Alex, even a look or a glance that acknowledged what had passed between them—even a tiny hint that only she could ever recognise—yet there was nothing. Today he was her tutor, everyone’s tutor, and she would have to accept that and wait until her scheduled appointment with him.
“Don’t do it, Carla.”
The voice behind her as she rifled through the lingerie rails in John Lewis was familiar. She’d bypassed her usual knicker haunt, intent on a pewter thong and front-fastening balconette bra by one Mimi Holliday. At almost a hundred quid for the set, her eyes were watering without any chastisement from Alex. That didn’t stop her wanting some sexy new underwear, ready for their next encounter. Mimi Holliday seemed so appropriate; she sounded French, and the pewter lace of the set added a touch of sobriety and seriousness to the frivolous confection of the lace and ribbons. She laughed at herself. What the hell was she on? Alex Lemaitre, that’s what, and he was scrambling what passed for her brain.
Emma tsked. “You’re not going to spend that much on a pair of knickers, are you?”
Carla thrust the thong and bra back on the rail. “Of course not. Ridiculous waste of money.” Oh bum, she sounded like her mother.
“If you’ve got the money, then I don’t blame you, but you don’t buy underwear like this and not intend it to be seen. What I want to know is, who’s the lucky man? If it’s Michael, you’ll be wasting your time. He’s a sweet guy, though I suspect he wouldn’t know his La Perla from his Per Una.”
“Oh no, not Michael. Not anyone. I was just…looking.” This conversation had to end, so Carla resorted to a very underhand tactic, one she should be thoroughly ashamed of but which never failed to work. “I haven’t bought anything like this since Stephen…”
It had the required effect, even on a cynic like Emma, who hugged her and whispered, “Then get them, even if they aren’t for public consumption.”
Carla felt instantly guilty for playing the sympathy card. “Let me think about it over a coffee. My treat. By the way, what are you doing in this store? Isn’t it rather sedate for you?”
In the café, Emma revealed that she was going to be a bridesmaid at her cousin’s wedding and needed a strapless basque to “maximise her tits and minimise her arse”, despite the fact she had the figure of an undernourished wood nymph. As they leafed through the store’s bridal catalogue, Carla contrasted her own body. She wasn’t overweight, and daily cycling and power walking around the city helped to keep her toned, but she was no supermodel. She tried to imagine the view Alex had of her bent over his desk—displayed in all her glory—and afterwards as he went down on her from behind. Even in the cold light of day, thinking of herself presented to him like that didn’t dampen her lust for him.
In fact, she wanted it to happen again. Right now in the middle of the John Lewis restaurant, with all the ladies who lunched watching on, choking with envy on their paninis.
She spluttered her latte. She needed therapy.
Emma slapped her between the shoulder blades. “Careful!”
Carla grabbed a serviette and wiped coffee from the catalogue.
“Is it the underwear or the price tag that’s made you choke?” Emma enquired mischievously.
Carla laughed, hoping she hadn’t betrayed her kinky fantasy by blushing. Emma was sweet underneath the air of cynicism, and Carla was seized by an urge to tell her about Alex. A crazy thought, of course, but she wanted to tell someone about what had happened, to share her joy and anxieties and seek reassurance and counselling from a fellow sister.
The problem was that one word to Emma and Carla was certain that everyone in college would know exactly how Alex had been tutoring her. No matter how much Emma might promise to be discreet, no matter how much her heart was in the right place, Carla could not possibly trust her. God, she’d be
“Don’t do it, Carla.”
The voice behind her as she rifled through the lingerie rails in John Lewis was familiar. She’d bypassed her usual knicker haunt, intent on a pewter thong and front-fastening balconette bra by one Mimi Holliday. At almost a hundred quid for the set, her eyes were watering without any chastisement from Alex. That didn’t stop her wanting some sexy new underwear, ready for their next encounter. Mimi Holliday seemed so appropriate; she sounded French, and the pewter lace of the set added a touch of sobriety and seriousness to the frivolous confection of the lace and ribbons. She laughed at herself. What the hell was she on? Alex Lemaitre, that’s what, and he was scrambling what passed for her brain.
Emma tsked. “You’re not going to spend that much on a pair of knickers, are you?”
Carla thrust the thong and bra back on the rail. “Of course not. Ridiculous waste of money.” Oh bum, she sounded like her mother.
“If you’ve got the money, then I don’t blame you, but you don’t buy underwear like this and not intend it to be seen. What I want to know is, who’s the lucky man? If it’s Michael, you’ll be wasting your time. He’s a sweet guy, though I suspect he wouldn’t know his La Perla from his Per Una.”
“Oh no, not Michael. Not anyone. I was just…looking.” This conversation had to end, so Carla resorted to a very underhand tactic, one she should be thoroughly ashamed of but which never failed to work. “I haven’t bought anything like this since Stephen…”
It had the required effect, even on a cynic like Emma, who hugged her and whispered, “Then get them, even if they aren’t for public consumption.”
Carla felt instantly guilty for playing the sympathy card. “Let me think about it over a coffee. My treat. By the way, what are you doing in this store? Isn’t it rather sedate for you?”
In the café, Emma revealed that she was going to be a bridesmaid at her cousin’s wedding and needed a strapless basque to “maximise her tits and minimise her arse”, despite the fact she had the figure of an undernourished wood nymph. As they leafed through the store’s bridal catalogue, Carla contrasted her own body. She wasn’t overweight, and daily cycling and power walking around the city helped to keep her toned, but she was no supermodel. She tried to imagine the view Alex had of her bent over his desk—displayed in all her glory—and afterwards as he went down on her from behind. Even in the cold light of day, thinking of herself presented to him like that didn’t dampen her lust for him.
In fact, she wanted it to happen again. Right now in the middle of the John Lewis restaurant, with all the ladies who lunched watching on, choking with envy on their paninis.
She spluttered her latte. She needed therapy.
Emma slapped her between the shoulder blades. “Careful!”
Carla grabbed a serviette and wiped coffee from the catalogue.
“Is it the underwear or the price tag that’s made you choke?” Emma enquired mischievously.
Carla laughed, hoping she hadn’t betrayed her kinky fantasy by blushing. Emma was sweet underneath the air of cynicism, and Carla was seized by an urge to tell her about Alex. A crazy thought, of course, but she wanted to tell someone about what had happened, to share her joy and anxieties and seek reassurance and counselling from a fellow sister.
The problem was that one word to Emma and Carla was certain that everyone in college would know exactly how Alex had been tutoring her. No matter how much Emma might promise to be discreet, no matter how much her heart was in the right place, Carla could not possibly trust her. God, she’d be
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