Sloane shakes her head. "Don't you dare." She reaches between us and pulls at the hem of her dress, too impatient to wait for me. I lift off her enough to give her room, and she drags it up over her hips, her chest, and tugs it off over her head. She'sbare underneath but for a scrap of lace between her thighs and she lets me look at her, flushed and waiting.
Tan lines run sharp across her hips and her chest — gold where the sun has reached her. Her breasts are small and full and she's so striking I'm not sure how I'm meant to recover from looking at her.
When my mouth finds her breast she jolts, a gasp tearing out of her, and she grabs a fistful of my hair. My own pulse is hammering. I'm supposed to be the one in control here and the truth is she's wrecking me just as fast.
She's pulling at my shirt now, pushing it up my back, wanting it gone. I sit back to drag it over my head, and her hands are on me before it's even off — sliding up my stomach, my ribs, cupping me through my bra.
"Off," she says, tugging at the strap. "I want to see you."
I get rid of it and Sloane's eyes go over me slowly, settling on my breasts. Her hand drifts up to follow her gaze and her breath hitches as she caresses me.
"God," she says quietly. "You're so beautiful and so soft…"
No one has ever looked at me the way she's looking at me right now and I let her take her time. Her hands move curiously, tracing my curves. Her breath hitches when her thumb passes over my nipple and she goes still for a second to register what she's just done to me.
Lowering myself back down to kiss her, there's nothing between us now and it feels like every nerve in my body has just woken up — the heat of her skin all down the length of mine, every point of contact lit up. Her legs come up around me and she sighs in pleasure.
"You feel —" She can't finish it because I kiss the rest of the sentence off her mouth, then work my way down her body, slow, kissing over her stomach, the jut of her hip, the soft inside of herthigh, and she goes still and tense with anticipation, her breath held.
"Relax," I murmur against her skin. "Just enjoy it."
I hook my fingers in the lace, draw down her panties, and lean in to put my mouth between her thighs. The taste of her, the heat, the way her whole body goes rigid and then liquid in the space of a second is beautiful. She's wet and so responsive, her hips rising with every stroke of my tongue.
"Oh my —" Whatever she meant to say dissolves into a loud moan and I take my time with her, listening to her breath climb, easing off whenever she gets close. She's panting, swearing under her breath, her thighs trembling on either side of my head.
When I slide a finger into her, she clenches around it and her back leaves the bed again.
"Maggie, please —"
My mouth and hand move together, steady, relentless, until I feel her gathering toward the edge — the breath going out of her, her hand gone almost painful in my hair.
She comes apart loudly, helplessly, and I stay with her through every shudder, easing her down, until she's boneless and twitching and tugging weakly at my shoulders to bring me back up.
I crawl up and kiss her. She's shaking, her face hot, her heart slamming against my chest. Her eyes are still closed and her lips are parted, breathing heavily against my mouth, one hand limp on my shoulder. I stroke her hair while I give her time.
"I —" She gives up on the sentence. Tries again. "I didn't know it could be like that." She pulls back to look at me, dazed and wet-eyed. "Nobody ever — Sorry. I need a minute."
I push a damp strand of hair off her face and smile. Sloane pulls me down for another kiss, and we melt into each other all over again.
49
SLOANE
My whole body has gone heavy and useless, sunk into a mattress I never want to leave. Maggie's still draped over me and her breath moves the hair at my temple.
So that's what it's supposed to be like. All these lovers, and not one of them ever found the version of me that's lying here now — wrung out, undone, not thinking about how I look or what I'm meant to say next. I thought the low hum of dissatisfaction after sex was just the price. Everyone seemed to pay it. Now I'm flat on my back with my heart racing and my legs still shaking, and that hum is nowhere to be found.
Maggie rolls off me and shifts onto her side. Her hand spreads warm against my stomach, causing a shudder to rip through me.
I bite down on a sound and turn my head to look at her. She's gorgeous — distractingly so — and I can't fathom how I missed it those first weeks. I think I did see it, somewhere underneath the resentment. Now I can't see anything else. The strong line of her jaw. Her eyes, dark brown, almost black in this light, with the slight ring of lighter brown around the pupil that I can only seefrom this close. Long, dense lashes that cast small shadows on her cheekbones. Her skin — warm brown, the inheritance from her mother. The small empty piercings in her earlobes that I've never seen her put anything in. Her mouth, which I now know intimately, and the look she's giving me, like she's dying to know what I'm thinking.
I want to touch her. The urge arrives whole and certain, the way nothing in my life arrives anymore.
My fingers land on her shoulder first. I don't know why I start there — maybe because it's safe, neutral, the kind of place you'd touch anyone. But nothing about it feels neutral. Her skin is warm and smooth under my hand as I slowly draw my fingers down the slope of her arm.
It's all so different. I've put my hands on plenty of bodies and they were all hard angles and hair and the particular scent that men give off. Maggie's soft where I don't expect soft. The curve of her shoulder into her chest, the give of her, the way her waist dips in under my palm. She smells so good and I lean in closer and inhale against her hair.
Lifting up onto my elbow so I can see what I'm doing, I keep going, trailing my hand down her side and over the curve of her hip. I'd assumed, in the abstract, that being with a woman would feel familiar from the inside — that I'd know what worked because I have the same body. But I was wrong because Maggie's not a mirror.
