A Spectacular Pair of Tits

Author's note: Now that you've clicked, let me warn you that the title of this story is pure bait. What you're about to read is not a quick sex scene, but a long and elaborate romantic slow-burn with a lesbian theme. If that's not your jam, feel free to leave -- no hard feelings.

Just like 3 Crushes and a Wedding, the premise of this story started in my head as a short scene with a fun hook (I mean -- "spectacular pair of tits" just speaks for itself, right?). But some characters just want to grow and reveal more of their depth, and I have a duty to write their story.

HOWEVER, as always, I like leaving something to the imagination too. If you've read some of my writing before, you know what to expect. If not, well, let's say that I like writing about the fun, titillating journey, not the final destination.

The story will be divided into 2 chapters only. The next one is already finished, and I hope to post it in a week or two.

A huge thanks to my beta reader, THBGato, for spotting those naughty little typos and all the great feedback!

Disclaimer: Although not stated explicitly, all characters engaging in any sexual activity are above 18.

******

London, Day 1

I verified the baggage belt number once more and continued pacing. My flight had landed 75 minutes earlier and there was no sign of my luggage yet. I had heard horror stories of Heathrow inefficiencies, and this was starting to fall within those statistics. Several nearby passengers from my flight were getting impatient too, so we sighed and shrugged together.

I turned around and walked to the far-end of the baggage pickup area and paused there. I fidgeted with my phone and couldn't stop myself from unlocking it one more time and refreshing the tracking for flight number BA 248 for the millionth time. 10 more minutes to landing. Good. Maybe that'd give me time to calm my jitters before meeting her.

I switched into the selfie mode and checked myself out, once again. If anything, I looked a little worse than a minute ago. My eyes were tired and my face looked dull. 14 hours on a plane plus the grime of airports didn't help my case. I had my bright pink hoodie on, the one she once told me she loved in a private Slack message during a team-wide video call. And my hair was doing, well, whatever my hair wanted to do. At least it looked half-cute.

I fluffed it up with my hand, nervously switched to the flight tracker app once again, and gasped when I saw "LANDED" next to her flight number. I thought I had 10 more minutes to breathe!

I furtively looked all around for her then steeled myself. She wouldn't be here already. In my head, I calculated the time for the plane to taxi to its gate, passengers to disembark, walk to passport check, get the stamp, and then head here. I had 10-15 minutes, easy, if not 20-30, to get my shit together.

I clutched my phone and walked back to baggage belt number 5. If they didn't start delivering these now, I swear! As I was approaching it, the belt whirred into life and I heard the distinct sound of luggage being thrown onto it behind the scenes. Finally.

I didn't count on the wonders of modern technology, though. My phone buzzed and I saw her name -- and face -- pop up next to a message.

"Landed! And heading to passport check. I see your plane landed a while ago. Are you still here or did you get a cab?"

Oh, so I wasn't such a total creep for checking her flight's status. Good. Mutual creepiness was better.

"Woo! I'm

still

waiting for my suitcase. They just started delivering so I'll probably still be here by the time you're done. We'll share the cab."

"Can't wait :)"

Neither could I. The trepidation in my heart was starting to overwhelm me. I raised my head and checked the gliding suitcases. My pink one hadn't popped up yet.

I hadn't thought about how 'Barbie' I looked until I was leaving home. The suitcase and the hoodie were

clearly

too much pink together. But by the time I noticed that, it was too late to change clothes or suitcases. So I convinced myself this'll be a good conversation starter and headed out. Now, a few minutes before meeting her, my conviction was faltering. What the heck was I thinking? I could've thrown on another hoodie!

A pink suitcase popped up on the belt. My pink suitcase. Oh well, no room to escape now. The young boy who sat two seats away from me during the flight looked at it then turned toward me. Even he made the connection.

What was wrong with pink anyway? And why was it such a maligned color? Too girlie? Too soft? Too political? That's the patriarchy speaking! A color is a color, and pink is beautiful!

Good, now assume that and grab the suitcase when it gets to you

.

I bent, picked it up like a champ, then looked up at the boy and smiled. He smiled back. There you go.

Now what? I walked back toward the carousel announcement board. Flight BA 248 was marked on belt number 9.

"Got my suitcase. Yours will be on belt 9. I'll sit in the seats next to it."

"Great. Almost done here."

"Look for the flashiest pink combo. You can't miss me."

Might as well lean into it.

She reacted to the message with a pink heart.

I walked to belt number 9 and plopped down on some nearby seats. Once again, I switched into the selfie camera and checked myself out. This was far from the best first impression I could give, but it'll have to do. She wouldn't look much better after a cross-Atlantic 16-hour flight.

I locked my phone and chastised myself.

Stop getting your hopes up, dammit!

This was nothing. Two colleagues who live halfway across the globe getting a temporary joint project for six months -- that's it. The flirtations, the double-entendre messages, the compliments; those all lived in my own head. She had never made any real indication that she liked me. And neither had I.

Still, I had built an alternate reality in my mind, one where every word hid a different meaning and every heart-eyed emoji reaction said more. But no, out here in the real world, nothing had happened yet. And nothing probably would. Ever.

But how do I tell my body not to feel jittery at the thought of meeting her in person for the first time? How do I convince my heart not to go into a frenzy at the thought of hugging her or sharing an apartment with her (and two other team members, but I was blissfully ignoring that fact) and all that might entail? And how do I force myself to treat this like a normal day at the office?

I couldn't. So I glanced at my phone again. No new notifications. Good. The reflection of my pink hoodie on the dark screen left me a bit more annoyed. I really shouldn't have worn this. It was a bit desperate for comment, wasn't it? Maybe I had time to go to the bathroom and change...

My phone vibrated before I could formulate a plan.

"Done. Heading your way! I hope you haven't fallen asleep by now!"

Fuck. Here we go.

How could I be asleep when every inch of me was vibrating in anticipation? Yes, I was exhausted, but no level of exhaustion would overcome the buzz in my heart now. I was very much awake.

I reacted with a thumbs-up to her message and lifted my head towards the...

Oh.

My.

God.

She was wearing heels.

After flying for 16 hours from Buenos Aires to London, with one layover, and in one of the biggest airports in the world of all places, she was wearing heels!

Ask me how I know.

No, really, ask me how that's the first thing I noticed about her, and not her radiant face, her long wavy chestnut hair, her thin legs, or her cute smile.

Well, if you insist, I knew about the heels because I heard them before I saw them. From more than a hundred feet away in the immensity of the Heathrow luggage pick-up zone, I still heard them. I heard their rhythmic clicks on the airport's tiles and it's as if, all of a sudden, my heart had no choice but to slow down and meet their beat. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Black. Black four-inch heels. Not too extravagant on an average night out but bafflingly out-of-place in an airport. Click. Clack.

If there was ever any doubt in my mind that the next six months would be sheer torture, this was the final nail -- or heel -- in the coffin. Heaven help me. She was spectacular, but in the most girl-next-door way.

My eyes traveled up, through her toned calves, thighs, flat abdomen, slightly bumpy chest, until I reached her face. She was beaming, and for a split second while she hadn't seen me yet, I was able to stare at her cute freckles.

Then her eyes connected with mine and fuck... The electricity... The softness... The... everything.

I still didn't understand how, when, or why I fell for her. Objectively speaking, she was OK. A good 6 or a generous 7/10 maybe, on any guy's scale. We'd even worked in the same company for a couple of years and I had barely noticed her. Then we started collaborating more and, in a span of a few months, she snuck up on me. Suddenly, I was taken by that

je ne sais quoi

that was intrinsically appealing about her. Her delicate nature, her fragile confidence, her simple efficiency. The way she spoke to me and

saw

me, my work, and my strengths. The way we joked and understood each other. The way I built her up and she built me up.

And now here she was, for the first time on the same continent as me. Same time zone, same country, same city, same room.

I saw her eyes light up when she recognized me. Maybe there was hope for us? Maybe it wasn't all a funky illusion from my delusional brain? Oh, fuck me for thinking that.

Still, I flashed back to every time I'd seen her face light up like that. All those long team meetings where I'd sent her a side message only to see her live reaction when she read it. The way her eyes widened when she noticed my message, the way her lips contracted to hide a smile, the way I could still see the funky gears spinning in her head before she answered me... I was drunk on that. Drunk on that lip crinkle she couldn't avoid and the smoldering look she gave her cam -- she gave me -- to tell me she knew I was watching.

And watch I did. That's all I could do. Because it was my only chance to see her, even if it was throughout the lens of a camera thousands of miles away. Because the rest of the week, our interactions were limited to text messages, and you can't see a lip crinkle in a text; you have to imagine it. I preferred the real thing.

But now she was here, for real, and damn. How do I live up to the version of myself that she knew? How do I manage to be as interesting, funny, and confident as that?

Her smile widened even further. I'm not sure if I was smiling or not. I had lost any kind of feeling in my face. My poor blood was thumping from my ears to the area behind my eyes, rushing to my heart, and then pooling somewhere lower. Get a grip, woman.

As she crossed the final few feet to meet me, I rose up automatically. I think it was survival instinct. The longer I stayed seated, the more my eyesight was level with her chest. And I could not possibly handle that, now.

She suddenly stopped a couple of feet away from me and beamed, "Hey, you!"

I was about to lunge at her, but I immediately held myself back.

Hey... you...?! I thought we were going for a hug?! Weren't we friendly enough to actually hug when meeting for the first time?!

I steeled myself and forced a smile. I'm sure it looked less awkward than the state of internal shambles it was supposed to hide.

This was suddenly too awkward. We were strangers, dammit, strangers! The beautiful illusion I'd built in my head over the last year or so started to disintegrate under the weight of this reality. A reality I'd ignored for so long.

There was nothing between us. Nothing except the distance that separates Tokyo from Buenos Aires, and the awkwardness of two remote coworkers meeting in person for the first time. The sooner I ignored my fantasies, the better.

"Hey... Good flight?"

Keep it casual. Kill all misguided hopes.

"Long, looong flight. I slept a bit, though."

She smiled awkwardly and glanced at the baggage belt. No sign of life there, just like the insides of my heart.

"They should start delivering them in a few minutes. Then we can finally go get some rest. And shower."

I tried to stifle the thought of her showering. Utter failure.

"Shower, yes. God, I need a shower so bad!"

Nothing about her, not her face or hair or smell -- flowery, from what I could tell at a distance -- implied that she needed a shower. She looked perfect.

How did I not notice her those first couple of years, I don't know. This seemed impossible now. I would pick out her face from a million miles away, and those eyes among a billion other eyes. She was just spectacular in her simplicity, her timidity, her humbleness. And she was here, now, and partially ignoring me. This was noticeably out of character, but hey, what do I know about her, the real her, and her character?

We both stared at the baggage belt. For me, it was easier to focus my eyes back on a lifeless object than to look at her face and see the disinterest there. I'm not sure what her reason was; she probably thought the belt was more intriguing than my face.

Oh, I was

hurt

.

A few seconds later, we heard the famous whir of the belt as it came to life.

"Oh, thank God!"

Yup, it took a divine intervention to stop the awkwardness between us. Excellent.

She took off her backpack and placed it on the empty seat next to where I was still standing. "I'll be back." And she strutted toward the belt.

I let out a silent 'What the fuck,' as she walked away. I remained there, frozen, staring at her cute ass bumping up and down with every step, her swaying chestnut hair, and the four-inch heels clicking against the airport tiles. Click. Clack.

I couldn't reconcile everything I was feeling at that moment. The exhaustion from the flight, the deflated enthusiasm after that cold interaction, and the silly excitement that still lingered because she was here, in front of me, despite the icy temperature between us. It was all of that, and more. And then there was that ridiculous hope, no matter what, that she'd end up in my arms. Or between my legs. Or on top of my face. Ha! Hope! How do you kill that?

For a minute or two, she kept her eyes glued to the suitcases coming out on the belt, and I kept my eyes glued to her.

Six months. Six months under the same roof. Six months is enough time to bring back that fun spark between us, right? But what if that never happened? What if we just had remote work chemistry, not real-life chemistry? Six months should be enough to figure that out, right? Plus, either way, I was coming out of this project with one form of certainty or another. We either clicked on all levels or we didn't, and if we didn't, this crush should be over. I'd know for sure then. So this would all be a positive thing, eventually, in the grand story of my life. Right?

Oh, the lies we tell ourselves!

But then she turned halfway, looked at me, grinned, and winked. For a split-second, we were back. For a split-second, we were real. I got a brief glimpse into our past chats and the hundreds of times she'd sent me a winking emoji after one of her cute or silly or smart jokes. The real wink was miles better though. Obviously.

And it made my heart stop a bit. How could I think I'd be fine if we didn't develop something more out of this? There would be nothing positive if this stunning woman didn't like me back.

She shrugged and pointed at the luggage belt, as if to apologize for the lateness. I smiled, as if to tell her it was all fine.

Then she turned around and immediately perked up. Her suitcase had probably popped up. She kept an eye until it was in front of her then picked up a navy suitcase and was about ready to walk my way when she seemed to notice something off about it. She spun it around and, sure enough, it wasn't hers, so she bent and picked it back up -- a proper feat given her heels and small stature -- and placed it back on the belt.

She turned back toward me and swallowed a chuckle. That didn't seem to be enough, though, so she walked a few steps in my direction and teased, "Not everyone has a unique suitcase like yours." She let out that chuckle and turned back before I even had the time to reply. Sneaky.

A few seconds later, a similar navy suitcase showed up and she perked up again. She spun toward me and pointed at it, mouthing, "That's the one."

When the suitcase reached her, she bent and picked it up, this time more sure of herself. She walked towards me, smiling, while I pretended to frown a bit.

"I'm sorry, it was an easy joke." She chuckled. "I love your suitcase, it suits you. Just like the hoodie. I think I've already told you I like this one." She winked and looked down at my pink and nerdy developer hoodie -- and thus my generous chest. "The me.Sleep() and me.Eat() functions are really resonating with me now."

Oh we were back, baby! Hints of us at least. Of that easy chemistry and quipping fun that we'd shared over the last year of work.

"Yeah, I remember telling you I liked your heels too," I glanced down at her feet, "though these are a bit shorter, I think."

I looked back up at her and faked an innocent smile. If she was pointing out the choice I made

for her

, it was only fair that I'd point out the choice she made

for me

. I wasn't in this -- whatever this was -- on my own.

She blushed. "Oh, I had to go for something a bit more comfortable. Plane and all. I have a better set here." She tapped on her suitcase. "Hope I get some fancy occasion to wear it."

"I'm sure you will," I smiled to hide my anticipation. "Shall we?" I nodded toward the exit.

"Yeah."

We started walking in silence. And then, in a very low tone, she admitted, "Ok, maybe I didn't wear the heels throughout the whole flight. I just changed into them before landing."

I glanced at her, but she kept looking ahead. Was she admitting that heels weren't the most comfortable footwear (a discussion we'd had a couple of times in the past) or that she specifically switched into them before meeting me? Because one of those meant something and the other something else entirely. And only one of those options gave me more of that silly hope.

I didn't reply. We found ourselves outside in the taxi line, a growing awkwardness settling between us again. Slowly, we made our way through the line and through some insignificant small talk -- nothing like our previous deep chats. We grabbed a taxi, sat distinctly apart, and weaved our way to the shared apartment that was supposed to be our base for the next six months.

It didn't really hit me until we were dragging our suitcases into the lobby that we'd be living in the same space for half a year. Same kitchen, same living room, same working space here, same company offices to go to, same commute and subways and work hours. That was more than just working together, that was a whole other level of intimacy that I was suddenly too apprehensive of.

We'd never had the same work hours before, let alone the same routine. And I was so used to us being off by 12 hours all the time; my day always began when hers ended, and vice versa. None of that now. We would literally be feet away, day and night. There was no running away from this level of closeness, was there?

But then we opened the door to the apartment, and Ben -- one of the other two coworkers we were sharing this project with -- ran to meet us, and she simply hugged him in a way that she had avoided with me, and

that

... that just ended my daydream.

She could choose to run away from any intimacy even if we were a few feet away, just as simple as that. She'd just done it and given me the biggest signal by choosing not to touch me.