The first time Becky saw Nicola, she was across a crowded art gallery, standing alone in front of a painting that seemed to absorb all the light in the room. She wasn't looking at the art. She was looking at the people, watching them with an intensity that felt almost invasive. Becky, who had come for the wine and the pretence of culture, found herself unable to look away.
Nicola was beautiful in the way of things that don't know they're beautiful. Tall, with the kind of curves that painters fight over, dark hair piled loosely on her head, a long neck that seemed made for kissing. She wore a simple black dress that probably cost more than Becky's rent, and she held a glass of wine like she was posing for a portrait. When their eyes met across the crowded room, Becky felt something shift in her chest, a door opening, a curtain parting, a possibility she hadn't known she was waiting for.
They didn't speak that night. But the next morning, Becky found a message in her Instagram DMs. You were at the gallery. You looked at me like you knew me. I'd like to know you too. Coffee?
Becky said yes before she could talk herself out of it.
The coffee led to dinner, which led to walks in the park, which led to late nights talking about everything and nothing. Becky learned that Nicola was a curator, that she spent her days surrounded by beautiful things and still felt empty, that she was recovering from a relationship that had left her questioning whether she was capable of being loved. Becky shared her own history—the long string of women who had wanted her body but not her heart, the fear that she was fundamentally too much, the desperate hope that maybe this time would be different.
They circled each other for weeks, two planets in gravitational pull, getting closer with each orbit. The tension built until it was unbearable, a living thing between them that demanded attention.
It broke on a Thursday night, in Nicola's apartment, surrounded by art that Becky was too nervous to really see. They'd been watching a movie, not watching it, their bodies angled toward each other on the couch, the space between them electric with unspoken want.
"I need to tell you something," Nicola said, not looking at her.
Becky's heart hammered. "Okay."
"I've been with women before. But I've never—" She stopped, started again. "I've never felt this. This... terrified. This hopeful. This much like if I don't touch you soon, I might actually die."
Becky reached out and took her hand. "Look at me."
Nicola did. Her eyes were wet, her vulnerability so raw it hurt to witness.
"I feel it too," Becky said. "Every minute. Every second. I think about you when I'm supposed to be working. I dream about you when I sleep. I want you in ways I don't have words for."
"Then show me."
That was all the permission Becky needed.
She leaned in slowly, giving Nicola time to pull away, to change her mind. But Nicola didn't move. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted, and when Becky's mouth finally met hers, she made a sound—a small, broken thing that Becky felt in her own chest.
The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, two women learning the shape of each other's mouths. But it deepened quickly, hunger rising, years of wanting finally finding release. Nicola's hands came up to cup Becky's face, holding her like something precious, and Becky's hands found Nicola's waist, pulling her closer, closer, as close as clothes would allow.
"We should—" Nicola gasped against her mouth. "Bedroom. Now."
They stumbled through the apartment, shedding clothes as they went. A dress here, a shirt there, shoes kicked off and forgotten. By the time they reached the bedroom, they were both in nothing but underwear, and Becky had to stop just to look.
Nicola stood in the doorway, half in shadow, half in light from the window. Her body was everything Becky had imagined and more, full breasts, curved hips, a softness at her belly that spoke of real life, real woman, not the airbrushed fantasies of magazines. She was beautiful in the way of actual flesh, and Becky felt tears prick her eyes.
"You're staring," Nicola whispered.
"You're worth staring at."
Nicola crossed the room and took Becky's face in her hands again. "So are you. God, Becky. So are you."
They came together then, bodies pressing, skin finding skin. The feeling of Nicola's breasts against her own made Becky moan, that specific pleasure of woman against woman, soft against soft, no angles to navigate, just curve meeting curve.
They fell onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and laughter and desperate kisses. Becky found herself on top, looking down at Nicola spread beneath her, and the sight stole her breath.
"Look at you," she breathed. "God, look at you."
Nicola's hands came up to trace Becky's shoulders, her arms, the sides of her breasts. "I want to feel you everywhere," she said. "I want to know every part of you. I want to memorise you with my hands."
"Then do it. I'm yours."
What followed was a slow, thorough education. Becky learned Nicola's body with the devotion of a scholar, the sensitive hollow behind her ear, the way her breath caught when Becky kissed her neck, the small sounds she made when Becky's mouth found her breasts. She learned that Nicola liked to be touched firmly, not gently, that her hips would rise to meet pressure, that she was vocal in her pleasure in a way that made Becky feel like a goddess.
And Nicola learned Becky just as thoroughly. She discovered that Becky's back was impossibly sensitive, that trailing fingers down her spine made her arch and gasp. She learned that Becky liked to be teased, built slowly, brought to the edge and held there until she begged. She learned the particular sounds Becky made when she was close, and the cry that meant she'd arrived.
When Becky finally lowered her head between Nicola's thighs, the taste of her was overwhelming—salt and sweetness, the essence of woman, the proof that this was real, was happening, was everything she'd ever wanted. Nicola's hands fisted in her hair, her hips rising, her cries filling the room.
"Don't stop," Nicola gasped. "Please, please don't stop."
Becky didn't stop. She found a rhythm, a pressure, a pattern that made Nicola's body tighten and shake. She watched Nicola's face, the beauty of her in pleasure, and felt her own desire build in response. When Nicola finally came, it was with a cry that seemed to come from somewhere ancient, somewhere primal, somewhere that had been waiting a long time to be released.
Afterward, Nicola pulled Becky up and held her close, their bodies slick with sweat, both of them trembling.
"That was—" Nicola started, then stopped, shaking her head.
"I know," Becky whispered. "I know."
But they weren't done. Becky rolled onto her back, pulling Nicola on top of her, and Nicola understood. She kissed her way down Becky's body with the same reverence Becky had shown her, pausing at every sensitive spot she'd discovered, learning new ones as she went. When her mouth finally found Becky's centre, Becky cried out at the first touch, it had been so long, so impossibly long, since anyone had touched her like this, with this much attention, this much care.
Nicola was patient, thorough, relentless. She built Becky slowly, backing off when she got too close, drawing it out until Becky was begging, pleading, reduced to nothing but wanting. When she finally allowed the release, Becky's orgasm rolled through her in waves, each one pulling her deeper, each one a surprise, each one a gift.
They lay together afterward, tangled in sheets that smelled of them both, the city lights painting patterns on the ceiling. Nicola traced patterns on Becky's stomach, lazy and content.
"I didn't know it could be like this," she said quietly. "I didn't know I could feel this... safe. This seen."
Becky turned to look at her. "Neither did I. I've spent so long feeling like I was too much. Too intense, too needy, too... something. But with you, I don't feel like too much. I feel like exactly enough."
Nicola kissed her, soft and long. "You are exactly enough. You're everything."
In the months that followed, they learned each other in all the ways people do. They learned each other's bodies until they could map them in the dark. They learned each other's histories—the wounds, the joys, the small moments that had shaped them. They learned each other's silences, and how to sit in them together.
The sex deepened as their trust deepened. Some nights were slow and tender, a joining that felt like prayer. Some nights were urgent, desperate, the kind of lovemaking that left marks and memories. They explored every variation of pleasure, toys and fantasies, roles and games, the endless creativity of two women who trusted each other completely.
But what Becky loved most were the quiet moments. Waking in the night to find Nicola's hand on her hip, her body curled around her, her breath warm on her neck. Coming home to find Nicola in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron, laughing at her own ridiculousness. Lying together on Sunday mornings, not making love, just being, just present, just grateful.
One night, months into their relationship, they made love in a new way. Nicola had bought a strap-on, had asked if Becky was open to trying, and Becky had said yes because she trusted Nicola, because she wanted to explore every possible way of being together.
The first time Nicola entered her, Becky's eyes went wide with the newness of it. It wasn't better than other kinds of lovemaking, just different, just another room in the house of their intimacy. Nicola moved slowly, watching Becky's face, learning this new rhythm. When Becky came, it was with Nicola's name on her lips and tears on her cheeks.
"Thank you," she whispered afterward. "For trusting me enough to ask. For making it safe."
Nicola held her close. "Always. Always safe. Always us."
Years passed. They built a life together, a home, a garden, a community of friends who knew them as a unit, as a given. They fought sometimes, as all couples do, but they always found their way back to each other. And always, at the centre of it, was the physical, the language of touch that had spoken before words, that would speak long after words failed.
Sometimes, late at night, they would lie in the dark and trace each other's bodies like braille, reading the stories written in skin. The scar on Becky's knee from childhood. The freckle on Nicola's hip that Becky had kissed a thousand times. The way Nicola's breath caught when Becky's fingers found that spot behind her ear. The way Becky's whole body softened when Nicola held her just so.
"I love you," Nicola whispered one night, the words as familiar as her own heartbeat.
"I love you too," Becky answered. "Now and always."
Outside, the city hummed its endless hum. Inside, two women held each other in the dark, their bodies speaking the oldest language, the truest language, the language that needed no words at all.
