When London glanced at her again, she had both arms cradled above her head, her teeth digging in to her bottom lip. It felt like the opposite of her body language last night, when she’d needed London close, their body trapping hers, keeping it safe. Tonight . . . it was like she was letting her body be free. This was her pleasure, and London was simply lucky enough to witness it.
She tasted good in London’s mouth. She felt good in London’s hands. But London felt like she felt good to herself, too, tonight, and it made none of this feel dirty at all. It felt beautiful.
They sat back on their heels, after Dahlia had come undone, and watched her. She didn’t cover her face this time, but let her head fall to the side, one hand on her chest, feeling her own heartbeat. London ran a gentle hand down her thigh. Their head felt heavy, their throat thick, everything in them full and warm.
Finally, she moved her cheek away from the pillow. She looked up at them and reached out a hand toward their face. London leaned into it, lowering their cheek onto her palm.
“London,” she said softly. “What do you want?”
London thought on it. They looked at her damp skin, her hazy eyes. She looked so content.
Did they need anything more than this? This felt like enough. This felt like more than they had ever been able to imagine.
“Can I lie on my stomach?” they asked after a minute.
Dahlia moved herself out of the way so London could take the center of the bed.
“My back.” London motioned with a hand once they settled. “Just . . . go to town on it.”
Dahlia did not laugh, or make a comment, or do anything other than what London asked. She reached over the side of the bed, rustled in the shopping bag. And then London felt something drip between their shoulder blades, viscous and cool. Its path continued down their spine, to their tailbone, sending a shiver down London’s arms, the back of their legs.
And then Dahlia started to knead.
London’s eyes were closed, their head facing away from her as they breathed onto the pillows, but they could picture everything about her. They had been watching Dahlia use her hands for weeks. When the heels of her palms dug into their skin, they pictured how she had looked pounding out the dough for her pappardelle. The fingers that lovingly spread olive oil and spices under chicken skin were the same fingers that now massaged their shoulders and their sides with strength and care.
London had always found cooking to be a form of art, of therapy, an expression of love and intent. Without all of their nanny’s cooking lessons, their kitchen warm and humid from hot stoves and boiling water, London’s childhood would have been a far lonelier landscape. Even today, cooking lent London a sense of control that they often lacked in the rest of their life. They couldn’t control their father, or how their genes had been configured in their brain, or the breathtaking inequality of the world.
But they could make soufflés, and cakes, and the most tender steak. They could make anything they wanted.
It made sense to London that cooking had helped Dahlia through her divorce. Of course it had. They had watched how it calmed her, whenever she had a knife in her hands, a set of ingredients in front of her, and a plan in her mind. It calmed them in much the same way. They understood each other in this, an understanding London had never quite shared with anyone else.
And so as Dahlia’s hands worked on their back, as she spread what they thought was melon along their skin, they knew, without having to see it, the look of concentration that was on her face, relaxed and focused all at once. Ever since they had seen Dahlia Woodson gut a fish, they had wanted to feel those hands on them, peeling back their own prickly layers. Perhaps Dahlia had been uncovering their scales, sneakily, one sharp edge at a time, bit by bit over the last month, until this very moment, their body pliant and smooth in her hands, when they finally felt fully washed clean.
Dahlia leaned down and used her mouth. She started at the back of their neck, making her way along their shoulder blades, down their sides. She made a satisfied hum.
“London,” she said. “You taste delicious.”
London smiled. “This was a good idea.”
Dahlia’s hands had lulled London into an almost meditative state, but her tongue reawakened other sensations in London’s core. After a few blissed-out moments, they spread their legs apart.
“Touch me.”
London raised their hips off the bed to give her better access. Dahlia’s fingers touched them, just right, while her tongue continued to caress their back, their shoulders, her nipples grazing against their spine, and it was all London needed, everything they wanted, to start spiraling inside, tighter, lighter, until the sensations condensed into a column of heat. They blindly shot an arm behind them, pressing Dahlia to their back. She kissed the spot where their neck met their shoulder, murmuring their name, and they thought, through the heady haze of their mind, they could hear themself saying hers in return.