Page 68

I imagine his mouth. On my neck. On my collarbone. The scratch of stubble against my skin. I imagine what he'd sound like, low, rough, maybe a growl that vibrates through his chest and into mine. The thought makes me pump my fingers faster, harder, and the wet sounds get louder. I don't care. Nobody can hear. And even if they could, I'm too far gone to stop.

"Gage…" The name comes out broken, barely a whisper.

I add a third finger and the stretch makes me groan. My thumb works my clit in tight, firm circles while my fingers thrust in and out, and I can feel it building, that heavy, coiling pressure deep in my pelvis that threatens to unravel everything. I'm thinking about his body, the way his muscles moved under all that ink. The way his cock looked, thick and flushed, and how it would feel pushing into me, stretching me open while those grey eyes watched my face.

The orgasm hits me like a wave breaking. My thighs clamp around my hand, my back arches off the bed, and every muscle in my body tightens and then releases in a shuddering cascade. My fingers keep moving, riding the aftershocks, and I'm dimly aware that I'm saying his name and not whispering it this time.

"Gage! Fuck! Gage!"

It comes out loud. Way too loud. The kind of loud that carries through thin walls and open windows in the middle of a quiet night. I don't care. I'm coming so hard my vision spots, and his name is the only word left in my vocabulary.

When it finally releases me, I'm panting, chest heaving, sweat prickling along my hairline. I lie there in the aftermath, fingers still inside myself, feeling the last little pulses around them. My heart is hammering. The ceiling stares back at me, indifferent.

It's not enough.

The ache is still there, duller now but stubborn. Like my body knows that my fingers are a poor substitute for what it actually wants. I reach blindly toward the nightstand, fumbling until my hand closes around the familiar shape of my vibrator. It's a wand, plug-in, and powerful enough to rattle teeth. I've never been more grateful for its existence than I am right now.

I plug it in, the cord stretching across the bed, and turn it to the lowest setting. The hum is comforting, almost familiar. I press it against my inner thigh first, letting the vibration travel through the sensitive skin there, teasing myself while the image of Gage fills my head again.

I think about what would happen if he ever actually touched me. If those hands, those enormous hands, mapped my body the way I've been mapping it in his place. I think about him pinning me down, his weight settling over me, the heat of his skin against mine. I think about him pushing my thighs apart and settling between them, and the first slow thrust that would make me gasp his name all over again.

I press the wand directly against my clit.

The sound that comes out of me is not dignified. It's raw and desperate, and my hips jerk up against the vibration like my body is trying to get closer, get more, get everything. I'm still sensitive from the first orgasm, and the intensity of the wand on my swollen clit is almost too much. It’s almost painful but I don't pull away. I lean into it, turning the dial up one notch, and the vibration deepens.

In my head, he’s fucking me. Slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, and I can practically feel the stretch of him, the fullness. I imagine his mouth on my nipple, teeth grazing, and my free hand grabs my breast, nails digging in. The wand hums against my clit, and I can feel the second orgasm building. It’s different from the first, heavier, deeper, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

"Please…" I'm not sure who I'm talking to. Him, probably. The version of him that lives in my head and doesn't know it.

"Please, Gage, please…"

The orgasm doesn't build so much as it arrives. It crashes through me in long, rolling waves that make my whole body shake, and I have to bite down on the pillow to keep from screaming his name again. The wand keeps going, drawing it out, and I ride it until my thighs are trembling and my clit is so overstimulated that I finally have to yank the wand away and click it off.

Silence. Heavy, satisfied silence.

I lie there, boneless, staring at the ceiling. The vibrator sits against my hip, still warm. The sheets are a disaster. And his name is still echoing in my head like a bell that's been rung.

I'm going to have to look him in the eye tomorrow. Walk past him in the hallway, give him that polite nod, pretend I haven't been using him as masturbation material. Pretend I didn't scream his name loud enough to wake the dead.

I pull the sheet up over my body and close my eyes hoping no one heard me.

Shit! I still can’t sleep.

I last in bed until eleven and then I just have to get up.

I cross the yard to the shop, because the alternative is lying in the dark listening for sounds.

The front door of Bell & Bone swings open smooth and quiet under my hand.

He rehung it. He tore it off the frame to get to me and then he fixed it and never said a word about any of it. I stand there holding the knob like an idiot until my chest aches.

Inside, the candles are all out. The skeleton keeps the register. Sid arrives on the counter without touching the floor.

The antique mirror is where I left it, under its blanket.

The blanket is on the floor.

The glass is already fogging from the edges inward, the way breath crawls across a cold window.