Best Women's Erotica(68)

At the first aid post the volunteers from the St. John’s brigade are drinking tea and filling in forms. The ambulance is parked at the side of the tent, and I walk round it to the back. My mouth is dry; the potential for embarrassing myself here is immense.

There they are, at the back of the open vehicle, folding up the legs of a stretcher and loading it in.

“Still want those ice creams?” I ask brightly.

“Hey…Abbie!” The smiles seem genuine. Their interest in the ice cream certainly is: they both reach for the cones eagerly, bickering like boys over who gets the chocolate one. Trev volunteers for the honey, takes a big mouthful and then widens his eyes.

“Bloody Nora…this is good!”

“I know that.” I allow myself to feel smug. My visit is vindicated.

“Have a seat, love,” suggests Matt, indicating the back step of the ambulance. I sit myself down, and he instantly perches on my right. He’s so close that I automatically attempt to shift up, but Trev is already on my left side, settling himself comfortably, one arm sweeping round behind my back. Not touching me, but definitely in my personal space. My sunburned upper arms brush their shirts.

I put my hands on my knees and laugh, only it comes out as a giggle. God, I’m acting like a teenager—or an idiot. “That’s better. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“How did it go?” asks Matt.

“I sold every last scoop.”

“So…what’s your favorite flavor?” Trev wonders.

“These two,” I answer honestly. “That’s why I brought both; I can’t choose between them.” Then I catch his lifted eyebrows and blush. Matt, chuckling, offers me the chocolate cone.

“Want a lick?”

I shrug one shoulder and nod, tipping my lips to the creamy chocolate his tongue has already swirled over. Goddamn, we’re flirting. How did this happen? What the hell do they see in me? I’m not ugly, okay—but I’m an artsy middle-aged lady who makes outrageous ice cream and wears clothes two decades old and her hair in a style and color that’s too young for her. I’m not like them; not the sort of person who can press into a drunken crowd or a freezing pond to rescue someone from certain death, not the sort of person who can address a total stranger as “love.” I haven’t even worked for a living until recently—I went straight from art college into marriage, and the divorce settlement and child maintenance were generous enough to keep me and Skye living comfortably. I’m a joke, by their standards.

The chili heat burns on my tongue. My cheeks are already flushed. Matt grins at me, an easy wickedness dancing in his hazel eyes, as I lick my lips. I’m not trying to be provocative, honestly: you have to lick your lips if you are eating ice cream. “That’s hot stuff,” he teases.

“This is better,” says Trev on my left. “Try some of this, Abbie.” It would be rude not to, so I turn to the golden ice cream he offers. This one is melting faster: it’s dribbling down the cone and threatening to slide off. I catch a big gobbet on my tongue, aware that they find my action vastly entertaining and still not quite believing it. “Bloody hell,” says Trev happily.

“You like the taste of his cream better than mine?” Matt complains and I giggle. Then a cold drip hits my skin, and I realize the honey ice cream is dribbling out of the tip of the cone and is marking the front of my dress.

“Ack!” I yelp, half laughing, looking down. “Call myself a professional, eh?’

There’s a drip on the inner curve of my left breast. I’m not wearing a bra—what would I need a bra for, after breast-feeding Skye flattened them so?—and this dress has a rather deep V-neck. The white trail winds down toward the cleft.

“Oh,” says Trev, looking too. “Oh…that’s…”

“Hold on,” orders Matt. He drops his own ice cream back into the rack and then swiftly kneels before me. His fingertips graze my thighs. “Keep still,” he commands. I feel Trev’s free hand settle on the small of my back and my spine arches, thrusting my cleavage out a little more. Delicately—and it surprises me that this hearty, vital man is so careful—Matt leans forward until his lips are brushing my upper breast. I feel his breath on my skin: my own stops in my throat. I feel the tip of his tongue as he gently licks me clean.

My heart is pounding. The world seems to lurch. I stare over his head, wild eyed. We’re tucked away here, shielded by the first aid tent. Sunlight glints on the dark leaves of the hedgerow and the discarded cans in the long grass. His lips are on my breast in a lingering kiss, causing my nipples to respond greedily, hardening to points. And Trev’s hand slides up and down my spine, slow and firm.