They shifted their stance and Dahlia hooked a leg around their thigh, arching up as much as she could, anchoring her shoulders against the wall. London gripped her hip, securing her against them. Their other hand reached up and tangled in her hair, pulling slightly. The slight pressure on her scalp made her want to scream.
London leaned down and bit her neck.
“Fuck,” Dahlia said, half in surprise, half in pleasure. London’s tongue reached out to massage where their teeth had just marked her, its wet pressure both soothing and increasing the pain.
“Touch me again,” she said, achingly aware that London’s hands were still occupied elsewhere.
“Not until you promise to stop holding back,” London said into her ear. “You’re normally much louder than this.”
“Well.” Dahlia tried to gesture around them with her chin. “The street is, you know, just beyond that wall.”
“Your point is?” London nipped at her jaw. “Let them hear you. Pant for me, Dahlia.”
Their fingers found their way between her legs again, and she did as asked. London was right. It felt better when she was uninhibited. It felt better when she let her body release what it needed to.
London circled around her clit, slow and tortuous, until Dahlia groaned.
“Faster. Two fingers in,” she huffed.
“Like this?”
“Oh, fuck.”
London was correct. The angle was much better this time.
“Ride my hand, Dahlia.” London’s voice was low, rumbly against Dahlia’s cheek. Perfection.
She wrapped her arms around their neck, clutching at their back, and did just that.
“Dahlia,” London groaned, their teeth nipping at her ear. “God. You’re so . . . ”
Dahlia bit her tongue, feeling herself starting to slide away, just like London’s words. And she didn’t want to yet. This had to last forever. It had to.
She released a heavy breath while she slowed the motion of her hips. London licked down her neck.
“Yell for me, Dahlia.”
“Make me.”
In one smooth motion, their fingers never slowing inside her, London dropped to their knees.
When she felt their mouth on her, she did yell. She shoved a hand into their hair and hung on tight.
“London,” she breathed.
She couldn’t stop. She was reaching that pinnacle now, the point of no return, where everything felt so good, and then she’d crash back to reality and why, why couldn’t this keep being reality? Why did they have to be on a dumb TV show, why didn’t they live in the same city, why couldn’t she keep having just this, this, this—
“Oh, fuck,” she cried, shoving London’s face to her, fingers clenching in that wonderful strawberry hair. She had never come so hard in a standing position before, and before she knew what was happening, her legs gave out and she crashed, inelegantly, to the ground, to London’s waiting arms.
They wrapped themself around her as she trembled, still coming down, their hands smoothing down her back.
Their voice was soft and gentle.
“Dahlia,” London breathed onto her temple. “My Dahlia.”
Something cracked open in Dahlia’s chest.
Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes.
Her arms, which had been limp at her sides, came to life then, wrapping themselves around London’s torso, her fingers curling in the soft cotton of their T-shirt.
They sat on the hard ground under a heavy Los Angeles sky, and they held each other until they found strength enough to stand again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next day, their Elimination Challenge was based on the theme of seasons.
Dahlia was assigned autumn, which was perfect. Fall was her favorite.
She loved the comfort food feel of it, the tastes of the season as important as scarves and cozy cardigans and falling leaves.
The best time for soup.
A pumpkin and black bean soup, to be precise, with roasted pepitas and fresh, crusty spiced croutons. It was hearty, filling, flavorful. It was something Dahlia would actually make for herself to eat at home, and there was something about that that felt right. She adjusted the seasoning over and over to ensure that it was sweet and creamy but also had savory depth, a bit of kick left on your tongue. She knew the cameras and Janet’s watchful eye were following them closer than ever, but she had less control today. She had London taste it no less than fifteen times. One, because she honestly wanted their advice. Two, because she loved brushing her fingers against that mouth so very much, watching them smile and nod their approval.