“I like how warm I feel,” I tell them as I continue to rub tight circles over the tip of my clit. “And how tense my body is. Like I’m aware of every muscle and every bone and every hair.”
My breath catches as I struggle to inhale again after talking.
“You deserve to feel that good, Maeve. Go ahead and make yourself feel even better,” they say in little more than a deep whisper.
I can’t deny how much their words help. So much so that I imagine Loncey is lying right next to me and they’re whispering all these things directly into my ear. Sweet words. Gentle encouragements. Delicious praise.
“I’m close,” I tell them with a small gasp.
I hear their breath catch before they speak. “Good girl, Maeve. You’re such a good girl.”
I should hate them calling me that. It’s patronising. It’s demeaning. It’s also a little cliché.
But I don’t hate it. I don’t hate it at all.
“Say that again,” I grit out as my stomach starts to quiver and I know I’m seconds away from it, just seconds away from the stress and the tension all melting away.
“You’re such a good girl, Maeve. I love that you’re making yourself come. I love that you’re making yourself feel good. Because good girls deserve to feel good.”
“Oh.” I open my mouth and lift my head off the pillow.
“Such a good girl,” they repeat and in the chaos of my building climax, I wish they were closer, that they were right next to me, that their body was lying next to mine.
And it’s imagining that, imagining their arms around my waist and their lips against the shell of my ear that makes me tip over the edge.
“Fuck,” I grunt as the orgasm crashes into me, making my stomach and my pussy convulse. It has my legs twitching once, twice. It has me frowning through the rising peaks and fallingdips. It has my breath frozen. It has my nipples so hard and sensitive that the silk of my pyjamas resting against them teases and taunts me. It has me throwing my head back onto the pillow and squeezing my eyes shut only for me to see more colour and light behind my eyelids.
It's an orgasm, that’s for sure, and it bears some similarity to climaxes I’ve had before, but it is also something else entirely. It feels bigger. It feels more unruly. It feels more encompassing. It feels like it hasn’t just touched and eased the stress in my head and body, but that it’s also touched and maybe caressed a part of my soul.
“Good girl, Maeve,” Loncey says. “You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”
“Fuck,” I say again, but it sounds a lot less strained because my ability to breathe is back, as is my sudden need to laugh.
“Jesus fecking Christ,” I say through my giggles.
“What?” Loncey asks. “What is it?”
“I can’t believe I did that,” I say and I pull my hand out of my pyjama trousers. “With you in the room, I mean.”
“Well, I’m happy you did and I hope you are too,” they say. “And I hope you feel proud of yourself too.”
“I feel… a lot of things,” I answer honestly. “And I need to go wash my hands.”
“Sure, Maeve,” Loncey says and I hear their bedsheets rustle again and I look over but it’s still too dark to figure out exactly what position they’re in.
Getting out of bed, I use my hands to find my way around the bed and down the short corridor that leads to the bathroom near the entrance to the hotel room. Once inside the bathroom, I flick the light on and stand in front of the sinks. Looking straight into the mirror, I smile at my reflection.
It's a cheeky, knowing smile. It’s a silly, excited smile. It’s a smile that reminds me of being a child and doing somethingnew, something a bit dangerous, or something a bit challenging and while I hate the connection between what I just did and my childhood, I love this smile. I love the big stupid grin I have on my face. Maybe this is why I bring a hand up to my lips and trace the curve of my mouth, to memorise it. To hold onto it for a moment longer.
But then I smell myself. My salty-sweet scent.
“Ew,” I say and then set about rigorously washing my hands.
When I’m finished, I walk out of the bathroom and I’m surprised to see light coming from the bedroom.
Walking to my bed, I see Loncey sitting up with the bedside light on. Their eyes track me and they have a very small smile on their mouth.
“Are you okay?” they ask when I give them a shy look.
