Page 107 of Sizzle Reel

Romy shrugs. “It’s something that can calm you down, ground you in the moment if you need it.” Her hand dips into the drawer again. This time she pulls up a flash of silver that she promptly slips into her mouth. My stomach somersaults as I realize it’s her fucking tongue piercing. She sticks out her tongue to show it off, grinning. “And something to launch you into space anyway.”

Fuck. Every word goes right between my legs.

“Halsey’s so hot, isn’t she?” Romy says as she climbs on top of me, simultaneously softening into me and growing more violent in her movements.

I chuckle. “Yeah, they are.”

“God.” Romy’s grin spreads, and now it’s sparkling in her eyes. “We’re so gay.”

And then she yanks us together, stealing the breath from me, catching the laugh in my throat. One hand cups the back of my neck and the other slides to my waist as our lips come together once more. This kiss is so massively different from the first two. There’s no salty taste to this one, no struggling to breathe through hiccuping sobs. No eyes on us, no modesty, no hesitation. But there is this beautiful hunger, this urgency for closeness, this desire to lap up every sensation we can pull out of each other.

I don’t know where to put my hands; I’m so eager to run my fingertips along every inch of her, to learn the way the ridges of my fingerprints sink into her. Every part of her is better than the last—her collarbones, her shoulder blades, her chest. I’m drowning in feeling, in molten desire, as my fingers paw her back muscles, as I run my thumbs over the cloth covering her nipples, as Romy opens my mouth and I plunge my tongue to meet hers. Romy sighs and hitches her breath as I tug at her hair, buck my hips against hers, entwine our legs. The pressure builds like stacked bricks—solid, steady, and heavy.

Her lips peel from mine, press to the thinnest part of my throat. “Still good?” she asks, her voice vibrating against me.

I sigh, the sounds escaping more freely from me as each second passes. “Yes.”

As she kisses down the middle of my body, I slide my hands lower, past her waistline to her ass. The pressure only continues to build, and now desire is outpacing the snail-like speed with which Romy’s kissing me. As she continues to try to play it slow, I grab her ass, press her hips into mine as I grind in circles. The movements are starting to go from excited to frantic. I’m frantic. One particularly deep buck gets Romy to moan into me, her fingers dropping off my half-unbuttoned blouse.

“Don’t you dare,” she growls.

She lifts her hips just out of my reach and finishes unbuttoning my shirt. I pull it off, my gaze falling to Romy. It feels like I’ve had sexual encounters that involved hands digging between sweaty layers of clothing. With the way my heartbeat is pulsing between my legs, I know I could make that work again. But I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to undress Romy; as goose bumps form on my exposed skin, I want her to be that way too.

“I don’t have time to do a whole show like you just did,” I say, shooting Romy a grin.

Apparently, neither does Rom. I manage to get three buttons undone before Romy rips her shirt over her head so hard, I hear the fabric stretch. Beneath the shirt, Romy’s perfect skin is flushed, the black-and-white tattoos along her ribs on easy display. Her chest and stomach rise, and it’s overwhelming. She’s somehow even made that lips-patterned bra splay out like a paint-by-number for my lips and tongue.

And I’m wearing some bra from five years ago. I’m suddenly nervous, and the hand I want on Romy is rubbing the back of my neck: “I should’ve worn something sexier.”

All Romy does is snort. “Lune, I’m not here for what’s holding your tits.”

The way she’s looking at my shitty bra says more than her words. But she doesn’t rip it off. No, her hands shake, and she looks the way I used to when I played Operation as a kid. I want to beg, but instead I hold the sensation in with my trapped breath as she unhooks my bra. As she tosses it off the bed. As she sighs deeply and touches the soft skin of my breasts like they’re holy.

I sink into it. With the warmth of a familiar song hugging me, I let her pull every sigh, every twitch, every desperate breath from me. I let her move her beautiful kisses down my stomach, toward the unbearable feeling between my legs.

“You don’t want me to do anything?” I ask, although I’m desperate for her to say no.

“Let me have my moment,” she says, flashing me a smile before unbuttoning my pants.

I help her yank the pants off, but Romy leaves my panties on a moment longer. They’re Valentine’s Day red hipsters with a gray elastic band, and they show a helluva lot of cheek. Romy drinks me in like I’m a syrupy cocktail. Particularly the sweet little stain at the crotch of my red panties that’s beaming out how wet she’s made me. Her eyes are practically black, she’s so deep in her own desire. Romy. My Romy, the coolest person I know, with her honeyed voice and her badass haircut and her lips inches from my clit. The mounting pressure all but hurts as I wait.

“Excited to see me?” she asks as she finally kisses down my groin, hovering over the wet spot. My head spins; I’m not sure if I’m feeling her tongue flick the spot or if I’m just willing it into existence.

“Fuck” is all I say back.

She plants a long kiss on the crotch of my panties, yanks them off, and licks the spot so her tongue flows right over my clit. That fucking tongue piercing. I gasp, pushing into her. I swear I feel her smile as she digs deeper, trailing that magic piece of metal along with her. The way she eats out, what’s going on between us—it’s beautiful, it’s wonderful, it’s smoking hot. I can’t believe I could potentially do this with her again tomorrow. I can’t believe we could fall asleep in the same bed tonight and do it again first thing in the morning.

But right now, I am soaked through. Her mouth is on my skin, which is steaming hot and slick underneath. When she licks down the length of my pussy, it’s as if she’s telling me that she’s here and she’s with me. I wonder if she can feel my heartbeat. It’sdownright monumental for no other reason than that I’m with Romy.

“Now,” I gasp. “Can you do it now?”

And, finally, Romy listens to me. She rests her head against my body and works circles as I demand harder, faster. By the time my fingers are twisted into Romy’s hair, pulling at her as I feel my own muscles tightening, I’m ready to swear that all this was worth it. All the grief we put each other through, it was all leading up to this moment.

When I come, the sound I make is gasping, desperate, but I trail it off with this perfect, low, sexy little sigh that I think I do more for her than for me. But I don’t even have time to bask in the orgasm before Romy, the little shit, snakes her own hand under her waistband. Sweat beads on her hairline, I notice. A crack in her facade, giving away her desire.

I grab her hand, pulling it back.

“No way,” I say. “We’re having sex. Let me do some work.”

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