Margot threw her phone down on the bed and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until a kaleidoscope of bright colors and funky shapes danced behind her lids. Avoid petting her stomach and hind area.
And awesome, now Margot was thinking about touching Olivia, how Olivia liked to be touched, where Olivia liked to be touched.
This was wrong. Olivia was right next door. Margot had no business thinking about how impossibly soft Olivia’s skin was or how her blush spread all the way to her belly button when Margot undressed her. It was wrong to think about the way Olivia’s bottom lip trembled when she whispered the word please or how her breath had stuttered when Margot had put her mouth at the crease of her thigh. How her fingers had tangled in Margot’s hair, not afraid to pull, and how her voice had cracked on Margot’s name when she came. How she bruised so easily, imprints of Margot’s mouth left behind on the soft curve of Olivia’s stomach and hips and the sides of her breasts and how Margot had wondered if, days after, Olivia had gotten herself off, one hand pressed against those marks and the other buried between her thighs.
Down the hall, the bathroom door shut. Margot dropped her hands, blinking into the brightness of her room.
Fuck.
So much for not thinking about it.
Margot pressed her thighs together, heat rising in her face, a miracle her glasses hadn’t fogged. The throbbing between her legs was persistent and hard to ignore, harder because she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to ignore it.
Things were awkward enough between them without having to look Olivia in the eye over a bowl of breakfast cereal with the knowledge that she’d rubbed one out to thoughts of her. Not years ago, but now.
There was a line and that was certain to cross it.
Even if Margot didn’t care, if she threw caution to the wind and said fuck it, that thoughts were thoughts and they didn’t mean anything unless she allowed them to, the walls were paper-thin.
She glanced at her phone. She could do what she’d done in the past and put on music to drown out the sound of her vibrator or—
The bathroom door opened, the sound of some Taylor Swift song carrying down the hall before shutting off. A second later, Olivia’s bedroom door closed.
Margot drummed her fingers against her bedspread. Or she could kill two birds with one stone and take care of herself in the shower, where the water would muffle her noises. That sounded like a much better plan.
Reaching into her nightstand, Margot dug around, searching for—no, not that vibrator, she wanted . . . that one. No bells or whistles, just a tried-and-true, waterproof bullet vibe.
Margot carried it over to her dresser, quickly shuffling through her drawers for a pair of sweats, a tee, and some underwear. Margot bundled the vibrator inside her fresh clothes and made it halfway across the room before doubling back, snagging her phone and swiping open her Spotify app. Clothes cradled to her chest, Margot opened the door and stepped out into the hall—
“Oof.”
She and Olivia collided with enough force to knock her off balance, causing her to drop everything in her hands as she steadied herself against the wall. Her glasses slipped, and Margot quickly slid them up the bridge of her nose.
Olivia was barefoot, her toenails painted a pale lavender, her big toes a deeper shade of purple. Her long legs were bare, too, her towel barely covering the tops of her thighs, the edge of the towel straining against her breasts. Margot’s gut clenched, her mouth going dry at the unexpected sight of Olivia standing in the middle of the hall, mostly naked.
“Sorry.” Olivia blushed, hugging her arms around her body. “I left my, um, my clothes in . . .” Her eyes, already averted, widened to the size of saucers. “In my bedroom . . .”
Margot frowned and followed Olivia’s gaze to the floor where her own bundle of clothing had fallen, and beside it, her bright blue vibrator.
“Um.” Margot puffed out her cheeks, a wicked flush winding its way up her jaw.
Words failed her. There was no mistaking the vibrator for anything other than exactly what it was and—she wasn’t ashamed. She masturbated, big fucking deal. Margot was the friend her other friends came to for sex toy recommendations. She was happy to talk about sex, solo or otherwise. But there was a distinct difference between telling Elle that buying a vibe with suction-magic technology would be a life changer, and Olivia—Olivia—knowing Margot had concrete plans to get off, not at some indistinct point in the future but right here right now in the shower they now shared.
Shit. If she couldn’t speak, she should at least move. Pick it up. Do something other than stand there staring at her vibrator like it was going to sprout legs and hightail it back into her bedroom. Huh. That would be a nifty feature.