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Although Helena was the first to admit that the other woman would always be a part of her identity, her messy history, Delia had already shown her that lovers could be better. To care about her well-being. Her pleasure. Her experiences on this earth.

What am I thinking…

Classic Helena. Getting all in her feels while a woman she barely knew fingered her in a rich woman’s closet.

“Now, tell me,” Delia whispered in Helena’s ear, luring her into a catatonic state of orgasmic grace. “What do you get out of this? Besides a fun story to tell your friends?”

Helena almost mistook that for ire, as if Delia were someone she was not. “For one thing,” Helena huskily said back, “I get you inside of me. Isn’t that half the point?”

“Me, specifically?”

Helena clutched Delia’s wrist, trapping her fingers deep within.

“Yeah. You.”

That was the most vulnerable Helena usually got with her lovers, and now here she was, accepting kisses to her throat while blushing. Thank God she can’t see it. Helena would die of embarrassment to know Delia witnessed her being so… human.

It was a terrifying feeling, wasn’t it? That whole human business. At least it was fleeting, because as soon as Delia resumed her purposeful movements, Helena lost her thoughts to the ongoing reverie that claimed her mind and body.

But never her heart. That wasn’t allowed.

“You better come for me soon,” Delia said. “Because we’ve gotta get out of here.”

That was easier said than done. Some part of Helena’s body completely blocked out the possibility of orgasming so soon, which was a feat, since she usually didn’t care about that. Yet she yearned to be here forever. It may not have been as comfortable as a bed, but it was intimate. It was quintessentially her. It was… Delia. It was them.

Helena slammed her mouth against Delia’s before either of them said something stupid. Only then, when her lips wrapped around another’s, was Helena relaxed enough for release.

There it was. Rippling through her body and speaking to her in tongues.

This is what it means to be human. Primal. Unrestrained. The basest form of humanity.

“Damn, girl.” Delia pulled her off the wall and kissed her with both arms wrapped around one another. “You’d think that was the hottest thing you’d ever done.”

Helena broke her lips away from leaving a bruise on Delia’s skin. As reason returned to her, she thought, Well, I probably shouldn’t leave a hickey. That wouldn’t be good. So Helena detached herself from the situation, content to leave this closet with an orgasm under her belt.

“Maybe it was,” she coolly said.

Delia fixed up her girlfriend’s dress. “I’ll head out first. Meet me in the main room. We’ll grab another drink before heading out. I’m going to request my fun later, you know.”

Helena cracked a smile. “I should hope so.”

“Give it a couple minutes before you follow me.”

“I know how this works.”

Both of Delia’s brows lifted in interest. “Of course you do. Excuse me, I should probably wash up after all that dirty stuff we did.”

She cracked open the closet door, made sure the coast was clear, and slipped out before anyone saw them. Helena sighed, alone with her thoughts – and a plethora of Francesca Blake’s hideous coats that she probably hadn’t worn in years. Would she even miss any of these? Helena leaned against the wall where she had been pinned for ten minutes and felt up one of the velvet jackets a woman like Francesca had favored in the mid-2010s. An impossibly long time ago to Helena, who had barely been nine. Or was it ten?

More of her life flashed before her eyes. The constant moving, the ever-revolving door of teachers, classmates, and few friends until she learned to stop making them. Settling in the Seattle area until she made a grievous mistake. Relocating a final time to Olympia, the place where “so much good” happened, according to her mother.

It hadn’t been good for Helena. She had been trapped. Neutered.

Should her mother be surprised to know her only child, her baby girl, had taken two fingers in some wealthy woman’s coat closet?

Helena readjusted the bust of her dress and ran her fingers over her hair. She was such a pro at making herself presentable that she didn’t think about where she learned that from.

Mr. Smith.