Page 32 of Let the Light Shine Through

“At least you got that part right,” I mutter, and she asks, “Did I?”

I stuff my hands in my pockets, nodding even though she can’t see it. Can she?

“Did someone tell you that specifically or are you just assuming?”

Well, come to think of it…

Damn, did she really just call me out like that?

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Roz, women are vocal. Very vocal. If we like something, we say something.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.” Which has to count for something, right? “And they always get theirs before I get mine,” I add on. That much I am sure of.

Clicking her tongue, she says, “I could fake an orgasm so good right now, you’d have to stick your hand down my pants to know the truth.”

Wha—

No, there are no words. None. The image that statement produces…that’s where my energy goes. And stays.

Until…

“Mmmm.”

A single moan escapes Gia’s throat, and one moment I’m standing in scraggly grass, fighting to keep myself in check, the next…the next I’m on the table, hovering over her, wondering how I can drink the sound straight from her mouth. Never have I been so parched and I just came out of a self-inflicted fast.

She barks out a laugh from the sudden change but screw laughs, and everything I said about liking them, I’ll take every last one of her moans—now.

On strong arms, I remain suspended above her by mere inches, fully aware we’re in a public space but not giving a shit at the same time. She called my bluff; I folded. And here we are.

Gia says, “Hi,” before starting up the swish, swish, swish of her leg again, hitting the outside of my hip this time. Another tease. Another dare.

I drop a knee just under the apex of her thighs, blocking out the pain caused by the mesh-pattern tabletop. Her breath stutters, so I raise my knee, up into those baggy pants of hers, to press it against her pussy.

“Hi.”

Gia reaches up to run a finger along the skin below my beanie, rubbing between my eyebrows, and my eyes close from the contact as I commit the gesture to memory. I’ve dreamed of her touch for weeks, but it’s nothing—nothing—compared to the real thing.

I open my eyes to find hers no longer hidden under glasses. I don’t even know where the glasses went. Or care.

“How’d you find me?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “You just kind of appeared.” Just like the other times.

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t push the issue—thankfully. I don’t know how to describe it and I don’t really want to try. She’s not there, then she is.

Then she’s not again.

She’s like the moon. Or the sun.

“You don’t know? The sun can kill you.”

If Gia is the sun, there are worse ways to go. Like starving yourself to death inside your bedroom.

Flyaways dance in front of her face and this close I can see there’s some kind of white cream, probably lotion, gathered along her hairline.

A smile spreading at her lips pulls my attention from it, but just as I begin to lower myself, she shoves me clear off—we’re talking over the side of the table—and I bust my ass on the built-in bench.

“What the fuck was that?” I’m getting sick of her pushing me, damn it.