Page 30 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

If Stevie felt her clench at those words—as she undoubtedly did—she did not say anything. Her lips moved in something that looked oddly like prayer, and her eyes fluttered back and forth as if she couldn’t decide which breast to focus on.

“They’re not going anywhere.”

“Do you—” She stopped and briefly met Angie’s eyes before returning to her breasts. “Do you have any idea, any at all, how incredible your tits are?”

She did, actually. They were one of her better assets. “Why don’t you show me?”

“I will. In a minute.”

Something warm bloomed in her chest as she watched Stevie gaze at her. The blatant longing, the unguarded appraisal, the relief in her face as she memorized her breasts—Angie rarely found things sweet, especially when it came to sex, but this was sweet without making her want to shut down.

That had never happened before. She’d analyze it later, when Stevie wasn’t three fingers deep in her.

“I thought you were an ass girl,” Angie said, because it was not, in fact, easy to be good and wait without distraction, especially when she could move her hips and earn herself a thimbleful of relief.

“I haven’t seen your ass fully naked yet today.”

“Stevie.”

“What.”

“Please fuck me.”

“Don’t make me tie you up with dirty socks, girl.”

Angie laughed, and it felt so damn good suddenly to be in her own skin.

She’d needed this. She’d needed this for years.

Stevie teased her other nipple with her lips, pausing to nip the curve of her breast, murmuring something.

Angie squirmed as her nipples ached for more.

Her rapid breathing wasn’t helping. Stevie paused periodically to watch the effect on Angie’s anatomy, and pauses meant her mouth was no longer sucking.

Stevie groaned as she drew Angie’s nipple out again, and Angie arched her back, desperate. If Stevie kept doing that, this was going to be over too soon.

“More,” Angie begged, real pleading in her voice. She’d prostrate herself at this point if it meant Stevie resumed.

Stevie glanced up and slid a fourth finger, forcing her wider, a devastating stretch that reached all the way down her spine. Angie saw the glint of mischief in her eyes that told her no matter how overwrought Stevie might be by Angie’s breasts, she knew exactly what she was doing.

“How much can you take?”

Angie wasn’t capable of answering. Stevie’s thumb had found her clit.

Stevie breathed over Angie’s breast, lightly flicking, driving her absolutely insane.

Somehow she’d slid half off the dryer, her hips driving against Stevie’s hand, needing more, always more, because she’d never get enough of this.

“No one’s here.” Stevie’s teeth brushed over her nipple with each syllable. “You don’t have to be quiet, Angela.”

Still inside her, mouth finally taking her breast again, Stevie lifted her into the air. Angie let her weight fall fully into Stevie’s hand and screamed. Screw her eardrum. She’d done this to her. She’d turned Angie into this.

She was vaguely aware of Stevie maneuvering them out of the laundry room, pausing at a wall, where Stevie fucked her until she saw blue, and finally tumbling them onto the living room carpet.

Stevie stared down at her, hair falling around her face, and pushed deeper. The carpet scratched deliciously against her bare shoulders. Angie’s body tensed, then relaxed around her hand with a stretch that yearned for more. She’d never felt this greedy for another person.

“Take off your shorts,” said Stevie.

That was difficult to do with Stevie fucking her.

She managed to slide one leg out, which would have to be enough.

Stevie’s thumb on her clit was almost painful in its pursuit, ripping shivers that shook her from jaw to toe.

She hooked her freed leg over Stevie’s shoulder to get better leverage.

Stevie swore again fervently, kissing her thigh, and Angie held her gaze. She could come like this at any second.

She pleaded, “Stevie, I need—”

“Not yet.”

She clamped down on the orgasm building within her, fighting, clawing it back.

Nothing turned her on like denial. Her hips were in the air, Stevie four fingers deep inside her, and suddenly it still wasn’t enough.

Using the leg over Stevie’s shoulder to leverage herself, she flipped onto her stomach, both knees hitting the carpet, the twist of Stevie’s hand pulling unrecognizable sounds from her throat.

“Fuck, Angie,” said Stevie, her voice roughened by desire. “Fuck.”

She loved the way that word sounded from Stevie’s mouth: filthy, reverent, tender, rough.

The carpet felt good against her cheek as she tilted her body, legs spread, ass in the air, one hand seizing the leg of the couch and the other digging into the carpet itself for purchase.

Stevie stroked the valley of her ass with one gently teasing finger, and Angie almost sobbed with the building need inside her.

“About your ass.”

“Yeah?” Heat flooded her face and chest, and she was close, painfully close, holding on only because Stevie had asked her to.

“It’s . . .”

She couldn’t see Stevie’s face out of her peripheral vision, but she imagined it.

Stevie caressed her cheeks, the gentle touch irritating in its slowness, even as it sent shivers up her back.

Then Stevie took a handful and squeezed.

Angie shuddered around her hand. Yes , she wanted to say, like that , but her mouth was too busy moaning to speak.

“Can you take more?”

“Oh god. Yes.” Her voice broke on yes with a gasp.

Stevie’s thumb stroked her clit one more time before teasing her opening, her touch addictive, intoxicating, everything .

When Stevie partially withdrew, she nearly came, the sound she made as she suppressed the orgasm guttural as if Stevie had dragged it up from someplace dark and wet inside her and then wrung her out.

Stevie’s thumb joined her fingers. Angie begged with her body, shameless, offering up everything, legs spreading wider and wetness spilling from her cunt as Stevie’s hand twisted gently, inexorably, and she tasted carpet as she sobbed with the relief of it.

There was a moment of brief pain, a flash of red she pushed against, her body knowing intuitively that past that pain lay something elemental. And then Stevie was inside her.

Angie lost it.

“Angie,” said Stevie, a whisper one might utter at the altar, “my god, Ange.”

Stevie filled her entirely. Angie could feel the bones in her wrist with each slow rotation.

She could feel her fingers curl in, her knuckles hitting every ridge, every hidden place where she hadn’t known she could feel pleasure.

She was entirely at Stevie’s disposal. She said Stevie’s name.

She said it again. She said it until the syllables ceased to make sense.

Stevie’s hand—the one not undoing her from the inside out—raked up her thigh, then down her back, slowly this time so she anticipated each centimeter of progress breathlessly.

Angie was shaking hard enough to come apart.

Her legs only held her up because she was pressing herself into Stevie with each thrust.

She thought, as much as she could think, that she would have taken all of Stevie inside her if she could. The oblivion of absolute desire washed over her in waves, choking in its intensity. Everyone sought transcendence in their own way.

Stevie’s hand on her hip, supporting, guiding, sliding periodically up and down her spine and along her ass.

Stevie murmuring, “That’s my girl,” and, “Fucking hell, Angie,” and once—maybe or maybe not as nothing was real except the exquisite torment of that hand at her core reaching up for the heart it already held—“You’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re perfect. ”

She did not come immediately. The orgasm started, building with each twist of Stevie’s hand, her hypersensitive nipples scraping over the carpet, Stevie’s other hand on her ass, her hip, her sacrum, as if she couldn’t get enough of any one part of her to linger for long.

She needed Stevie to fill her like this forever.

It felt . . . God, she didn’t know. She didn’t need to know.

A quiet, building pressure rose in contrast to the sounds Stevie extracted from her with each thrust, each twist.

Stevie’s spare hand cupped her clit, and Angie drove down against it. She’d been fucked hard before, but she’d never been fisted like this. She’d never felt as though someone was reaching for her soul. She’d never—

“Holy hell,” said Stevie. “Are you coming right now?”

Tremors, the advance guard of surrender, wracked her.

“I don’t—I can’t—Stevie, oh my god—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” She repeated the last words, a litany of prayer.

“Holy—you’re squirting. Jesus, Angie.”

Stevie needed to stop talking. Angie couldn’t understand what she was saying. Words gained color and weight instead, almost synesthetic. Her shaking legs tried to thrust Stevie deeper until Stevie gripped her hip hard, as if to say, I’ve got you .

“It’s—hell yes. Good girl, Angela. You can take it. Stretch for me.” Stevie leaned down to bite her shoulder, steadily twisting deeper. Angie felt herself flood that time. Stevie groaned. “God you’re so wet .”

Words, words, words. Stevie in her, Stevie filling her, opening her, unhinging her hips. She was holding Angie up now, and the orgasm just kept building. She couldn’t have stopped if their lives had depended on it.

A sound unlike any of the ones she’d made so far started at the back of her throat.

Her body shook; she could feel her own wetness running down her legs, the air against her clit just as unbearable as Stevie’s thumb and palm had been.

She was crying for real now and laughing also, tears running down her cheeks. She couldn’t see anything except red.

Stevie’s voice was as broken as her own when she said, “Come for me, Ange. Come hard.”