Page 126 of Vying Girls
Tilda gasps, hand speeding up. I think she’s inside herself. I can hear how wet she is.
I groan at the bolt that shoots to my clit. Tilda’s breath catches. She watches me raptly.
‘Fuck, fuck,’she breathes, arching her hips below me.
She sneaks her other hand onto my thigh. The touch burns. I shake my head, taking that hand and pinning it above her head. She winces when I tangle our fingers, bones protesting.
I’m looming over her now. Our hands meet through our clothes, as close as we’ve been to touching each other.
Tilda gazes up at me. ‘Are you close?’
‘Shut up.’ I tighten our clasped hands, making her gasp, her other hand moving faster. She’s in that place where even pain feels like pleasure.
I am close. So fucking close I don’t know how I haven’t fallen over the edge ten times already. Each frantic stroke feels like fire, my pussy already clenching hard.
Tilda draws in a sharp breath, her brow still puckered, head thrown back. I hold my breath as she cries out, her body twisting beneath me, shuddering, legs fighting. I come a second after she does, so focussed on her I can’t be sure of any noises I make.
She sinks bonelessly into my sleep mat, eyes closed. I unthread our hands and sit back on my heels.
Fuck.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Before she opens her eyes again, I get off her, hunting around for something to clean my hand with.
I dangle a wipe until she sits up and takes it. We catch eyes as we clean off our fingers, the incongruity of the moment making us both snicker.
‘Twenty orgasms, huh?’
Tilda groans, tipping her head back. ‘I mean, they weren’t all mine, but shit. I think I’ve hit my limit for this year.’
I shake my head, tossing the wipe in the plastic bag doubling as a bin. ‘One’s enough for me.’
Tilda regards me with interest. ‘Really?’
‘Two if I’m really feeling it.’
‘Wow. There’s so much we need to catch up on, but at least I know that about you, hey?’
I shrug. Sexploits seem about the easiest topic in all of this.
Tilda picks up her phone again, releasing a long, shaky sigh as she resettles herself.
‘Are you gonna tell them…?’
‘No,’ she says with a huffed laugh. ‘Don’t worry. Can’t give Haz the satisfaction.’
She glances at me as I get in beside her. It’s beyond a tight fit. If I don’t want to freeze in the night, I’m gonna have to deal with touching her. Which, given what we’ve just done, shouldn’t be too much of a big deal.
After a moment, she darkens her phone and puts it down. Then she rolls over so our faces are mere inches apart.
It could be our tipi. When we moved into the new house, we lost Tilda’s den. Dad promised to build us another, a real, proper witch’s hut made from logs with windows and a door. He never did, offering us the tipi as consolation when we nagged on for too long.
I was too tall for it, bearing many a night with cold feet whilst Tilda slept curled up like a hibernating dormouse. She stuck her stickers all over it, fingerpainting her sigils, the ones she made up herself and kept track of in a notebook.
Dad had her for that one, droning on with a lecture on defacing property. I remember Tilda crying, fat, angry tears rolling down her cheeks as she hunted around for one of her curses. One I was all too happy to partake in.
It’s probably the dopamine fall that’s causing this sadness. This sensation of loss in my chest, that former desolation racing to the surface.
