Page 63 of Windlass

Tremors, the advance guard of surrender, wracked her.

“I don’t—I can’t—Stevie, oh my god—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” She repeated the last words, a litany of prayer.

“Holy—you’re squirting. Jesus, Angie.”

Stevie needed to stop talking. Angie couldn’t understand what she was saying. Words gained color and weight instead, almost synesthetic. Her shaking legs tried to thrust Stevie deeper until Stevie gripped her hip hard, as if to say,I’ve got you.

“It’s—hell yes. Good girl, Angela. You can take it. Stretch for me.” Stevie leaned down to bite her shoulder, steadily twisting deeper. Angie felt herself flood that time. Stevie groaned. “God you’re sowet.”

Words, words, words. Stevie in her, Stevie filling her, opening her, unhinging her hips. She was holding Angie up now, and the orgasm just kept building. She couldn’t have stopped if their lives had depended on it.

A sound unlike any of the ones she’d made so far started at the back of her throat. Her body shook; she could feel her own wetness running down her legs, the air against her clit just as unbearable as Stevie’s thumb and palm had been. She was crying for real now and laughing also, tears running down her cheeks. She couldn’t see anything except red.

Stevie’s voice was as broken as her own when she said, “Come for me, Ange. Come hard.”

Her body exploded. She crested, but the peak didn’t wane, and she realized with a thrill of fear that it wouldn’t until Stevie pulled out. Could she die from orgasm? Did she care? Her hips moved with an urgency she might have laughed at in someone else, pathetic in their desperation, trying to perform their function despite a complete lack of competency. Stevie had to feel the tremors. She had to feel what she was doing to Angie. She had to know what it meant.

The orgasm hit a new peak. She hadn’t thought it was possible to feel this any harder, want this any more, take much more of the agony of pleasure. The ripples within her intensified to a new pitch, nearly running together.

“Ange,” Stevie said, awe overlaying the need in her voice. “Sweet lord, Ange. I can feel you.”

Angie released the couch and flung her arm behind her for she had no fine motor skills left, searching for any part of Stevie she could hold on to.

Stevie pushed her flat against the carpet and then grabbed her hand. She could feel Stevie through her abdomen where it met the floor, and left off raking her nails through the carpet fibers to slide her other hand beneath her hips to press back. Feeling Stevie’s hand through the wall of her body wasn’t something she’d thought to imagine.

She would forever after.

“Angie.”

“Don’t you—dare—stop.” She rode the explosion, parts of herself she’d thought she’d nailed down firmly breaking loose.

“You have—to pull—out—for me—to finish,” she managed.

“But I don’t want to stop.” God, the longing in Stevie’s voice was beautiful.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

But every muscle in her body was trembling, and the impact of Stevie’s fingers against her G-spot was too much. She sobbed, body bucking, legs shaking, everything coming apart.

Things went quiet for a while. Her throat hurt, which is how she knew she was screaming again, and Stevie was saying her name, along with other things. She was going to die like this and it was going to be perfect, despite the rug burn the mortician would have to cover with concealer.

When Stevie at last took mercy on her and slowly, achingly slowly, slid her beautiful, gorgeous, absolutely miraculous hand out, she came harder than she’d known was possible: a tidal wave of something like lust and something like love and all of it tasting like Stevie’s name in her mouth.

It took her a long time to come down. Stevie stayed partway inside her, pushing gently, periodically, to wrack another shuddering aftershock from her.

Another aftershock. Another opportunity to say Stevie’s name aloud.

At last Stevie pulled out completely. Angie relaxed, which was an amateur’s mistake. That wet, wet hand slid between her cheeks in a wet, wet line, and she swore violently.

Stevie’s low laugh filled her up again.

“I don’t care if it’s two in the morning. If I only get to fuck you twice a week, I’m going tofuckyou.”

On the other hand, who needed bones? Angie whimpered and shamelessly spread her legs. Stevie trailed a lazy finger along the sensitive skin the position revealed, and Angie wept, fully gone now and lost to anything resembling logic.

Stevie did not ask if she was okay. This fact alone would have been enough to make her fall in love. Instead, she stroked Angie until she stopped shaking, her touch tender, her warm body a shield as she kissed Angie’s exposed skin. Faintly, she heard Stevie murmuring, repetitively and soothingly, “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Angie.”

The words didn’t matter. The steadiness of Stevie’s voice, the implicit understanding of her needs . . . Was she crying? Stevie’s hand coaxed her once more, and the gentleness of it eclipsed any release she’d had with Lana or the women before her. The way Stevie matched her rhythm to Angie’s sobs, slowing them down, gave her something to hold on to as the dam that held back all the things she couldn’t think about released its overflow, let herfeelin the safety of Stevie’s hands. She clung to this as she came again. Pure catharsis. Pure bliss.

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