Kiss Her Once for Me (86)

“Everything. Anything.” I wiggle on the bed. “Just touch me, please.”

She presses the pad of her thumb against my clit, soft at first, massaging me in gentle circles until I’m forced to do what she wants, forced to tell her what I want. “Faster,” I demand. Jack presses harder and faster, changing patterns so quickly the room begins to spin. I respond with my own litany of curses, my own yes and please and thank you.

And then her tongue replaces her thumb. It’s one lick, the tip of her tongue along the fissure of my body, and I’m ready to shake off my skin and soar above the bed. “Ellie,” she says coyly. “Please tell me what you want.”

Her raspy voice scrapes across my body, sends a tingle down my spine that curls my bare toes. “I want you to do that again.”

Jack reaches up and presses one hand firmly to my lower stomach, pinning me to the bed with the force of her upper-body strength, and I squirm despite myself as I wait. Jack dips her head and plants a chaste kiss to my clit. It’s demure, almost like a gentleman in a Regency romance kissing the gloved hand of a duchess, and it makes me positively demented. It’s a game to her. Everything is a game to Jack.

“I’m going to murder you if you don’t—”

The tough flat of her tongue presses against me, and any threats are subsumed by other, less articulate objections and protests. Like wait, how does that feel so good? And oh God, are you trying to kill me?

Jack licks me until I’m grabbing the quilt between both fists, until I’m convulsing on a stranger’s bed, until I’m split open with the force of the ocean against a rocky shore, or some other, better cliché for an orgasm I can’t think of at the moment, because I am busy orgasming.

Even as my head melts back into the bed, my bones dissolving into hot goo, another part of me tenses at Jack’s continued attention. My left hand grabs the comforter while my right hand clutches her hair. Both are life preservers buoying me through the onslaught of a dozen gorgeous aftershocks.

I’m—I’m feeling too much, and these feelings—they’re reckless and dangerous and so fucking wonderful.

It’s been so long since I’ve let myself feel anything, terrified of the absence of feeling I’d be left with afterward, terrified to let the hole inside my chest grow any larger, but as Jack absolutely wrecks me with her tongue, I don’t float above the scene, wondering how I’ll draw it later. I just feel. Anchored and grounded by tongue and fingers and her. It’s transcendent.

Jack responds to the sounds like we’re connected by a silk thread, like the more I feel, the more she feels. “Elle,” she whimpers as she licks me slowly, teasing out these lingering feelings, my name in her mouth a sacrament. “Elle.”

I say her name back. It feels like dark chocolate melting on my tongue, like cutout cookies with homemade frosting, like waffles with whipped cream. Jack. Jack Jack Jack.

“Come up here, please,” I beg, and Jack obeys, climbing up onto the bed, climbing on top of me, until our naked bodies are folded together like starched sheets. This is where I want her most. She kisses my mouth, and she tastes like me, and she tastes like her, and I kiss her back like I’ve forgotten how to protect myself from hurt.

Both hands in her hair, pressing her tightly against me. I wrap both of my legs around her waist and pin her to my body. Her pebbled nipples skate across my skin, and I explode in goose bumps and renewed yearning. She rubs herself against me, our bodies moving in some beautiful rhythm of pleasure while she hovers above me, watching my face.

“I’m so glad I found you again,” Jack says.

She practically shouts it.



* * *



I wake up under an itchy quilt with Jack’s arm around my shoulder and Jack’s leg over my legs. It takes a minute for me to remember where we are and how we ended up like this, but for a moment, I revel in her body, her heat, her heartbeat against my back.

Then: skiing, snow, Gillian, the Singhs’ cabin, six fingers of whisky, Celine Dion, sex. It all comes back to me, and a cold sweat breaks out across my naked skin. I feel trapped by Jack’s body, unable to move my limbs. My heartbeat falls out of rhythm with hers.

This isn’t a heart attack, I quickly chant to myself as I climb out from beneath her. You are not having an unprecedented cardiac event.

“Whatsa—?” Jack strings together some incomprehensible syllables as I slide out of the bed. She blinks up at me with sleep in her eyes, and for a second I get lost in those eyes, in their fiery intensity, even half-asleep. She tries again. “What are you doing? Are you okay?”

I’m not okay, but I’m not sure why I’m not okay. I feel fluttery and panicked, like I have an itch inside my internal organs that I’ll never be able to scratch. And why, why? I just had the best sex of my (admittedly pretty sexless) life. I got to kiss Jack without guilt. I got to wake up in her arms. The sound of her sandpaper voice against my skin. I am so glad I found you again.

How could that beautiful night lead to these ugly feelings twisting inside of me?

“We… we should get back to the house,” I say. Now I’m the one who’s practically shouting.

“We should probably check the snow situation first,” Jack says reasonably from the bed, where she’s still stark naked, where she’s not even remotely trying to hide how stark-fucking-naked she is.