I’ve lost count of how many times she’s had me this week. My body is hypersensitive, constantly aroused, and trained to her touch. Every surface in the apartment has been christened—some multiple times. The couch where she ate me for breakfast. The bathroom counter where she took me while we brushed our teeth. The window where she pressed me against the cold glass and made me come so hard I screamed.
“Going to miss this when I go back to work,” I moan as she starts moving.
“Who says you’re going back?”
I laugh. “I’ve got people who need me!”
“I need you more.”
“So possessive.”
“When it comes to you? Always.”
She smiles, that wicked, dimpled grin that always kills me. “You like it here. Admit it.”
I do. The soft creak of her apartment floorboards. The way her tools rattle in the garage below. The clash of her latent sophistication in this apartment and the grease monkey life that takes place just outside. More than once, I’ve woken up to the sounds of Wren tinkering in her garage. Some clients have left projects for her to work on while they’re away for the holidays, and it’s like her own personal Christmas every day when she remembers.
By the time we finally start getting dressed for the night, I’ve lost track of how many times she’s made love to me. My body tenderly aches from it, all right.
“Where are we going?” I ask as she hands me a black dress I’ve never seen before.
“Bought you something.” She slips on her jacket. “Can’t take you to Jensen’s in a hoodie.”
“Jensen’s?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s the rooftop bar that claims it’s got the best view of fireworks—except Coos Bay doesn’t do fireworks.”
“Not officially.” She laughs. “But you know this town. Someone’s already smuggled in Roman candles and a few too many beers.”
“Illegal fireworks and overpriced cocktails. How romantic.”
She leans in close. “You won’t be looking at the sky anyway.”
Jensen’s is packed when we arrive. Locals dressed in their holiday best crowd the bar, faces glowing under strings of golden lights. Out beyond the glass, the bay is a sheet of black with neon reflections from the bar signs.
I can feel the whispers start before we’ve even reached the bar. Heads turn. People stare. Some talk behind their drinks, others just smile.
A week ago, I would’ve wanted to sink through the floor. But Wren’s hand settles on the small of my back, and suddenly, I don’t care.
“Let them look,” she murmurs. “Just two women in love in this town.”
“Yeah, and I used to date your brother.”
“Like I said, just two women in love…”
We find a table near the edge of the rooftop where the wind carries all the whispers of the world. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath, but Wren pulls me close under her arm.
“Hey, you two!” Jake—Wren’s old friend—approaches with his wife, Winnie, both flushed from champagne.
“Winnie!” I greet, standing to hug her.
“You look amazing,” she says. “Looks like someone’s been having a merry Christmas.”
Jake clasps Wren’s shoulder. “You clean up well. Or is that the glow of being in love?”
Wren only smirks. “Maybe both.”
They drift off, and we spend the next hour sipping champagne and talking with neighbors. There are whispers, sure—but there are smiles, too. A few congratulations. Someone even buys us a drink “for the hell of it.”
Wren’s fingers link with mine under the table. She leans in and tells a dirty joke that makes me double over with laughter. Sure, that garners more attention, but… I don’t care. Soon enough, the superintendent will know who I’m with, and if they have a problem with it…
