Page 38 of Unlikely

“I bet you’re soaked.”

Her words come out a little breathlessly, and I imagine her naked on her own bed, hair fanned around her head, nipples hard, her own fingers at the apex of her thighs.

“Wet,” I manage to breathe out. “So. Wet.”

“If I were there, I would spread you so wide,” she promises. “Bury my face between your legs and lick every inch of you.”

“Fuck, Zara,” I moan as my fingers apply pressure to my clit, massaging it almost desperately.

“I want you to slide two fingers inside,” she coaxes.

I push two digits inside myself, my arousal coating my fingers. My body is a live wire, every nerve ending nothing but heat and lust.

“Fuck yourself,” she demands. “Imagine it’s me.”

My own touch would never be as good as her hands and mouth on me, but with her play-by-play directions in my ear, and the visuals of our night together, it sure as hell is a close second.

I’m close, my muscles coiling, my fingers moving at a deliciously excruciating pace, thrusting in and out, desperate for more. Moving my free hand to my clit, I rub at the bundle of nerves, heightening the rush.

“Zara,” I pant. “I need to come.”

“Come,” she orders. “I’m right there, sweetheart. Come with me.”

Her permission is my undoing, and my body arches as my orgasm barrels through me.

I moan into the empty room as pleasure consumes me, the sound of Zara reaching her own release echoing beautifully in my ears.

“Oh my God,” I breathe out, words almost impossible to come by. “That was…”

“That was something else,” Zara finishes. “You’resomething else.”

I preen at her praise, grateful she can’t see the embarrassing flush of my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I say sleepily.

“For the orgasm?”

“No,” I say through a laugh. “Well, yes, but also for sticking around after I practically ghosted you.”

“Patience never killed anyone,” she says. “And, yes, orgasms with you are a great way to pass the time. But I think we could be more than that, or at least try to be.”

I always appreciate her honesty; the way she lays her cards on the table makes me feel safe. It gives me the power to opt in or out with no consequence, and I like it a whole lot.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I admit.

“You know, you’ve said that to me before,” she reminds me. “And that night turned out great.”

“About that date,” I prompt, not wanting to lose my nerve, wanting to hold on to more of Clementine before the sun rises, a brand-new day starts, and she’s nowhere to be found.

“Raine goes away for the weekend in two weeks,” she informs me. “That’s our weekend.”

Our weekend.I like the sound of that.

At the mention of Raine, I think back to the conversation that pushed us here together in the first place. “Are you going to tell her?”

Seconds of silence stretch before she answers. “I’d rather wait until you’re ready to tell her too.”

13

---