Page 61 of Vengefully Matched

She wondered what Priscilla would do, what kind of toys she played with.

About what her bed would be like in that decadent haunted manor. About what secrets those walls could whisper, so different from the cheery wallpaper here, patterned with yellow roses.

She withdrew her fingers and reached for the bedside drawer, and the trusty vibrator. When she tried to flick it on, it sputtered and refused.

Fuck, she hadn’t charged it. And there was no way she was stopping to wait for that.

What the hell. If a broken escalator was a set of stairs, an uncharged vibrator was basically a dildo. Even if she did picture a dildo as something that would be bigger than two of her own fingers, the approximate width of this one.

She grabbed a pillow and straddled it, propping the vibrator on it and easing down, slowly at first, and then fucking it harder, rolling her breasts under her hands, then sliding a hand between her legs, rubbing, chasing, unable to quite get what she wanted in depth, slamming her eyes shut and thinking of what Priscilla’s fingers would feel like, wondering if it would be like in the porn she’d watched, the one where two girls fucked each other on an enormous double-sided purple dildo. Back then, she had been embarrassed to be searching for things like strap-ons and girl-on-girl, unwilling to examine what it meant that the idea of a woman hovering over top of another woman was much more arousing than anything Jonathan had ever done to her.

She sank down on the too-still vibrator, rocking back and forth, spreading her legs out in front of her so that she was sitting, taking it as deep as she could, both hands working furiously, one circling with infuriating figure eights, the other playing gently, and then more forcefully, around the edge of where she was attempting to fill a void that screamed for crimson nails and a wicked, wicked mouth.

I can go as big as you want me to, Priscilla had said.

Her eyes flickered to the nightstand, to the water bottle. It was the sturdy kind, sleek and thin, and yet still the size of three thick fingers wide. And Priscilla’s mouth had been on it, the faint lipstick stains reminded her.

Agatha was desperate to taste her.

Without allowing herself time to think better of it, she reached for the bottle, rocking down on the too-thin vibrator. Her filthy mind was unable to stop running Priscilla’s words over with her tongue.

She brought the bottle close, licking the place where Priscilla’s mouth had left its mark. Overwhelmed by the lipstick stain, the dirtiness of it all, she set it back down on the nightstand, trying to satiate herself with knowing her mouth, her tongue, had been where Priscilla’s had been too.

She sank down onto the too-still vibrator, Priscilla’s words echoing in her ear. Her breath caught, and she rocked downward.

It was so good, fucking herself, thinking of Prissy.

She shut her eyes, and thought of the black dress, and that slit up Priscilla’s thigh. Priscilla, all raven hair and brown eyes flecked with gold, and the way she looked when she raised an eyebrow and curved her lips into that half smile.

Priscilla, Priscilla, Priscilla.

She came almost as soon as her fingers hit her most sensitive spot, her body seizing, moaning loudly.

And then, because it felt like the right thing to do, she brought her own fingers to her mouth and licked them, throwing herself onto her back, gently removing the object of her temporary affection, and wondering what the fuck had gotten into her.

CHAPTER 20 Agatha

A shower and a fresh pantsuit—pale peach, this time—helped her put aside the momentary solo indiscretion.

“Morning,” said Xiomara, who was refilling a water bottle at the cooler as Agatha walked in. Her face blushed hot now at the concept of hydration in general, and it was possible that she wouldn’t be able to look at anyone drinking water without getting a little bit turned on. Her own fault, really, and also entirely worth it.

The Council members had been united in their kindness recently, whether because of the threats on her life or the efficacy of her fake relationship, she wasn’t sure, but she was glad that things were running more smoothly around here.

“Agatha!” Kevin exclaimed, jumping up and holding up a cup of coffee and a bag from Hopelessly Teavoted. “I picked up muffins when I got your text that you were running late.”

“And a latte?” she asked, peering hopefully at the drink in his left hand.

“I’ll put it on your desk. Honeycomb. Large. Hot.”

“Thank you. Can you rearrange my morning schedule? I need to go down to the vaults.”

“Absolutely,” he said, moving toward the door to her office. She noticed that the room was missing a particular redlipsticked councilwoman.

“Where’s Councilwoman Hart?” She forced herself to sound normal, and not like she’d fucked her hand thinking about that very same question.

“She got in early to catch up on paperwork,” he said. “Whatever trouble that means.” Agatha frowned at him, but he continued, “And then she had a meeting with Constance Witherspoon, said it was urgent.”

She didn’t want to admit it, but Agatha felt a keen disappointment in that. They’d been doing so well visiting Connie together. But it was no matter.