Page 37 of Obedience

Simple.

Evening. As. Planned.

***

Greta bathed, trying—and failing miserably—to push Dylan from her thoughts. After pulling on clean loungewear, she poured another glass of wine and sat at the kitchen island, staring at the straw-coloured liquid swirling around her glass. Bringing it to her lips, she wondered if Dylan was bluffing or if she would actually wait. Her phone lay in front of her on silent. The screen lit up. Inhaling slowly, she watched it over the rim of her glass before finally swiping open the message.

Dylan:

‘Are you going to make me stand here all night, Dr Vincent?’

Greta huffed and placed the phone screen down. It was a futile gesture; the moment she saw the light spill onto the shiny grey surface beneath, she was unable to resist. She flipped it back over.

Dylan:

‘…because I will’

With her molars pressed together, the sound of grinding filled her ears. Staring at her phone, Greta toyed with the idea of calling the evening concierge to remove Dylan, but her heart wouldn’t let her. She opened WhatsApp, and without thinking, she typed and sent a message.

Greta:

‘Number 81. You have 5 minutes.’

Within seconds of sending the message, a single knock at the door echoed up the hallway. Pulling the door open, Greta’s hand still gripped tight around the wood.

A beat passed as Dylan’s gaze shifted from Greta to beyond her shoulder, lingering on the hallway inside as if silently waiting for the invitation Greta had spent weeks resisting—and was finally on the verge of giving.

Billowing her cheeks, Dylan allowed a breath to bleed out slowly, as Greta stared at her. ‘Are you going to invite me in, orrr?’ A playful grin spread across her face, illuminating her annoyingly beautiful eyes. ‘Five minutes isn’t very long, Doctor Vincent. If you keep me here in the corridor, you’re setting me up to fail really.’

Greta sucked her top lip into her mouth, trying admirably not to let a smile tug at her lips as she maintained her resting bitch face to convey her annoyance at having her evening interrupted. Then, unhurried, she pushed the door open fully and stood to the side.

‘Go through to the kitchen,’ Greta instructed.

Dylan walked down the hallway, looking back to Greta for direction, who pointed toward the second door on the left. Heading in the direction of the door, Dylan slipped off her jacket as she went. Watching as Dylan walked away, Greta bit the inside of her lip, mildly irritated by her temerity, but even more so because she couldn’t help but notice how fucking good Dylan looked in yet another simple, faded grey T-shirt and a pair of Levi’s that made her arse look incredible. Hanging her jacket over the back of a stool in the kitchen, Dylan’s wide eyes swept over the impressive apartment space. She turned to Greta, hands forced into her back pockets, pushing her chest forward. Looking at anything but Dylan took a real conscious effort, though the constant slip of her gaze made it clear Greta was doing a terrible job of it as her eyes gravitated back to Dylan’s incredible physique.

‘Nice digs,’ Dylan said, scanning the room while slowly nodding in appreciation.

‘Thank you. Drink?’ Greta asked with feigned nonchalance, though she was actually eager for something to do with her hands. Dylan glanced over at Greta’s wine glass. ‘I have things other than wine. Juice?’

An amused smile broke over Dylan’s face, making it very clear that the word juice made her feel juvenile, most likely exactly as Greta had intended it to. Dylan canted her head. ‘Ooh, a carton of Vimto would be lovely, actually,’ she replied in jest, drawing a look from Greta that screamed how unimpressed she was with the attempt at a joke. Clearly sensing that she was pushing her luck that was about to run out, Dylan quickly added, ‘Water is fine, thanks.’

As Greta busied herself with the filter jug and fridge, she felt the weight of Dylan’s intense gaze pressed against the bare skin of her neck. She was acutely aware of how she must look fresh out of the bath—her hair thrown up in a messy bun, a lingering flush on her cheeks, and the slouched collar of her oversized cream jumper slipping to offer a glimpse of her bra strap and collarbone. Part of her, on some subterranean, subconscious level, knew she could have adjusted the collar, or worn a different jumper, yet she left it exactly as it was, entirely content to let the skin remain on show.

‘I love Massive Attack,’ Dylan enthused at the song coming through the speaker system. ‘Love is a verb. Such incredible lyrics.’ Greta said nothing, her eyes narrowed as she scanned Dylan’s Goldfrapp tour T-shirt and handed her a glass. ‘Filtered water? Fancy.’ Dylan grinned. Greta replied with an unamused tilt of her head. Feeling bold, Dylan made a point of checking the time on her phone before putting it back on the work surface. Drawing in a steadying breath she watched Greta for a beat. ‘In the interest of the full and proper use of my five minutes, I’m going to get straight to it.’

With her hips pressed into the island, Greta remained standing on the opposite side of the kitchen, eyebrows raised in irritation, shoulders squared. After calmly sipping from her glass, Dylan placed it down, and stood from the stool she had perched on. Eyes fixed on Dylan moving toward her, Greta tried to push her away with her mind while simultaneously wanting her hands all over her body. Approaching her from the side, Dylan paused just close enough for her eyes to deliberately trace the shape of Greta's body, looking at her like she was the only thing on earth.

Frozen in place, Greta’s pelvis continued its unwavering steadying pressure into the island. Her feet didn’t move, but she dipped her head as her chest grew tight. Desperately trying to drag in air, she found herself unable to get it past the lump settled in her throat, swallowing dryly as Dylan moved behind her. A slow hand reached out to remove the clip holding Greta’s hair in place, letting it cascade over her shoulders. Warm, heavy breaths brushed the nape of Greta's neck as Dylan leaned in close, before gathering her hair with one hand to move it over her shoulder, lightly trailing her fingers over the back of Greta’s neck. The contact was almost too much for Greta to stand, yet she wanted more. She wanted it all, but she couldn’t have it.

Not now. Not here.

This couldn’t happen, but the need, the want… It was overriding every other emotion Greta had. It was stronger than any reason she could think of, any excuse she could make up to ask Dylan to leave. Emboldened by Greta’s lack of protest, Dylan took another unbidden step closer. A burst of her masculine fragrance filled Greta’s nose, making her bite back a whimper.

The truth was Greta had missed her. She hadn’t just missed the sex, she had missed her. But it was all so incredibly foolish because she didn’t know Dylan. She knew her scent and the unmistakable strength of her hands and body but she didn’t know Dylan; not enough to make her feel this way. Not enough to unravel her so profoundly. She didn’t know how she got the scar on her eyebrow, yet she had missed her. She didn’t know what her voice sounded like first thing in the morning, or if she was grumpy when she woke up, yet she had yearned for her. She had never felt the press of her lips, or tasted her skin, yet the ache for her was now unbearable. Despite their weekly meetings, Dylan St John was a stranger who felt more familiar than anyone had for years.

A sigh from deep inside Greta’s chest filled the silent room as Dylan cupped the back of her neck with her entire hand, her thumb running back and forth, lightly brushing over her skin, before her hand slowly moved. The grip on the front of Greta’s throat was soft, but it caught every desperate swallow as Dylan leaned in close to her ear, her lips hovered agonisingly close. Each breath that landed created a surge of lust that rippled in a frisson over Greta's skin, yet they still came—warm, wet and unrelenting. Barely a centimetre remained between them. The faint sound of Dylan licking her lips caused Greta’s eyes to flicker shut

‘I need you, Greta. However that looks tonight… I just need you. I don’t give a shit about tomorrow,’ she whispered, before taking Greta's lobe softly between her teeth and biting, just enough to sting and draw a soft gasp from Greta’s throat. ‘I just—’ Dylan slowly pushed her pelvis against Greta’s arse, hovering her mouth over the back of her neck. ‘I just fucking need you.’