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  Billy and Claire stepped out of earshot while he relayed the appropriate information.

  Claire listened before asking, “What was she doing at the time of onset?”

  Billy grinned. “She was alone when we showed up, just watching TV apparently, but a whole stack of porn was piled high on the bedside table, DVDs and magazines. It looked like she’d tried to hide them with a T-shirt, but Scotty, the clumsy idiot, knocked the whole lot clean off.” As an afterthought, and with a wink, he added, “No toys. Not that I could see anyway.”

  Claire performed an ECG, but the results were normal.

  Murray arrived soon after. “What have we got, Paddy?”

  “Female, forty-three, BP one sixty over ninety-two, complaining of chest pain, left shoulder pain, left arm pain, and nausea.”

  “It’s too much to assume the ECG showed us she’s had a heart attack and we can ship her off to coronary care?”

  “Yep. ECG is clear.”

  A frown briefly creased Murray’s brow before she replaced it with her caring doctor face and entered the cubicle. “Good morning, Mrs. Cleaver. I’m Dr. Murray.” Mrs. Cleaver nodded her hello, clearly distressed. “I know you’ve been asked this many times already today, and I’ve read your notes, but I’d like for you to tell me how you came to be here this morning.”

  As per the account of events Billy relayed, Mrs. Cleaver explained that her onset of chest pain occurred while watching reruns of Ally McBeal. Murray nodded intently, as if it was a well-known fact that watching Ally McBeal could cause severe chest pain. When Mrs. Cleaver concluded her tale with the arrival of Billy and his colleague, Murray took her hand, pretending to check her pulse.

  Without releasing her grip, Murray looked Mrs. Cleaver squarely in the eye and asked, “How long had you been watching TV?”

  Mrs. Cleaver thought for a moment. “About two hours, I suppose.”

  Murray moved in for the kill. “What were you doing before watching Ally McBeal?”

  Mrs. Cleaver squirmed. Claire had been about to leave but decided to stay. This’ll be good. She busied herself tidying.

  “Mrs. Cleaver,” Murray said gently. “This is important information that we need to know.”

  “I hadn’t slept at all. I’d been watching television since yesterday.”

  Obviously taking pity on the woman, Murray lowered her voice and changed her tact. “The paramedics who brought you in mentioned that you had some magazines and DVDs near you.” Mrs. Cleaver’s eyes popped wide open, but Murray continued as if talking about porn was perfectly natural. “Had you been watching those DVDs all night?”

  “It’s Marty Stone!” Mrs. Cleaver obviously couldn’t maintain the charade any longer.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Marty Stone, you know? The famous porn star.”

  Claire suppressed a grin, very pleased she’d hung about.

  Mrs. Cleaver continued. “I love him, he’s just amazing, and not like those others; he cares about his women.” She brushed the tears from her face. “He’s considerate, too. Always making sure his partners, you know, have a good time before he does. And his girls are into it, you can tell, not like those other blokes who just thrust and thrust.”

  Murray took a deep breath. Claire counted the seconds before she spoke—thirteen. Murray must really have been lost for words.

  “Mrs. Cleaver, what time yesterday did you begin watching movies of Mr. Stone?”

  “Around lunch time. I’d just sent another e-mail to Marty.” Her eyes lit up. “He answers them all personally, you know.”

  “Right. And do you masturbate while watching Mr. Stone?”

  Embarrassed, Mrs. Cleaver lowered her head, and Murray shot Claire a death stare, knowingly indicating she knew exactly why she was lingering.

  “Mrs. Cleaver, this is important.” A firm tone had crept into Murray’s voice.

  Mrs. Cleaver nodded.

  “And would you say you masturbated for the majority of the time since yesterday lunch?”

  She nodded again.

  “And Mrs. Cleaver, are you left-handed?”

  Another nod.

  Claire slipped through the curtain, struggling to contain herself.

  Murray followed. “Have fun examining that one.”

  “Me?”

  “Does a romp in the hay fry your brain, Paddy? Yes, you.”

  “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “Yes way,” Murray retorted smugly.

  “Seriously, Murray. This woman has masturbated for nearly twenty-four hours. She hasn’t washed. She needs a fucking doctor.”

  “Thank you, Nurse, for your insightful input, but given your expertise in all matters sexual, even as recent as yesterday, I’m asking you to examine the patient, make an assessment, and if I am required, please let me know.”

  Claire began to argue.

  “Thank you, Nurse. That will be all.” Murray grinned and headed off to see her next patient.

  Claire huffed and puffed, but in the end had little choice but to offer Mrs. Cleaver an examination.

  “Are you feeling discomfort anywhere else?”

  “What? I don’t know what you mean.”

  Claire hated this false modesty, and right at that moment, she hated Murray. She refused to beat around the bush, so to speak. “Your vagina, Mrs. Cleaver. Given your recent, and rather lengthy activities, are you feeling any discomfort, and would you like to be examined?”

  “Oh…Um…no, thank you.”

  Claire breathed a visible sigh of relief.

  “Well, on second thought, I do feel a little tender down below.”

  God no, please don’t say it.

  “I think perhaps I would like to know everything’s okay down there.” Mrs. Cleaver at least had the decency to beam bright red.

  *

  Claire relaxed against the trunk of her favourite giant pine tree in the modest park opposite the hospital. She took a few moments to focus on Kathryn and not Mrs. Cleaver’s sore, swollen, and completely overused vagina.

  With her eyes closed, she blocked out all external distractions and fondly recalled the look on Kathryn’s face the moment she realised she’d brought Claire to orgasm.

  “Oh my God! I just made you come.”

  Claire grinned. Jesus, you did that all right.

  Kathryn stroked Claire again.

  “Whoa, hang on. Slow down.” After her first climax, Claire liked to take it slow.

  The shameless astonishment written all over Kathryn’s face was amusing. “I can’t believe how easily I make you come. I mean, I know I was easy, but you’ve done this before, I’m just a novice and you’re almost ready to go again.”

  Claire couldn’t believe how much Kathryn was talking.

  “You, lying below me, post orgasm, is just downright sexy.” Kathryn played with Claire’s nipples. “And to think”—she held aloft two fingers—“I did it all with just these.”

  Claire didn’t think Kathryn’s incessant chatter was nerves anymore. Elation perhaps, but either way, she decided to put her to the test. “You sure do talk a lot.”

  Kathryn blushed. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, but I can think of something else I’d prefer you to do with your mouth.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah-huh.”

  A brief look of horror flashed across Kathryn’s features. Claire saw it and backtracked. “But maybe not this time.”

  “No, I want to. It’s just that I couldn’t really concentrate when you were doing it to me. I’ve no idea what went where or anything. I just know it felt amazing.” Grinning, Kathryn lowered her voice. “Talk me through it?”

  Claire frowned, unsure whether to push or not.

  “Come on,” Kathryn said. “I like the idea of you directing me.” She kissed Claire’s nipple. “Tell me how you want me to fuck you.”

  Claire gave in. She was only human. “Most of the time, anticipation is the key. If I kneel above you, and begin moving downward, you
know where I’m going, right?” Kathryn nodded and knelt above her, eye to eye. “And there’s nothing sexier than to look down at your lover’s face, getting you off between your legs.”

  Kathryn grinned as if she knew exactly what Claire meant.

  “But you don’t want to rush things. Just the mere thought of you ending up down there is an immediate turn-on. If your lover’s arousal is escalating, prolong any contact with your tongue until she asks nicely.”

  “You want me to make you beg?” Kathryn kissed the hollow of her neck.

  “No. I’m helping you out here, remember? In light of that, when I ask you to make me come, I’d really just like you to focus on that.”

  Kathryn raised her eyebrows. “Really? Who’s about to fuck who here? Sounds to me like you might need a lesson in manners, young lady.”

  “And I thought you said you weren’t the dominating type.” Claire exhaled heavily, writhing under Kathryn’s seductive touch.

  Kathryn sucked a nipple hard before removing her lips altogether. “Maybe I’ve been misdiagnosed all this time.”

  Claire gasped as Kathryn lightly bit her nipple. “Ah-huh. Maybe.”

  “Shall we find out?” asked Kathryn.

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Are you always this submissive?”

  Claire managed a short laugh. “Don’t for one second think you’re dominating me. I’m giving the lesson, remember?”

  “Are you now?”

  “Yep. Although it’s fair to suggest you’re a quick learner.” Claire was ready to come again, and it was the thought of Kathryn’s tongue doing all the work that was driving her to the edge.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Now just fuck me already.”

  “You’re awful sexy when you’re bossy.” Kathryn kissed Claire fully on the mouth—slow, passionate, and dead sexy. Her hand reached for her wetness, causing Claire to flinch in response. She pulled away. “But you do realise, I’ll do exactly what I want to, when I want to. Try asking like a good girl.”

  Claire smiled. She had no doubt Kathryn was in control. The aching need in her clitoris was becoming unbearable. Submissive or not, she wanted nothing more than for Kathryn to taste her. “Then can you please see your way to sucking my clitoris and fucking me with your tongue?”

  Kathryn flashed a warning glare.

  “In your own good time, of course,” added Claire breathlessly.

  “Now, that’s more like it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  After multiple orgasms, with some unknown mind-numbing hormone still pumping through her system, Kathryn felt blissfully happy showering alone and reliving fun memories of Claire. The afternoon had been amazing. Claire had been amazing, and Kathryn had never come close to such intense arousal before. She was experiencing a long-overdue sexual awakening, and it drew her in like an addiction. The possibilities were endless. She imagined the toys she and Claire could play with, the positions they could explore, and the orgasms. God, the orgasms.

  At six p.m. though, Kathryn received her first dose of reality—Alex arrived home.

  Fuck!

  The real world still existed beyond the four walls of Claire’s bedroom, beyond her tender touch, beyond all desire and lust. Anxiety crippled Kathryn. Horror set in, intense and engulfing. Oh, Claire. What have I done?

  Every trace of euphoria disappeared, and when her mind flashed back to the moment Claire went down on her, a moment of utter pleasure just hours ago, she ran for the bathroom and threw up. Kathryn’s body and mind began fighting for supremacy about what she actually felt and what she should feel. Her body ached—physically ached—for more of what Claire had given her, but her mind rejected every illicit thought.

  If her reaction had been disastrous upon Alex’s arrival home, it was nothing compared to the moment Jess trudged up the hall, dishevelled and exhausted.

  Kathryn realised—disguised by unrelenting sexual tension and selfish, obsessive behaviour—what she and Claire had done culminated in betrayal. She had slept with her sister’s best friend—her sister’s ex-lover. Overwhelmed, she rushed to the bathroom again and violently vomited every last skerrick of food and liquid in her stomach. Slumped against the door, she remained dry retching for a long time.

  Flashback after flashback filled her head. The taste of Claire remained, in spite of the vomit. She could smell her on her fingers, even after washing them, and the pounding ache behind her eyes jabbed sharp and relentlessly.

  Over dinner, Kathryn merely pushed her food back and forth. She looked between Claire and Jess, imagining them together. The thought sickened her. Jess’s fingers where hers had been, Jess’s tongue where hers had been, and Claire begging them both.

  Jesus, I’m losing it.

  She couldn’t look at Claire, wouldn’t look at Claire, and her mind became a racing mishmash of visual and sensory overload. Her only solace was gin. Alex was the only one willing to join her, and before she mixed a strong gin with tonic water for them both, she half filled the glass, drank it down—twice—then sat waiting for the numbness to overwhelm her.

  Claire sent a message. Oh, Claire. Kathryn was trying so hard to numb her feelings, she had briefly forgotten that the reason she was in this mess, the reason she felt so damn confused, the reason she was slowly getting drunk, was Claire. The message was cute, funny even, and it sent her spiralling back through a wave of nausea, dread, and flashbacks—sex, nakedness, lust, passion, fingers, tongues, and mind-blowing orgasm after mind-blowing orgasm.

  For a moment, before the final gulp of gin took hold, Kathryn experienced a moment of what it must be like to go mad. She would have sworn she felt and heard her brain short-circuit and fizzle into blackness before sound and vision returned.

  It was childish, embarrassing if she was caught, but Kathryn needed that gin, and she smuggled the bottle to bed with her, hoping to God Claire was asleep.

  She woke the following morning with a fierce headache, compounded by hunger and the desire to erase yesterday afternoon from her memory.

  She could hear murmurings and sense movement beyond her door, but she dared not risk a confrontation with Claire. How in Christ’s name was she going to face her, or Jess for that matter, ever again?

  Her mind refused to let her rest. It provided a persistent visual and verbal commentary of what happened. If you touch me like that again…Please, Claire. Just do it…Open your eyes, baby…God, please take me…I will make you come, and you will beg me. Kathryn plunged her head under the pillow.

  She had to get a grip. How in God’s name was she going to portray the air of a competent accountant at her interviews if she couldn’t even string audible words together? She glanced at the empty gin bottle beside the bed. That didn’t help.

  She concentrated on filling her head with numbers, accounting principles, and spreadsheets. She failed. Her mind instead focused on the number of times she went down on Claire, the number of orgasms she had—with and without Claire’s fingers inside her—the number of times she took Claire to the edge, and the immeasurable times she thought she must have died and gone to heaven. She was so confused.

  Then, as her anxiety reached its frantic and frightening peak, something snapped and a wave of calmness washed over her. Kathryn contemplated that tedious sex with Andy could have been avoided if she had experimented sexually when she was younger. She knew her body now, and more importantly, knew how easy it was to get off with simply two fingers and a deft tongue. Perhaps now she could finally enjoy sex with men.

  There was no way on earth she was a lesbian. It was a light bulb moment. I’m not gay. I’m liberated! Regardless, it seemed absurd—two sisters, both gay? I don’t think so.

  Kathryn wouldn’t make the same mistake with men again. Her next relationship, one she was convinced she was now ready to embark on, would be on her terms—sex when she wanted, sex how she wanted, financial equality, and importantly, emotional equality. Yesterday afternoon with Claire had set her free.


  But what about Claire?

  Claire was a nurse, an intelligent woman, and Kathryn was convinced she, of all people, would understand. Their infatuation had been intense and enjoyable, but it was over now. Surely, Claire was now free to live the high life of a single woman, especially as she was seeking help from Jean. If there were any residual effects from their afternoon together, Jean would iron them out quick smart—not that there should be. Claire knew Kathryn was straight, and Kathryn knew Claire was probably getting back on the bike, so to speak. Although the experience was sexually liberating, they were simply fulfilling a need in each other. She’s a good kid. She’ll understand.

  Now, to set the wheels in motion, Kathryn needed a man.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As much as Claire wanted to send Kathryn a message, make contact after their time apart, she couldn’t be sure she would have finished her interview, and on the off chance she hadn’t switched her phone to silent, she let it be. There was no way Claire wanted to be the one who ruined Kathryn’s chance at a job by calling at an inopportune moment, simply to hear her voice.

  Regardless, Claire had in mind a twilight interlude that might interest Kathryn. It wouldn’t be the first time Claire had put the backseat of her car to good use, and after a romantic sunset and a bottle of wine, she fully intended to explore Kathryn’s more adventurous side.

  With over half her shift already a distant memory, Claire returned from her break to observe Murray in deep conversation with two police officers. After dealing with the overused vagina woman that morning, she had carefully steered clear of Murray, and fully intended to do so now. Curiosity won’t kill this little black cat. Not today.

  Claire had two patients waiting admission to wards, one awaiting surgery on an amputated fingertip—thanks to the sharp and unforgiving blade of a circular saw—and another two waiting on specialist consults. She popped her head in on all five patients, poked around with their respective monitors, and ensured everyone was as comfortable as possible given their particular circumstances.