Love & Other Disasters(48)

“Dahlia. What’s your favorite movie?”

“What?” She frowned.

“Your favorite movie. What is it?”

Dahlia shook her head and moved toward them again. She put her hands on London’s hips. Pressed fingers into the soft, lumpy skin there they hated, before she leaned in and nipped at their neck. Jesus, her teeth. London felt their skin heating, becoming hypersensitive.

“I hate those kinds of questions. I can never think of a favorite anything. Too much pressure,” she said.

“Except for Rice Krispies treats.”

She laughed, her breath floating over their ear. “Yes. Never any question on that.”

London swallowed. They attempted one last valiant effort.

“Okay. Favorite song.”

Dahlia groaned, and the noise was too much for London. Their arms returned to the small of her back like they belonged there. Their thumbs rubbed circles on her now-bare sides, her skin so smooth under their calloused hands, and they felt her shiver, even as she opened her mouth to protest.

“That question is even worse, and you know it. It depends! Genre? Time period? Mood?”

London tilted their face, sank their nose into her hair. They did know it. They were being ridiculous. She was answering the question exactly as they would.

But as she talked, her body was loosening, the real Dahlia returning in her voice, and London settled along with it. This wasn’t just scared, vulnerable Dahlia, but the one who talked too much, who made London laugh, who didn’t hide when she was annoyed with them.

“But,” she added, her body giving a slight jerk as London’s fingertips made their way around to her stomach, “if we are being purely objective, Fleetwood Mac’s ‘The Chain’ is probably the best song ever written.”

London paused. “Hm,” they mumbled into her hair.

“Is that not a cool answer? I should probably note that my dad raised me on a pretty steady stream of seventies rock and seventies rock alone, so I don’t really know if—”

“No,” London interrupted, pulling back to look at her face. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Dahlia rolled her eyes and shoved London lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“You shut up,” London said, smiling now. They pulled her closer again. They rolled a thumb over her nipple, through the sheer fabric of her bra, and she made a whimpering sound, her head falling forward.

London felt her hands slide under their T-shirt, inch up their back, touching skin no one else had touched in years.

“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. “Is there anywhere I can’t touch you?”

London’s eyes floated closed. “No. You can touch me anywhere. But, Dahlia . . .”

London searched for self-control one last time. They knew her first kiss hadn’t been out of pity for them, that this, tonight, wasn’t out of pity for herself. They knew that. That this was simply what Dahlia wanted.

But London also knew that if this happened, they would be all in. They wouldn’t be able to be casual about it. They wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to her—tomorrow, whenever they got kicked off the show, ever.

Dahlia brought her hands to London’s face. Made sure they were looking her in the eye.

“I need you. Okay? And I need you to need me back.”

London sucked in a breath.

“You have no idea,” they said.

“Then okay.”

She kissed them, hungry, hard, wet, and London let themself go. It felt like a physical release, letting go, something they had to work for, but they did it. They forgot about the notes on their phone. They pushed Chef’s Special out of their brain. The only thing that mattered, they decided, was this human in front of them, her skin, her hair, her very big life that she was, miraculously, letting them be a part of.

London’s mouth traveled to Dahlia’s neck, sucking, licking, chasing those sounds in her throat, wanting to feel them against their lips. Their fingers returned to her nipples, pinching harder, and she rewarded them by pushing her pelvis into theirs and releasing a gasp that went straight to London’s gut.

In a smooth motion, London unhooked Dahlia’s bra, slid the straps down her shoulders, and gently, finally, pushed her onto the bed.

London was starting to feel heady now. Some part of their brain told them to slow down, but as they followed her onto the bed, knees straddling her thighs, her peaked nipples called to them. The way her body writhed when London took them into their mouth was addicting. She was so reactive to everything; it made London feel like a magician. A thrill licked through them at the curse she released when they engaged the slightest pressure of teeth against the puckered, sensitive skin.

London’s hands tracked down her sides as their mouth worked. They heard the uptick in Dahlia’s breathing, sensed the slight arching of her back with each touch. They felt almost disconcertingly wild with power.

At length, London backed away to take a breath, to study her, take her in. She stared back, eyelids heavy and dark.

“Seriously, though,” London said, lightly trailing fingertips down her belly. “You’re perfect.”

Dahlia froze. After a second, she propped herself up on her elbows. Her eyes cleared.

“I had really bad acne in middle school. I still have scars, all over.” She motioned to her face. “Not perfect.”