Love & Other Disasters(58)

She shook her head vigorously underneath her arm.

London massaged her thigh a bit more.

“I need a verbal confirmation, Dahlia.”

She sighed dramatically.

“It’d be nice to see your face, too,” they ventured.

Her arm fell away, but her eyes remained focused on the ceiling.

“Can you kiss me?” she asked. London bolted up to comply.

“Sorry,” she said when they hovered over her mouth. She rolled her eyes a bit and made funny gestures with her hands that London saw out of the corner of their eyes. “I just . . . ” London waited for her to complete her thought, never taking their eyes from hers. “Feelings,” she eventually finished. And she sighed.

London kissed her lips, softly, with what they hoped was all the tenderness they felt for her right then. It was fascinating, watching her be messy and vulnerable like this. Understanding she didn’t have the right words, exactly, because sometimes there were no right words, but knowing that she was feeling something big, and stopping to recognize it. Dahlia was perhaps the most emotionally honest, perceptive person London had ever met, and it bruised their heart to know she didn’t think this was an admirable quality. London had never admired anyone more.

When you were around someone who felt everything, it made you feel like you could feel everything, too. Like the depths of the world were suddenly limitless.

“Okay.” Dahlia broke away, nodding. “I’m ready to be awed by your talents, or whatever.”

London smiled down at her. They kissed her one more time. And then they resumed their position between her legs, where they started with more soft kisses, pushing her legs up and apart further still, rubbing their thumbs along the tender creases of her thighs and her backside, before they used one hand to spread her lips and lick her where she deserved to be licked.

The whimpers she released made London less inhibited with their own moans, pressing close so she could feel the vibrations of their lips, their tongue on her most sensitive places, before starting a steady circular rhythm around her clit.

“London,” they heard her murmur.

They looked up at her then, never pausing the activity of their mouth, and saw her looking down at them, lazily fondling one of her breasts.

London maneuvered a finger inside her.

Dahlia’s head fell back, her eyes closing. “Can you do more this time?”

When London moved in a second finger, they felt something shift within her, somehow. Like she was loosening herself for them, inside and out.

“One more, maybe,” she breathed.

London had to lift their mouth, to make sure they were being careful with her.

“Tell me if it doesn’t feel okay,” they said, adjusting their fingers inside her to make way for a third. Dahlia’s eyes remained closed, but her mouth opened silently when London felt their way inside. They paused, waiting for her to adjust.

“Yeah,” she said breathlessly a moment later, nodding. “That’s good.”

With that confirmation, London’s tongue got back to work, and with a moan, Dahlia let herself go completely. She pushed her hips up at them, and London worked with her, to find the perfect rhythm of fingers, mouth, thrusts.

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.