Girls With Guns Page 8

  Bel had taken a basement flat in Westbourne Green. It was surprisingly warm, airy, and spacious. Nothing like her dad had described when she first mentioned she’d applied for the promotion and would move to London if successful. His words of rising damp, mould spores, and pneumonia seemed a little dramatic in her middle-class neighbourhood with her trendy neighbours, fancy Italian delis, and traditionally British bars.

  London was a great place to be in the height of summer, and although you wouldn’t think it was the best time of year to join Hotstream—stuck under the city in artificial light—when it came to suicide bombers, it was jokingly said to be off season. A considerable amount of clothing is required to hide the bulky explosives strapped to a bomber’s body. In summer, a bomber was easier to spot.

  Before Bel had taken up the position, she’d been reading Gone Tomorrow by Lee Child. It was hardly the prescribed text on the subject of suicide bombing, but it had made for compelling reading—well, the first few chapters had. She’d become too snowed under with real learning in real textbooks to finish the novel. Both fact and fiction texts shared alarming similarities, however. The telltale signs of a suicide bomber were well documented. Anyone could Google them, and just to make sure Mr. Child knew what he was talking about, Bel had checked it out for herself. He had been correct, of course. Depending on the sex of the bomber, the majority of them displayed either eleven or twelve signs that they might be on the verge of blowing themselves, and others, up. For ease of memory, the Hotstream team had condensed this list to eight.

  Surprisingly, as well documented as it was and with the continuing advancement of explosive technology, the modus operandi of a suicide bomber had barely altered for several decades.

  Suicide bombers killed people. The fact that they killed themselves in the process was of little concern to Bel; they needed to be stopped.

  It was a highly debated topic that the average British police officer patrols unarmed. The debate for and against the use of firearms was a tired discussion, and Bel knew it would continue for years to come. For the officers on the task force, carrying a weapon was essential. It was difficult to reason with someone who had their hand grasped firmly to a detonator. Bel knew if she ever had to discharge her weapon, it would be a shoot-to-kill situation.

  The very first time she held her Glock 17 pistol, a chill had rippled through her. Her days of wearing a uniform and popping into Mrs. Hudson’s for a slice of Victoria sponge cake and a cup of Earl Grey tea were over.

  The images flashing on the screen were a stark reminder that in her hand she held the power to stop a suicide bomber, the power to save lives. In her hand she held life and death. The possibility both frightened and exhilarated her.

  Chapter Two

  The first time Bel had entered the Wagon and Ox pub wasn’t the first time she’d laid eyes on Esther. She would have loved to tell a story of lustful eyes locking across a crowded bar, but scrounging twenty pence at the laundrette nearing midnight just wasn’t the same. It was the truth but hardly earth-shattering.

  Esther was five foot, eight inches tall, two inches taller than Bel. When Bel looked in the mirror and saw a youthful-looking thirty-year-old—knowing full well she could pass as twenty-one—she saw the opposite in Esther. Esther was only five years her senior, but she had an older, wise, yet serene face. Her tanned skin and brown hair, which she always wore up, gave her the air of a traveller or an explorer—someone who’d seen a lot and experienced life. Bel was instantly drawn to her.

  Esther looked like someone who practiced yoga for hours a day. She was lean, and somehow she just looked flexible. After the night at the laundrette, Bel returned to her flat intrigued and wondering how she could meet her again. She imagined Esther probably burned incense sticks, ate only organic produce, and probably sourced the most expensive cotton unbleached tampons.

  She was wrong.

  Esther behaved like a kid in a theme park. She pushed boundaries, she challenged everything about everyone, she lived to be alive, and when she wasn’t on duty at the pub, she had sex like it was the last time she would ever feel the touch of a woman.

  Esther was addictive and Bel was a willing addict.

  “You’re early.” Esther pushed a gin and tonic toward Bel.

  Esther’s smile caught her unawares every time, but her reaction never changed. The wide mouth full of unblemished white teeth sent her brain into fuzzy mode. She loved that first smile. It was the first of many she would receive during the evening while she watched Esther at work, patiently waiting for her shift to end.

  “My shift finished on time for once,” said Bel.

  Bel was a liar. Not about her shift, but about her occupation. She had lied to Esther from the very beginning, and although lying to someone she cared deeply about left her feeling guilty and nauseous, she wasn’t sure when the lie should end.

  “Well, I’m glad you could wind it up early.” Esther reached over the expansive bar and squeezed her hand.

  Bel immediately lowered her eyes and focused on Esther’s cleavage. Tonight she wore a sleeveless low-cut black top and black bra. She rarely found tattoos attractive, but Esther’s were different. They were words, not pictures, and, on her tanned skin, looked as sexy as hell.

  “Hey you, up here, thanks.” Esther pointed to her makeup-framed brown eyes.

  Bel sighed. Waiting three hours for Esther’s shift to finish was the last thing she felt like doing. Work had been intense, half her day spent in a briefing and half in the tunnels. Reliable and alarming intelligence was filtering through to her task force. Undercover operatives, those possibly performing the most dangerous and imperative role in the fight against terrorism, were hearing sniffs that something was about to happen, that a terrorist cell was primed and mobile. Her team was prepared for this possibility, and sitting in a briefing with the top dogs was one thing, but to walk among the thousands of innocent people commuting on the underground, well, that was another thing altogether. Hotstream could be the difference between life and death, the difference between catastrophe and calm. Bel had spent twelve weeks training to be part of a team who aimed to keep London safe. She knew the magnitude of her responsibilities.

  “You need me tonight. I can see it in your face.” Esther touched her cheek.

  “I can’t seem to remember a time when I haven’t needed you.” It sounded like a smooth line delivered by a well-seasoned player, but it was the truth. Bel struggled to remember anything romantic prior to Esther.

  “That will help with your worry lines.” Esther nodded toward the gin. “And later I promise to relieve you of every ounce of tension you’re desperately trying to hide.”

  It had been only two months since they began their relationship, but Esther knew her so well—her moods, her facial expressions—and lately she seemed skilled at detecting high stress levels. Bel had told Esther she worked as a personal security guard. The moment she said it she knew it sounded ridiculous and cliché for a lesbian wearing skinny jeans, black boots, and a grey jacket, but she needed an excuse to be wherever she was for her real job and not look out of place. “I stay in the background, out of the way and out of sight,” she had said. It was just enough information for Esther not to question her varied work outfits or irregular hours.

  Esther was a carer, not of anyone in particular, just of the person she was with. Without asking, Bel would receive regular drinks and food throughout the night. When Esther went out back for her cigarette breaks, she would pour Bel a glass of water or make them both a cup of tea, and she’d gently take her by the hand and lead her outside before they kissed and before Esther lit her smoke.

  That evening they walked arm in arm to Bel’s place. Esther lived a train ride away—they rarely stayed at Esther’s. She shared a flat with some weird free-love people, and it always stank of weed. Bel was drug-tested randomly, so she tended to avoid inhaling secondhand cannabis smoke. She knew it was difficult to suck in a measurable dose, but her job was too important to be j
eopardised by some dope-smoking bludgers.

  Bel was tired. Esther was never tired. She lived for the moment, and if she was awake, then she refused to be sleepy. The moment her head hit the pillow, however, she enjoyed a deep sleep until morning. As she stood at her kitchen bench sipping water, Bel felt Esther’s arms encircle her. History suggested that from this moment, she was at Esther’s mercy; her role required nothing more than to allow Esther to work her magic.

  “You’re tense.” Esther edged her hand inside Bel’s jeans.

  “You can tell that just by touching my stomach?”

  “No. I can tell that by the frown you’ve had plastered to your forehead all evening.”

  Bel laughed. Perhaps she overestimated Esther’s guru-hippie-healing prowess. When it came to sex, Esther was a talker—a describer and a suggester. It wasn’t a quality Bel usually admired in a lover, but something about the power of suggestion and the subsequent anticipation made Esther completely alluring.

  “I can make that go away.”

  “You can, can you?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I do. I fix things.” She blew hot air into Bel’s ear. “When have I ever failed to fix you?” Her hand dipped lower.

  It was true. Esther’s touch was healing and hypnotic.

  “I’m going to fix you right here in the kitchen.”

  Firmly but carefully, Esther pushed Bel over the end of the countertop.

  The first thing Bel had learned about sex with Esther was that she was never in charge. For the first time in any of her relationships, this didn’t bother her. Their relationship wasn’t a dictatorship. Any time Bel fancied intimacy and became a little amorous, Esther’s eyes would twinkle and she’d take things from there. It was her way, their way, and it suited them both.

  “How long do you think it will take me to drag all that bad energy out of you?” Esther unbuttoned Bel’s jeans and pushed them to the floor. She leant over and whispered in her ear, “How long before you’ll want me to fuck you fast and hard?”

  Bel squirmed. She’d always been a squirmer.

  Esther pushed her knickers to the ground, and Bel waited patiently, naked from the waist down, bent over the kitchen counter for Esther to do anything to her that she pleased.

  Esther was the kind of woman Bel had fantasised about as a youngster. She was soft and feminine, yet strong and confident. Everyone had their perfect combination and Esther was hers. Sexually, Esther was open and exploratory, and above everything else, they had fun in bed—or the kitchen or wherever the urge overtook them.

  Bel spread her legs, an invitation to show she was ready.

  Esther’s hand appeared in front of Bel’s face, and she gently pushed her thumb into her mouth. Bel sucked on it. She knew what was coming.

  With her other hand, Esther separated her bottom cheeks moments before the moist thumb began to massage her asshole. Anal sex wasn’t on the top of her list of the most satisfying of sexual activities, but she allowed Esther to continue because she knew this was only the beginning.

  Esther had taught her that, in most cases, it was the sum of all parts that defined an experience as outstanding rather than simply mediocre if measured singularly.

  “When I push my fingers inside you, all your toxins will release their hold.” Esther found her opening and teetered on the edge.

  Bel couldn’t bring herself to call what they did to each other simply sex. Sadly, although she felt like Esther was making love to her—so tender was her touch, her attention—she couldn’t guarantee Esther felt the same. Esther would refer to their intimacy as passionate and affectionate, even loving, but she never referred to what they did as making love. Without doubt, Esther gave one hundred percent—she fucked without limitation and inhibition, but Bel yearned for more. She wanted commitment, and although she knew Esther wasn’t seeing anyone else, a part of Bel wanted Esther to grow out of her 1960s hippie-love stage. Marriage was a long way off, but she needed something more than Esther appeared willing to give.

  Bel knew the thumb inside her was only inserted to the first knuckle, but she liked the idea of that small invasion. The fingers dancing at her opening were sending fireflies of anticipation throughout her body.

  Esther entered her.

  The moment of penetration was like a parachute opening. Until that time, Bel had been freefalling, desperate to be saved, desperate to be taken. Esther’s fingers pressing against her G-spot signalled the best was yet to come. Besides orgasm, she treasured that first moment more than anything else during sex.

  Esther worked to take Bel to the edge. As her fingers and thumb pulsed, Bel experienced simultaneous pressure inside her. Together they quickly established a rhythm before Esther removed her thumb from Bel’s ass and slipped her hand around to the front, her index and middle finger surrounding her clit before gently massaging it.

  Over the kitchen counter, the stimulation of senses was complete.

  “Every thrust drives a piece of your shit day out of you.” Esther put her entire body’s weight into fucking Bel.

  Orgasm was near.

  Esther went deeper.

  Bel felt herself slip into the zone where everything except Esther ceased to exist. She edged her legs wider to accommodate a third finger.

  “You’re divine. I worship every inch of you.”

  In her mind, Bel repeated the words God, I love you with every thrust. Each moment she edged nearer to orgasm, she was filled with unwavering gratitude to have found Esther and to have her free spirit light up her life in absolutely every way.

  In the end, Bel couldn’t distinguish where the pleasure originated between her legs. It was exactly how Esther described it, the sum of all parts. Everything felt amazing all at once.

  Bel’s first orgasm was rarely the most intense. It was usually the third or fourth that left her light-headed and seeing stars. Esther had a knack of talking her into holding on longer. The urge to feel the ultimate release only acquiesced long enough for Esther to milk every drop of obtainable passion from her.

  “Not yet, I can go harder. Let me take you harder.”

  By harder, Esther meant faster and more intense. Inflicting pain wasn’t her thing. Finding Bel’s sweet spots and concentrating on them was what she meant. She didn’t need permission, but her words always added another dimension to their already passionate sex. It was that timeless illusion of suggestion. Bel had learned about it in the police, not just in her current role, but when doing undercover work. To implant an idea into someone’s psyche wasn’t a new trick. Suggestion was powerful. Esther was powerful.

  Bel was panting with every thrust. She could hear the squelching noise Esther’s fingers made as they moved in and out of her. Esther’s deep breaths steadily blew past her ear, and she could smell the faint aroma of brandy travelling in her direction with every exhalation.

  The end was tantalisingly near.

  “Come now.”

  It was hardly a pretty picture, but the best way Bel knew to describe her orgasm was like a vacuum pack. As the pleasure took hold, the orgasm literally took her breath away. In that moment, she felt it suck every ounce of oxygen from her body, and only when it released her could she again inflate with air. In the moments between breathing, everything went black and she floated away. It was the brief moment she described as pure bliss. The rippling aftermath of her orgasm was when she returned to herself.

  “How do you feel?” Esther slowly extricated her fingers from inside her.

  Bel wasn’t sure if it was an original thought or the power of Esther’s previous suggestion, but she felt cleansed from the inside out. She had indeed been detoxified.

  “I feel pure.”

  Esther laughed. “You’re far from pure, my darling.” Her forefinger began encircling Bel’s swollen clit.

  “Not a truer word has been spoken.” Bel glanced at the red lights on the microwave. It was nearly midnight, and she was on duty at six the following morning.

  “We can’t stop now.
” Esther’s tone was neither solemn nor accusatory. The simple fact was she wouldn’t stop now. Business was unfinished and tonight she was intense and passionate. Esther had sex like it was the last night before the apocalypse. If she wasn’t fucking the very moment the world unexpectedly ended, she wanted her last thought to be of the night before. Tonight she was making every second count.

  “Take me to bed and take me away from here.”

  Bel knew what that meant. She knew what Esther wanted. They had both fully undressed before they reached the bedroom.

  Without hesitation Bel plugged her expensive headphones into her iPod and selected a playlist entitled Esther. She pressed play and gently put the headphones over Esther’s ears. Garbage’s first album and subsequent album 2.0 thumped loudly. With her woolly winter scarves, she tied Esther’s hands to the bed head, and although Esther would prefer her feet restrained also, Bel’s bed didn’t accommodate that. Next, she lit a scented candle specially bought for use in such occasions.

  The first time Esther talked her through this ritual, it took until the last request for Bel to realise what Esther was trying to achieve; when she had sex, she liked all her senses to be stimulated. The music was for her hearing, the candle for scent and also provided enough light to see, and what Bel would do between her legs was to fulfill the sense of touch. What remained was taste, and when Esther had asked Bel to sit on her face, she finally understood.

  Tonight, Bel knew the ceremony by heart. She turned around and lay astride Esther, lowering herself onto her face.

  Esther moaned at the taste.

  Finally, Bel inserted two fingers and lowered her head to take Esther’s clit in her mouth.

  Like this, they would fuck for a long time.

  Esther had the capacity to hold off orgasm for longer than any lover Bel had ever known. She entered a trance-like state and had told Bel she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be taken away from reality. Esther didn’t need drugs; she just needed outstanding sex.