Page 31 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Her body exploded. She crested, but the peak didn’t wane, and she realized with a thrill of fear that it wouldn’t until Stevie pulled out.

Could she die from orgasm? Did she care?

Her hips moved with an urgency she might have laughed at in someone else, pathetic in their desperation, trying to perform their function despite a complete lack of competency.

Stevie had to feel the tremors. She had to feel what she was doing to Angie. She had to know what it meant.

The orgasm hit a new peak. She hadn’t thought it was possible to feel this any harder, want this any more, take much more of the agony of pleasure. The ripples within her intensified to a new pitch, nearly running together.

“Ange,” Stevie said, awe overlaying the need in her voice. “Sweet lord, Ange. I can feel you.”

Angie released the couch and flung her arm behind her for she had no fine motor skills left, searching for any part of Stevie she could hold on to.

Stevie pushed her flat against the carpet and then grabbed her hand.

She could feel Stevie through her abdomen where it met the floor, and left off raking her nails through the carpet fibers to slide her other hand beneath her hips to press back.

Feeling Stevie’s hand through the wall of her body wasn’t something she’d thought to imagine.

She would forever after.

“Angie.”

“Don’t you—dare—stop.” She rode the explosion, parts of herself she’d thought she’d nailed down firmly breaking loose.

“You have—to pull—out—for me—to finish,” she managed.

“But I don’t want to stop.” God, the longing in Stevie’s voice was beautiful.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

But every muscle in her body was trembling, and the impact of Stevie’s fingers against her G-spot was too much. She sobbed, body bucking, legs shaking, everything coming apart.

Things went quiet for a while. Her throat hurt, which is how she knew she was screaming again, and Stevie was saying her name, along with other things. She was going to die like this and it was going to be perfect, despite the rug burn the mortician would have to cover with concealer.

When Stevie at last took mercy on her and slowly, achingly slowly, slid her beautiful, gorgeous, absolutely miraculous hand out, she came harder than she’d known was possible: a tidal wave of something like lust and something like love and all of it tasting like Stevie’s name in her mouth.

It took her a long time to come down. Stevie stayed partway inside her, pushing gently, periodically, to wrack another shuddering aftershock from her.

Another aftershock. Another opportunity to say Stevie’s name aloud.

At last Stevie pulled out completely. Angie relaxed, which was an amateur’s mistake. That wet, wet hand slid between her cheeks in a wet, wet line, and she swore violently.

Stevie’s low laugh filled her up again.

“I don’t care if it’s two in the morning. If I only get to fuck you twice a week, I’m going to fuck you.”

On the other hand, who needed bones? Angie whimpered and shamelessly spread her legs. Stevie trailed a lazy finger along the sensitive skin the position revealed, and Angie wept, fully gone now and lost to anything resembling logic.

Stevie did not ask if she was okay. This fact alone would have been enough to make her fall in love.

Instead, she stroked Angie until she stopped shaking, her touch tender, her warm body a shield as she kissed Angie’s exposed skin.

Faintly, she heard Stevie murmuring, repetitively and soothingly, “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Angie.”

The words didn’t matter. The steadiness of Stevie’s voice, the implicit understanding of her needs .

. . Was she crying? Stevie’s hand coaxed her once more, and the gentleness of it eclipsed any release she’d had with Lana or the women before her.

The way Stevie matched her rhythm to Angie’s sobs, slowing them down, gave her something to hold on to as the dam that held back all the things she couldn’t think about released its overflow, let her feel in the safety of Stevie’s hands.

She clung to this as she came again. Pure catharsis. Pure bliss.

When Angie could finally breathe steadily and they both lay facing each other, she asked, “Can I do anything for you?” Stevie’s arm supported her head and Angie’s thigh lay warm and secure between Stevie’s legs.

Dog hair aside, she could happily stay like that forever even if she hardly remembered her own goddamn name.

Stevie gave a breathless laugh. “Are you kidding me? I came twice just watching you.”

“Really?”

“You should have seen yourself.”

Stevie rolled them over, her touch gentle and wet—Jesus Christ, what had Stevie done to her to get her hand that wet—and looked down at her.

The living room lights were off, but the glow from the laundry room was enough to illuminate her features.

Awe filled her sweet, flushed face. Her lips were red in this light, and Angie wanted to kiss her more than anything, but she couldn’t move. And the rules. There were the rules.

But Stevie was different.

Stevie, different or otherwise, bent down and kissed her on another set of lips.

Her body jerked. Her clit, swollen and, she had to admit, somewhat neglected, slid between Stevie’s teeth.

Angie fumbled for Stevie’s hair with one hand and her own with the other.

Her fingers were stiff from holding on for dear life, but they tangled well enough in Stevie’s thick, tousled hair and tugged weakly on her own.

She found the shell of Stevie’s ear with her fingertips and stroked it, marveling at the softness of the skin below her earlobe. She wanted to bite it. She wanted to curl up there and go to sleep.

Stevie licked the swollen, tender length of her and wiped that thought away.

“Oh god. I can’t—”

“You can.” Stevie placed her hands on Angie’s slick thighs and spread them. “I need to see you come again.”

She would; she absolutely would.

Stevie kissed her tenderly, easing the raw, hypersensitive skin into a different kind of inflamed state while her thumbs traced the curve of Angie’s ass where it met her hips.

Those hands. She’d watched them for years, guiltily at first and then without shame.

The next orgasm took her quickly. Stevie sucked her clit, flicking with her tongue, pulling, teasing, tumbling her over her climax and leaving her laughing, an arm flung over her face, completely and utterly spent.

“Oh my god, Stephanie.” She wondered if she would need to be scraped from the carpet. “Oh my god.”

Stevie lay down beside her, still half dressed, and stroked her ribs, hips, the curves of her breasts, her cheek.

What broke Angie, however, wasn’t the ache in her cunt or the tears drying on her cheeks or the words hovering on her tongue, words she’d almost said aloud, but the light kiss Stevie planted on her forehead as she settled against her.

They fit seamlessly. They always had. But those soft lips against her flushed skin were all she’d ever really wanted. More than she’d known to want, really.

For the moment she let herself pretend this could be hers, whatever this was, forever.

She rolled over and let Stevie fold her into her arms. Stevie smelled like sex and hay and, somehow, clean linen.

She licked the skin nearest her mouth and tasted salt.

Stevie’s hand lightly scratched her back, then smoothed her hair.

“Now can I touch you?” she whispered into Stevie’s collarbone.

“Always.”