When the mysterious Celia follows Tess home in a rain storm, the sexy encounter that follows is totally unexpected, and yet somehow, Celia is strangely familiar.

Excerpt

‘I just got here, honest.’ The woman spoke between chattering teeth. ‘I was hoping for a place to wait out the storm.’ She motioned back into Lyme Regis. ‘But there’s no place there.’

‘Certainly there’s no place on the Cobb. What were you thinking?’ I said, then I nodded up the stairs. ‘Well you can’t stay out here. Come on inside where it’s dry.’ God, was I out of my mind? I didn’t even know this chick and the whole thing felt sort of strange and stalker-ish.

‘You don’t mind?’ She asked.

‘Of course not.’ I wasn’t sure if I was lying of not, but I couldn’t leave her out in this horrid weather.

‘I’m Celia,’ she said, as she followed me up the stairs, muddy walking shoes that looked way pass their sell-by date gripped in one hand.

‘I’m Tess,’ I called over my shoulder as I unlocked the door, and stood aside for her to go in.

Inside she shrugged out of the oversized anorak, which looked, if anything, even older and rattier than the boots, then she stood dripping on the rug in the hallway, looking diminished and fragile in the anemic light of the late afternoon storm.

‘Right. You need dry clothes,’ I said. ‘I can lend you something. It’ll be huge on you, but it’ll do for now. I’ll put your clothes in the drying room to dry, then make us some tea, would you like that? Bathroom’s there,’ I pointed.

When I returned with a track suit and a t-shirt, I nearly dropped them on the floor at the sight of her. The door was wide open and she stood naked and goose-fleshed wringing the water from her clothes into the sink. She turned to face me as though being naked in the bathroom of a total stranger was nothing out of the ordinary, and my mouth went dry.

Honestly, I never look at other women’s breasts. I mean I’m aware of my own, and I fondle them when I masturbate and rather enjoy the feel of them, but it took all I could do to pull my eyes away from Celia’s breasts. Hers were the kind of breasts all women dream of having, high and firm, like heavily iced cupcakes displayed in a bakery window, just enough to fill the cup of a hand and spill over the top to offer a soft swell to be kissed and nuzzled. And strangely enough I could picture myself doing just that. Her nipples pearled dark mauve and heavy atop the raspberry stippling of areolae that were impossibly tight and swollen from the chill, and I found myself wanting to chafe them in my hand and warm them with my breath, with my lips, with my tongue.

Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes, but that wasn’t much better as my gaze followed the flat, hard muscles of her belly down to the tight nest of auburn curls resting protectively above her sex.

‘ … Would that be alright?’

I suddenly realized she was speaking to me. I forced my attention back to what she was saying, forced my gaze back to her lightly freckled face and milk chocolate eyes. ‘It’s just the most amazing bathtub, and I was just wondering if it would be alright. If I had a bath? I haven’t had a hot bath in a long time, at least not a real one. I mean I’ll understand if you don’t want me too, cuz you really don’t know me, do you? And a bath is sort an intimate thing, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can have a bath,’ I said, finding my voice with difficulty.