London spoke into her ear again, gently this time.
“I was hoping to go down on you. Do you not like that? It’s fine if you don’t, of course, but”—they kissed the skin just under her earlobe—“I am very good at it.”
Dahlia released a noise in her throat that London couldn’t interpret.
“Next time. I just . . . I want you here.”
She wrapped her arms around London and pressed them even tighter into herself, to demonstrate. London let their weight fall fully onto her chest, providing the pressure and closeness she needed, letting the words next time next time next time sink into their skin.
They had to lift themself slightly, though, to slink a hand between their bodies and between her legs.
“Fuck.” Dahlia said this so loudly that London stopped again to look at her in concern. Had the touch been too sudden? They thought they’d been gentle, but maybe she needed more warning? “Sorry,” she said. Her neck flushed as she bit her lip. “You just touched like, the exact right spot right away. Jesus.”
Well. London could work with that.
They maintained eye contact as their hand reconnected with this exact right spot, warmth spreading through their gut as they watched her pupils dilate, her focus growing hazy.
“So this is real enough for you, then?” London tried not to sound too smug.
“Fuck you,” Dahlia managed to say before she broke their stare, leaning her head back into the pillow. Her eyes closed as London’s hand started to move in a wider circle. A second later she added, more softly, “Yes.”
London tried to keep as much of their skin pressed firmly against Dahlia’s as possible, as she wished, while their hand found its rhythm. “Is this okay?” they asked, their fingers sliding further down her folds.
“Yes. Uh-huh. Please,” she breathed, eyes still closed, and London smiled into her shoulder. Carefully, slowly, they moved their middle finger inside her, her hips shifting forward as they sank in to the knuckle. Their mouth dropped back to her sternum, tongue tasting everywhere it could reach while their finger worked deeper inside of her, the base of their palm rubbing against her clit.
“Can I do more?” they asked.
“Huh?” Dahlia’s eyes flitted open but just barely, her voice scratchy and confused, like London had asked her a question in a language she didn’t understand. God, she was breathing hard. God, London felt good.
They spoke more deliberately this time.
“Can I put another finger inside of you, Dahlia?”
“Oh.” Her eyes closed again, and she licked her lips. “Oh. Um. No. No, that’s all right. This is good.”
London smiled, drawing back their finger before plunging it in again, applying more pressure on her clit. “Just good?”
She groaned. “London.” London angled their finger upward, biting lightly on her shoulder, and she whimpered and said, “You are the worst,” followed almost immediately by “Oh, that feels so good,” and London felt like they were flying.
She didn’t form many coherent phrases after that, but nothing had ever mattered to London like the noises Dahlia was making right now. The first time London had ever had sex, they had been practically silent, embarrassed by the feelings and sensations, but Dahlia didn’t hold anything back, and that was the sexiest thing they had ever experienced. They felt like her gasps and moans were a part of them, that her sighs rushed through their own lungs. They felt every single blessed sound between their legs.
London knew she was close, her walls squeezing in on their finger, her leg clenched around London’s thigh. Her brow was furrowed, her jaw clenched almost like she was in pain.
“Dahlia,” they breathed, increasing the speed of their hand, the essence of everything good in this world spinning on their fingers, in the space between Dahlia’s ragged breaths.
And then she was suddenly silent, silent and shaking, mouth open, hands clutching at their back. London watched her face in awe, damp and wild looking and still so devastatingly pretty.
They were both still as Dahlia calmed, foreheads together, their chests rising and falling. Slowly, London removed their finger. She whimpered once more and then weakly pushed them away, laying an arm over her eyes.
“I . . . I didn’t . . . ” she started to say, but as London moved their weight to her side, giving both of them more space to breathe, she never finished her sentence.
“You okay?” London asked softly, running a hand over her stomach.
Dahlia didn’t answer, or move her arm. London started to get concerned. They wanted to see her eyes. They watched her breathing, attempting to be patient. Her hair splayed across the pillow, small dark strands pasted to her neck.