Page 47 of Obedience

She sighed, a heavy release of sadness and tension, then headed for the kitchen. Grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge, she padded back upstairs in the quiet of the house.

***

When Dylan entered the bedroom, Greta was sitting on the bed, her back pressed against the headboard, her lips curling into a wide smile the moment she saw Dylan. She couldn’t help it; it was an automatic response, as if Dylan’s presence were a physical tug at the corners of her mouth. She watched as Dylan moved into the room, balancing the monitor and water bottles in her hands.

Dylan handed one to her. ‘I don’t have any wine. Sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’ Greta accepted the bottle. ‘It’s probably the very last thing I need.’

‘I just need to sort this out. Give me a sec,’ Dylan said softly.

With her eyes fixed on Dylan as she busied herself with the iPad and the bedside monitor, Greta untied her hair, swooshing it from side to side, before gathering it up into a messy bun.

‘Your mum... Is she—’

‘Can we not?’ Dylan interrupted, her voice strained. ‘I haven’t got it in me, Greta. Can we add it to the another time list? Please?’

‘Of course,’ Greta replied softly, twisting the cap off her bottle and taking a swig.

Dylan moved the stale toast and cold tea from the bedside table, her hands and body never still. ‘Can I get you some food? You must be starving.’

‘No, I’m okay, thank you.’ Greta put her water down on the cabinet and looked at the woman who hadn't stopped moving since she’d walked back into the room. ‘Come here.’

After placing the monitor beside the iPad, Dylan dimmed the screen and volume as much as possible while ensuring she could still see and hear her mum’s room. She climbed onto the mattress, kneeling to face Greta.

Resting back on her heels Dylan canted her head. ‘You look so pretty,’ she said softly. Greta felt a flush of warmth creep over her cheeks. To be called pretty—at her age, after the week she’d had—felt alien and an untruth. She opened her mouth to protest, but obviously sensing a rebuttal, Dylan surged forward and silenced her with a kiss. ‘Priya said so too…’ Dylan smirked. ‘So it must objectively be true.’

Pressing her hands into the bed for balance, Dylan leaned closer, capturing Greta’s lips again. Their mouths stayed pressed together as Dylan breathed in, slow and deep, as if memorising every note of her scent. When she finally pulled away, she didn't go far; she dragged her gaze over Greta’s face, seemingly unable to get enough of her, before resting her eyes on Greta’s lips.

‘This fucking mouth, Greta.’

Playfully holding her lips just out of Dylan’s reach, Greta pointed to her own smile. ‘This mouth?’ she asked, her tone innocent.

‘This’—Dylan started, punctuating the word with a soft, lingering kiss—‘incredible.’ She caught Greta’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugging gently until Greta let out a low whimper. ‘Mouth.’

They kissed as Greta shimmied down the pillows and Dylan lay on top of her. Thighs slotted together, they kissed each other, knowing there was an irrefutable connection between them that neither of them could fight. It was futile. Utterly pointless and they had both succumbed to the power of it. As Dylan’s weight pressed Greta into the mattress, the world outside and every single thing in it faded away.

The intensity of their kissing deepened, not fast or hard, but a slow, penetrating sensuality. It felt like a conversation they’d been waiting—and desperately needing—to have for months. Dylan began to undress Greta, seeming to savour every moment of the slow reveal. Greta could feel Dylan taking her time, her eyes mapping every inch of skin as it was exposed, tracing her body as though she were entirely new, yet with the deep reverence of someone who had memorised the lines and curves of her body every week for the last two years. Dylan moved over Greta as if she had a quiet, new focus, her mouth and hands becoming tools of supplication. It felt like more than just desire; it felt like worship.

Meeting her with an equally aching hunger, Greta thoughtfully undressed Dylan; her hands roaming every inch of her, feeling and appreciating the flex and extension of the taut muscles shifting under Dylan’s tattooed skin. They pressed their bodies together, chest to chest, belly to belly. They allowed the exchange of their heat, sweat, and desire to flow between them.

With Dylan lying on her back and their kisses still unbroken, Greta straddled her thigh, beginning a slow, deliberate grind while her other leg pressed firmly between Dylan’s. The contact was woefully insufficient for the passion building between them, the need for release inching ever closer. Their moans stayed clenched and suppressed in their chests as their hips undulated in a desperate search for enough pressure to satisfy the ache building between them. When Dylan tried to pull herself up, Greta flattened her palms against her chest and eased her back onto the mattress. Hungry hands traced the lines of Dylan’s body before Greta shifted to straddle her hips fully.

Brushing her mouth against the shell of Dylan’s ear, Greta said softly, ‘Do you have your strapless dildo?’

She pulled back just enough to see Dylan’s eyes widen at the whispered question.

‘I do, yeah.’

‘I don’t want to demand anything, Dylan, but— ’

‘It’s in there,’ Dylan interrupted eagerly, flicking her head toward the bedside cabinet.

Leaning across Dylan, Greta stretched toward the drawer, very aware of Dylan's eyes tracing her movement from below; and loving every second of it.

With the black strapless dildo and the lube in her hand, Greta pushed them beneath the pillow beside Dylan’s head with purposeful focus before climbing off her and settling between her thighs, gently nudging them wider with her knees. She paused, letting her gaze linger as she openly admired the parts of Dylan she’d never allowed herself to until the night before. It was an omission she silently chided herself for; a two-year mistake she could finally put right. Propped on her elbows, Dylan watched Greta take her in.

‘You’re so fucking wet,’ Greta rasped.