posture immaculate, every point perfectly made. Colleagues complimented the stunning argument she put forward to her Senior Partner in her research for the Morrison case; the judge commented on the strength of the legal precedents she had found; and the Senior Partner invited her to lead the next high-profile brief. No one saw the way her pulse jumped whenever her phone vibrated, or how she found herself re-reading Jane’s latest text in the quiet moments between meetings.
Across the city, Jane moved through her days with a lighter kind of awareness. She woke each morning to the sound of the seagulls and waves filtering through her open balcony door. Sunlight striped the old hardwood floors of the apartment her grandparents had left her, and she lay there a long while, red hair tangled across the pillow, letting herself remember that beautiful moment. The tremor in Lily’s fingers when they’d threaded hands beside the car, the way Lily’s breath had caught just before she pulled back, the faint taste of salt and possibility that had lingered on Jane’s own lips long after the car lights disappeared.
Emboldened, she sent the first message that first morning without hesitation.
“Good morning. Still tasting the ocean… and wondering what you taste like when you finally let go.”
Then she got up, stretched, and went for a long swim. Thinking about Lily, she swam farther out than usual, until her arms burned and the water felt like absolution. When she floated on her back, eyes closed against the sun, she imagined Lily’s careful hands in her wet hair, the contrast of cool city polish against warm ocean skin. The thought sent a slow, liquid heat through her. She dived under to cool it, and surfaced laughing softly at herself. Gosh, what on earth am I thinking, she wondered to herself.
At the library, she moved through the stacks with quiet energy, recommending poetry with a new private smile; Neruda, Rumi, lines about salt and surrender slipping out unbidden in response to questions. Patrons lingered; a colleague teased her about how she glowed. Jane only shrugged, eyes bright, and went back to shelving books, every brush of cotton against her skin reminding her of eyes that had watched her across a café table.
When Lily’s invitation finally arrived that evening, “Dinner, this evening, my place?” Simple, almost austere, the kind of message that cost far more than it revealed.
Jane’s reply came within minutes. “I’d like that very much. Tell me when, and I’ll bring the salt.”
It was only when Lily stepped into her own apartment on the Friday evening did the day’s flawless control begin to fray at the edges.
She closed the door behind her with a soft click, kicked off her heels in the hallway, and stood for a moment in the quiet, letting the silence settle. The navy suit had served its purpose; now it felt like armour she no longer needed. She hung the jacket carefully, unbuttoned the blouse with her deliberate slowness, and folded the trousers. In the bedroom, she stood in simple nude lingerie, hair released from its low knot to fall in heavy waves down her back, and looked at the bed as though it were foreign territory.
Then the choosing began.
First, the charcoal silk wrap dress, elegant, but it clung too knowingly. Next, the ivory linen shift, but too reminiscent of that first afternoon in the café. The emerald slip dress, beautiful, backless, but it felt like performance, like trying just too hard.
She tried combinations. The soft lilac cashmere sweater with tailored trousers (too safe), a backless black silk top (too bold). Each piece was held up, slipped on, studied in the full-length mirror, then gently discarded. Her hands trembled faintly now. This was the rare experience of wanting to be seen exactly as she was, without the usual careful curation. Yet knowing all the same that she was definitely curating.
A subtle warmth had begun low in her belly as she showered earlier, the first faint tingling of arousal at the mere thought of Jane walking through her door. It grew as she dressed, making her skin more sensitive, her breath shallower. When she finally reached for the sleeveless black linen dress, simple, high square neckline, straight fall to mid-thigh, she felt the fabric whisper against her as she slipped it on, and the warmth deepened into a soft ache between her thighs.
Beneath it she needed something that belonged only to this night.
She opened the bottom drawer and drew out the midnight lace set bought in Paris two years earlier and had never worn. A delicate bralette with slender crossed straps, briefs cut high on the hip, lace so fine it felt like cool breath against flushed skin. She stepped into the briefs slowly, the lace sliding up her legs like a caress, settling high on her hips. The cut exposed the long line of thigh; the delicate fabric brushed the sensitive skin between her legs and the tingling sharpened into a sweet, insistent pulse. The bralette followed, straps adjusting until they lay perfectly. In the mirror, she saw a woman composed on the surface but whose cheeks held a faint rose, whose nipples had tightened beneath lace at the mere anticipation of being touched.
No jewellery but the thin gold chain. Hair loose and shining. Bare feet.
Prawns were marinating, her favourite Tasmanian sparkling was chilling. She lit candles, three on the dining table, two on the kitchen island. Music: Nina Simone, low and smoky… ugh, too cliched. Missy Higgins, closer but still not right. In the end, she let Spotify decide.
At 7:25 her phone lit.
“On my way. Be there soon. Can’t stop thinking about salt on your skin.”
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She pressed her thighs together once, involuntarily, feeling the lace shift against slickness that had already begun.
“Door’s open when you get here.” Why did I say that? she wondered and rushed to leave the door ajar.
She set the phone down, smoothed the black linen over her hips, feeling the hidden lace, the gentle pulse of arousal beneath and walked to the window. Beneath the calm exterior, midnight lace, unsteady heartbeat and quiet, aching want, she was already coming undone.
The lift chimed softly in the hallway.
Lily turned toward the door, candlelight flickering across her dark eyes, lips slightly parted, body alive with anticipation. She heard the soft push of the door, the quiet click as it closed and Jane stepped inside.
Her red hair was wild from the drive with windows down and she carried the unmistakable scent of ocean and warm evening air. Soft charcoal trousers low on her hips, fitted silk blouse the colour of sea glass, catching the candlelight with every breath. Lily almost gasped. In Jane’s hand, a small jar of flaky salt, held out like a playful offering.
Their eyes met. Jane’s green and steady, Lily’s dark and suddenly unguarded, the faint flush on her cheeks betraying everything. Jane’s gaze travelled slowly down the black linen dress, the bare feet, the fall of that gorgeous brunette hair and then back up to Lily’s pretty face. A small, knowing smile curved her mouth.
“You look beautiful,” Jane said, voice low and warm, the words carrying every single promise of the last three days.
Lily’s breath caught. The tingling flared into full, liquid heat.
Jane set the salt on the island, crossed the room unhurriedly, and stopped just close enough that Lily could smell salt and sun on her skin.
“May I?” Jane asked softly, hand already rising to brush a strand of hair from Lily’s cheek.
Lily could only nod.
Jane kissed her.
It was slow, deliberate, much more certain than Jane usually felt. Jane’s mouth was warm, tasting faintly of mint and ocean air. One hand cupped Lily’s jaw, thumb stroking gently, the other settled at her waist, palm open over black linen as if feeling the heartbeat beneath. Lily’s hands rose instinctively, one curling at Jane’s nape, fingers sliding into the wild red hair, the other resting against the silk blouse, feeling that grounded strength.
The kiss deepened by degrees, Jane guiding with quiet authority that felt entirely new to her and entirely inevitable to them both. Lily yielded to it without thought, her lips parting, body softening against Jane’s, the ache between her thighs intensifying as Jane’s thigh pressed gently between hers through linen and lace.
When they parted, foreheads still touching, Lily’s composure was beautifully fractured, her lips fuller, eyes half-lidded, breath trembling.
Jane felt the shift inside herself the moment Lily softened fully. She felt rather than thought the quiet recognition that Lily was giving everything to her. And with that came a warm, steady rush of… power. Not harsh, but deep and certain. She had never sought control in intimacy; she had always moved with the current. Yet here, with Lily yielding so completely, Jane discovered she revelled in it. The delight was bright and fierce: she wanted to draw it out, to guide Lily deeper into this exquisite vulnerability, to be the steady hand that held her there.
“You’ve been thinking about this all day,” Jane said softly. Her thumb brushed Lily’s lower lip. “I can feel it.”
“Yes,” Lily whispered, “for days.”
Jane smiled and let her hands slide to the top button of the black dress. She undid it, then the next, eyes never leaving Lily’s, watching the flush rise, the way Lily’s chest rose faster with each revealed inch. When the dress parted fully, midnight lace framed Lily’s body like dark water against moonlight.
Jane exhaled, almost reverent. “Beautiful.”
She stepped closer, mouth returning to Lily’s throat, kissing down the gold chain to the hollow between her collarbones. Her hands skimmed the lace bralette, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples through delicate fabric until Lily’s head fell back with a soft gasp. Jane’s thigh pressed between Lily’s again, deliberate, and Lily rocked instinctively against it, friction sending sparks up her spine.
Jane guided Lily toward the sofa with gentle pressure at her waist, lips never leaving skin. Lily followed willingly, dress slipping from her shoulders and pooling at her feet as she sat. Jane knelt between her knees, hands sliding up smooth thighs.
“Lay back,” Jane said quietly, her first soft command of the night.
Lily obeyed, heart racing, body alight. She had never ever obeyed like this before, and the delight of trusting Jane completely made her slick and aching.
Jane’s mouth followed her hands: kisses along inner thighs, breath warm through lace until Lily’s hips lifted in silent plea. When Jane finally peeled the midnight briefs aside and tasted her, slowly and deliberately, Lily’s fingers tangled in red hair, holding but not directing, letting Jane set the rhythm.
Jane slowed deliberately, lifting her head. “Look at me.”
Lily’s eyes fluttered open, glazed and trusting. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through Jane. Yes. This. I want this.
She held Lily’s gaze as her fingers slid inside, curling with patient precision, thumb circling steadily above. “You’re so beautiful like this,” Jane murmured against her lips. “Letting go. Giving it all to me.”
The words pushed Lily over the edge. Her release rolled through her in long, shuddering waves while Jane held her through it, fingers still moving gently, drawing out every last tremor.
Only when Lily lay collapsed did Jane allow her own need to surface fully. She rose above her, guiding Lily’s hand between her legs, “Touch me… just like that,” and let her pleasure build under Lily’s willing fingers, revelling in the way Lily followed every soft command.
In the bedroom later, the dynamic held its gentle shape.
Jane lay Lily back against white sheets, moonlight silvering their skin. She kissed down the length of her body with unhurried possession, lingering at hip and thigh before settling between them again. Lily’s legs fell open without prompting; her hands threaded into Jane’s hair, simply holding.
Jane took her time, drawing out gasps and quiet pleas until Lily came apart once more, back bowing off the bed, Jane’s name a soft cry in the moonlit room.
Afterwards, Jane gathered her close, pressing kisses to damp temples, feeling the steady excitement of her own discovery. She loved this. She loved the trust Lily placed in her, loved the way control felt like care in her hands, loved how Lily’s surrender made her feel powerful and tender at once.
Lily nestled against her shoulder. “I’ve never let anyone have me like this.”
Jane’s arm tightened around her. “And I’ve never wanted to have anyone like this,” she admitted quietly, the revelation warm and sure. “But with you… I can’t seem to stop. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble with dinner.”
They drifted toward sleep like that, bodies entwined, moonlight spilling across tangled sheets, the quiet delight of their unexpected roles settling around them like the softest blanket.
The night had given them both something new. For Lily, the exquisite freedom of first submission and for Jane, the deep, revelatory joy of gentle, loving command.
And it felt, to both of them, like only the beginning.
