Love & Other Disasters(57)

And obviously the sex would be better if it was planned.

“Fine,” they huffed, crossing their arms. “So where do we start?”

Dahlia took out the can of whipped cream, popped off the top, and squirted a stream straight into her mouth.

“Getting naked,” she said, muffled through her full mouth of sugar and chemicals.

She was truly insufferable. And dammit, London was going to take off her shirt this time.

Funnily enough, their irritation faded with each item of clothing they shed. There were less nerves, less fuss this time, but if anything, the tension in London’s body was even greater. They knew what she felt like now. Their body was already learning how to best crave it.

Having to stand next to her all day had been torture. The most exquisite kind of torture.

Within a few minutes, they were tangled around each other on the bed, knees and thighs pushing between the others’, chest to chest, Dahlia’s tongue so sweet in London’s mouth. It was satisfying as hell to feel how slick she already was as she rubbed against them. They thought again about that look on her face when she’d asked them to taste that coulis, and they wondered, with a thrill of sensation prickling up their spine, if she had been this wet for them all day.

“Okay.” They pulled away suddenly, before either of them got too far out of control, to grab the can she’d left on the bedside table. “Let’s do this.”

“Oh,” Dahlia said, biting her lip. “We don’t have to actually—I mean, is this—”

London interrupted by pressing down on the nozzle once, twice. Two perfect bursts of whipped cream for two perfect boobs.

She exploded in laughter and punched London in the arm. “Jesus.”

“You’re the one who didn’t have a plan. This is my plan.” They leaned down and licked one nipple clean. Even as they felt her stiffen, her breathing uptick slightly, she was still giggling. London leaned up, can still in hand, and plopped a large poof of cream on her nose before returning to her other breast. “Stop laughing.”

But she didn’t. Dahlia was practically out of her mind by the time she was screaming about the melon, which London had picked out of the bag next, being too cold. And while it was indeed entertaining, London was sliding fast back toward annoyance. They leaned back on their heels.

“This was your idea, you know.”

“I know.” Dahlia caught her breath. “I know.” She swallowed, trying to stifle a grin. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better. Try something else.”

London leaned over the bed and sifted through the shopping bag, extracting a nectarine.

They had felt, at the grocery store, how soft and ripe these nectarines were. Which was rare, for the produce section of a chain supermarket, where the fruit normally arrived hard as a rock, preserved for a longer shelf life. As London held the stone fruit in their hand, its skin as supple as Dahlia’s underneath them, they felt, truly, blessed.

They took a big, messy bite. They let juice trail down their chin, feeling a bit feral. They squeezed the fruit the tiniest bit in their fist, felt another trail of translucent juice slide down their arm. Dahlia’s mouth twitched as her grin softened, fading away. After a second, her lips parted slightly.

“Oh,” she said.

London rested the open wound of the nectarine onto Dahlia’s skin. They started at her side, the soft curve that stretched out from her belly to her hip, before trailing it over her stomach. They had been straddling her hips, but now moved themself farther down, their knees resting on the sheets between her legs, which fell open even wider for them. They trailed the nectarine down the inside of her right thigh and then her left, getting teasingly close, before tracing the fruit down to her calves, watching each twitch of her body, listening to each of her deep, raspy breaths.

They crawled back up over her torso, concentrating on steadying themself with one hand and grazing the juicy orange flesh back up her stomach with the other, until they were face-to-face again.

Dahlia was not laughing anymore.

Her face was slack, mouth open, but her eyes were wild, even darker than normal, two black pits of desire. Feeling entirely pleased with themself, London took another noisy bite of the nectarine.

“Fuck,” Dahlia said. “London, fuck me.”

London didn’t move for a moment, chewing, letting the sound of Dahlia’s demand wash over them.

“London,” Dahlia said again. She grabbed the nectarine from their hand and chucked it at the wall. They heard it hit, first the closet and then the ground, with two dull thuds. “Fuck me now.” She licked her lips, and then slightly softer: “With your mouth.”

And now London was fully feral.

They kissed down her stomach, following the trail of the discarded nectarine, and as the sweetness of its juices melted with the salt of Dahlia’s skin, a delicious swirl on their tongue, London decided this was the best idea Dahlia had ever had. They were very grateful to be sleeping with a genius.

After they settled in between her legs, they paused, massaging Dahlia’s thigh. She was trembling.

“Hey,” London whispered, trying to cool their own mounting adrenaline. “You okay?”

“Nope,” she said, and London looked up to find her arm slung over her eyes again. “Not even a little bit.”

London frowned. “Do you want to stop?”