“Anne! Oh God, are you—?”
She thrust up again, crooking her fingers frantically into what was so greedy, andfuck, shewaswet, wetter than she thought she could get without help. Slick enough that this didn’t hurt her yet, despite how fast and hard she was going, unable to slow down or do anything but chase that impact, over and over, nearly sobbing from how good it felt to fill herself up. So good—Jesus, she couldn’t stand how good—and Sadie knew she was doing this; right now Sadie was lying in a bed grinding against her own hand while she listened to Anne fucking herself, Anne doing exactly what she’d been told because she’d listened so well.
“Gonna come,” she sobbed. “Gonna come so hard for you—!”
She did just that, clenching violently around her hand, knees giving a little while the shockwave convulsed through her body. The hand pressed against her bed squeezed helplessly at the fabric, moving in a poor imitation of the fingers inside her, and maybe she’d black out or fall over but she didn’t care, she didn’t care about anything except chasing this feeling and getting it, having it, living inside it forever and ever and ever, this perfect miracle. Anne came and came and came, her cries high and strangled as she worked herself to the finish.
On the other side of the phone, Sadie cried out, too, the sound loud and frenzied.
It wasn’t until the orgasm began to recede that Anne realized what she’d done. Her mouth was locked onto the top of her right arm, teeth clamped hard into her bicep.
With a gasp, she lifted her head. The light wasn’t on in her bedroom, but even so, in the dim glow streaming from the living room, she could see the half-moon bite marks she’d left behind.
Still breathing quickly, Anne pulled out her fingers, feeling her thin and sensitive skin protest. She’d fucked herself too hard not to feel it in the morning. Tomorrow she’d have to walk around with this undeniable proof inside her. She’d be sore. She’d have to tell Sadie why.
Before she had time to think better of it, Anne slipped one wet finger into her mouth and tasted herself for the first time. She closed her lips and sucked before the finger left her mouth with a soft pop.
Sharp and salty. Not bad at all.
Maybe good.
Impossibly, faint arousal licked at her again. She’d taste like this to Sadie.
The panting sounds on the other end of the line were slowing.
Anne pulled back her comforter, shaking, and sat down gingerly on the fitted sheet. “Sadie?” She picked up the phone. “Are you—?”
“Ah. I. Oh.” Sadie’s voice was molasses thick. “Yes. Came so hard, I might’ve time traveled. You?”
Adequate language failed Anne. She leaned back against her pillows. “Yes. Good. Also.”
For a little while, they didn’t talk. Anne listened to the rise and fall of Sadie’s breath, knowing Sadie was doing the same with her.
She thought about Sadie’s poem and realized that she understood it now.Language fails. What I tell you gets close to the feeling, never grasps the thing itself.Some experiences were too big, too raw, too beautiful to be captured by words.
Speak anyway, Sadie had written.Fail.
Anne did. “I’m counting the hours until tomorrow,” she whispered. “The minutes.”
“My sweet girl,” Sadie said quietly. “The seconds.”
Every bit of Anne was a tender hollow, scooped out and hot and learning how it wanted to be inhabited.
There was more than one kind of need and more than one kind of emptiness. Needing a lung to grow around the air you’d been promised, or the aching cavity of a future waiting on one more person.
Chapter 21
Anne had always been a good host. No, a great host.
She’d prided herself on anticipating every need: thick flax guest towels arrayed prettily on the bathroom counter; coasters placed just so on appropriate surfaces; candles on the dining room table trimmed just enough that they didn’t block anyone’s eye contact. Every detail micromanaged and executed perfectly.
But she’d never thought before about her guests’ enjoyment or comfort.
Probably because she’d never really thought about her own enjoyment. Or comfort.
It was surprisingly easy to get philosophical when you were pushing around a couch. Anne, grunting with the effort, managed to angle her four-seater a little wider, creating more distance from the love seat. Yes, it looked out of place, but this way, there’d be less of a chance that Colton and Maverick would get hurt if they ran through the space between. Which, no doubt, they’d want to do.
For the first time, Anne would let them. After all, you were a kid only once.