Lucia Takes the Lead While Rowena Sleeps
“Wake up and take it,” Lucia breathed against the damp inside of Rowena’s thigh, her mouth already open there, the words pressed into skin gone hot and slick in sleep. Two fingers were already inside her, knuckle-deep, unmoving except for the slow flex of Lucia’s wrist as she held her open. The sheet had twisted down to Rowena’s knees, and Rowena was bare beneath it; Lucia’s own knee pinned the fabric to the mattress at Rowena’s calf so it could not be dragged back up.
Rowena made a sound that was not quite a word. It lived in her throat, thick and unfinished. Her eyes did not open. Her mouth did, a little, the lower lip catching on her own teeth as her head turned on the pillow toward the heat of Lucia’s breath. Lucia watched the moment the muscle along Rowena’s inner thigh jumped, a small involuntary lift, then went heavy again. She did not wait for more. She never did. She dragged her tongue in a single unhurried line from the crease of Rowena’s thigh to the swollen, already-wet seam of her, and held there, tasting what sleep had already given up.
The gray at the curtain’s edge caught only the old bruise at the hinge of Rowena’s jaw, the one Lucia’s mouth had left. Lucia looked at it and left it where it was. Her free hand settled instead over the crest of Rowena’s hipbone, the heel of her palm bearing down, her weight following, pressing the pelvis flat into the mattress before Rowena’s body had any reason to lift. Under the edge of that hand, in the crease of the groin, the femoral pulse moved. Slow, then not slow.
Lucia curled her fingers. Not far. A shallow hook that found the ridge inside and stayed on it, pressure without rhythm, until Rowena’s hips tried to answer and could not: the heel of one hand bore down on her hipbone, and the heel of the other was wedged hard into the soft give just below the opening, palm turned up toward Rowena’s belly, pushing upward into the pelvic floor while the fingers pressed the ridge from inside. Between those two points of pressure, the pelvis had nowhere to go. A wet sound came from between them when Lucia’s fingers shifted a fraction. Rowena’s breath snagged on it. Her fingers, still half-asleep, opened and closed against the mattress near Lucia’s shoulder and did not push her away.
This was the hour. Lucia knew it in the slack of Rowena’s jaw, in the way her throat worked once, swallowing nothing, in the way her knees fell wider without being asked and nothing in her turned toward the door.
She licked again, slower, flattening her tongue so the whole of it dragged over the hard, slick bead of Rowena’s clit, then sealed her mouth around it and sucked with a pressure that was patient to the point of method. She counted the seconds by the tremor that started in Rowena’s left thigh and traveled inward. Four. Five. Rowena’s stomach hollowed. A sound broke in her chest, small, wrecked, still half a dream. Lucia’s thumb pressed into the hollow inside the hipbone then, one point of pressure, and Rowena’s head rolled on the pillow toward it, eyes still shut, the cheek turning down as if the face were trying to catch up to what the body had already registered.
“You’re already this wet,” Lucia said into her, the words vibrating against the tight bead under her tongue, spoken flat, as a measurement Rowena was not permitted to dispute. “You were like this when I put my hand on you. You don’t even know you were waiting.”
Rowena’s answer was a slow roll of her hips that died under Lucia’s palm. Her inner walls clenched once around Lucia’s fingers, a full, greedy pull, then loosened, then clenched again as if her body were still deciding whether it was asleep. Lucia felt every increment. The heat, the give, the way Rowena’s cunt tried to keep her when she drew back to the first knuckle and then fed both fingers in to the hilt in one stroke that shifted the mattress under Lucia’s knee. A thin line of slick followed her knuckles when she withdrew the next time. It shone on Rowena’s skin in that gray light. Lucia put her mouth there and took it, then went back to the swollen peak and sucked until Rowena’s breathing came in separate, uneven pulls, each one cut off before it was full.
Lucia’s own thighs had clamped together where she knelt; she noted it and did nothing about it. She was still wearing the thin shirt she had fallen asleep in. It had ridden up under her breasts, and the cotton was damp where it dragged against her nipples each time she shifted her weight down the bed. She ignored it. The ache between her own legs was a secondary fact, a pulse she could set aside. What she wanted was the specific, dream-slow surrender in front of her: the way Rowena’s toes curled and then forgot to, the way her breath now caught high in her chest each time Lucia’s thumb ground into the hollow of her hip, the way the tendon along the inside of her knee stood out and then let go.
Rowena’s eyes opened. Not fully. A slit of dark, unfocused, the lashes stuck together at the outer corners. She looked at the ceiling first, then at nothing, then her gaze dragged down as if it weighed something and found Lucia’s mouth working between her legs. Her lips parted. No protest came out. A sound did, wrecked and private, and her hand finally left the mattress and found Lucia’s hair, not to pull, only to hold, fingers threading in and going slack again as if even that much intention was more than the hour would allow.
Lucia fucked her with her fingers in a rhythm she refused to hurry. In. A pause that lasted long enough for Rowena’s hips to strain against the two hands holding them. Out to the edge. In again, crooking, finding that same engorged place and grinding the pads of her fingers against it in a tight circle while her mouth stayed sealed and sucking. The wetness had gone audible now, a soft, obscene click each time Lucia’s knuckles met the give of her. Rowena’s other hand fisted in the pillow beside her own head. The tendons in her wrist stood out. Her breasts moved with each incomplete breath, the nipples drawn tight and flushed dark. Lucia wanted her mouth on them and did not move it yet. She wanted the peak first, and she wanted it in her mouth.
Rowena’s thighs began to shake in earnest. The tremor was no longer a single muscle. It was the whole of her, a low, helpless vibration that ran from her knees up through the place Lucia was filling her, up through her belly, into the open, gasping shape of her mouth. Lucia felt her start to crest the way she always felt it: a sudden rhythmic flutter around her fingers, a wet, desperate clutch, the way Rowena’s hips tried to lift and could not because Lucia would not let them. Lucia took her mouth off her and came up the bed without taking her fingers out. She gave up the long stroke to do it; the arm had only so much reach, and she spent it on depth instead, her fingers buried to the last knuckle and her wrist doing the work now, the circle tightening against the ridge inside. Her free hand left the hipbone and she let her whole weight fall, no elbow, no prop, her body dropping flush along Rowena’s flank so that the shirt dragged up and her bare stomach slid against Rowena’s hip, her shoulder wedged hard against the lower curve of Rowena’s ribs, her arm running straight down between them to where she was still inside her. Rowena’s pelvis, freed from the hand, tried to lift and met the weight of Lucia lying across it instead. That free hand traveled then, the only one that could, up over the sternum, up the column of the throat, to the hinge of the jaw, where the thumb found the bruise at last and pressed into its shape and turned Rowena’s face down toward her. Lucia craned up the rest of the distance, the tendons at the side of her own neck pulling taut, and her mouth found Rowena’s mouth before Rowena could make the sound already building in her chest.
The kiss was not kind. Lucia’s mouth landed hard, bruising, her teeth catching Rowena’s lower lip and holding it as she sealed them together, as she took the first broken cry directly into her own throat. Her jaw set and the pressure did not vary. Her tongue pushed in, taking the air Rowena needed and giving none of it back, and when Rowena’s climax took her, when the flutter became a lock, a series of deep, helpless spasms around Lucia’s still-working fingers, when her whole body arched under Lucia’s weight and tried to make a noise that belonged to her, Lucia swallowed it. Every gasp. Every high, splintered fragment of a moan. She kept her mouth locked over Rowena’s, her jaw flexing with the force of the seal, her nose flattened against Rowena’s cheek, her thumb holding the bruise, her fingers grinding inside her at the full extension of her arm through the whole shaking length of it, so that there was nowhere for the pleasure to go except into Lucia’s mouth. The kiss did not break until Rowena’s body had given up everything it had and gone slack, twitching, oversensitive, still trying to make a sound Lucia would not allow to exist in the room.
Only then did Lucia ease the kiss. Not fully. Her lips stayed against Rowena’s, hot and puffed, sharing the same thin air. Her fingers stilled inside her but did not leave. Rowena’s eyes were open now, wet at the corners and unfocused, fixed on nothing above Lucia’s shoulder; they did not go to the door. Her hand had stayed in Lucia’s hair, slack, neither holding nor letting go. Her mouth moved under Lucia’s, shapeless. Lucia felt the exhausted flutter of her pulse against her own lips.
Lucia’s voice, when it came, was barely voice. It was a breath shaped into words against the corner of Rowena’s mouth, against the place she had just taken every sound from. Her thumb stayed on the bruise, the pressure easing by a degree, then another, until it was only the shape of the mark under the pad of it. The seal of her lips let go the same way, slowly, until it was only contact.
“You’re mine,” she whispered, and her mouth stayed there, resting the words against Rowena’s skin as if they might otherwise leave the room.