Page 71 of These Thin Lines

“How dare I? It’s been days, and I’ve been nothing but a beating girl for you, Renate, Aoife…” Vi’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “And that’s all fine and dandy, but this Ricarda bullshit is a bit too much, even for whatever it is you are doing here, Chiara.”

“Whatever it isI’mdoing? I’m not doing anything!” On pure instinct, Chiara took a step back, bumping against her desk, scattering some of the post-its stuck to it. Vi’s eyes followed the falling pieces of paper, and Chiara wanted to slap her. “You have been nothing but insulting since you crossed my threshold.”

Vi’s throat worked as she visibly tried to contain herself. “I have apologized for the misunderstanding. I thought you knew me better than to think I’d mock you—”

“Well, that is certainly rich coming from you. Because once upon a time I did, in fact, think I knew you better… And that Vi never threw anything in my face. Unlike this version of you, who has done nothing but flaunt your women.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed speculatively before she took a step closer. When she spoke, her voice had a calculating lilt to it. Too precise, too practiced.

“And would it make you angry, that I’ve been loved?”

Chiara felt those words hit the mark. Each and every one of them dead center of her heart with vicious intent. Jealousy blacked the corners of her vision. Or was itgreened?

She couldn’t hold in the vitriol. Five years was too long anyway. She’d account for it with herself later, flagellate herself for the truth, for the lies, for everything in between.

“Yes, yes it would.”

The words fell out of her mouth like bricks, hard and heavy, clattering to the floor between them. Chiara just stared, realizing how close she and Vi were standing to each other. As her eyes trailed upwards, from the expensive shoes to the fitted trousers hanging on prominent hip bones, to the small gap showing off a toned midriff, then farther up still, she saw how hard Vi was breathing, how fast her heart was hammering with the pulse visible at her long graceful neck, exposed now as her t-shirt slipped down one shoulder.

“Good.” Vi’s voice was barely discernible in the air of the room that seemed flammable.

Their eyes met. Pain. So much of it, and all of it here, not even under the surface, not even under the skin like the ink of Vi’s tattoos. All of it right in this space crackling between them—that was somehow getting smaller—even as Chiara realized Vi was indeed taking one more step and verbena enveloped her senses again. And mixed with all that pain, was the one thing that was neither new, nor good, nor something she’d ever known how to fight. Desire.

A second… A truck passed under the windows, rattling the glass. Another second… Someone yelled an obscenity down the street. Yet one more second, and a ragged breath one of them drew in…

The moment was suspended in the air, stretching like a rubber band until Chiara physically felt it snap and all bets were off. All lines were in the rearview mirror.

She reached for the collar of the t-shirt, even as Vi’s hands dove into her hair, tugging and pulling until the pins of the carefully and artfully arranged bun were scattered on the floor.

Their mouths met, lips and tongues and teeth and all that rage, even as Vi lifted her onto the desk, further scattering the notes and the multitude of fountain pens she could never quite decide on.

“Vi…” She didn’t recognize her own voice, her own body. So needy. So hot. Her clothes too tight, too suffocating, because only one thing made sense. Everything was wrong. They were wrong. Not good. Not healthy. But so right. Right now.

Vi broke the kiss that was more a devouring than a caress and forced their eyes to meet. And there it was again, that silentsomethingin those ash depths, something that hadn’t been there five years ago, when Chiara had known every shade, every shadow in them. But it had been here, hanging between them every second since Vi had stepped into Chiaroscuro, like a foreshadowing of things to come.

Their breathing ragged, Vi’s thigh between Chiara’s pressing just enough to remind her of its presence and not enough to give her anything she really needed, they stared at each other until Chiara could look no more. She was weak. This was wrong. Again.

Wrong.

But she needed this.

Again.

She closed her eyes and nodded, consent given, before reaching for those swollen lips again, licking the bottom one, biting it with just enough force to taste blood.

Whatever tether had been holding Vi back rent, even as copper filled Chiara’s mouth, and Vi unceremoniously tore her thong, pieces of ivory satin fluttering to the floor, as strong hands pushed her further onto the desk.

And then Chiara was taken. There was no other way to describe it. Not gentle, not careful. Nothing like their one night. She felt the lack of oxygen and let go of the need to breathe. Vi did not break the kiss as two fingers entered her, rough, forceful, thrusting deep with no preamble.

She came fast. Five years of longing, yearning, missing this very thing.

Maybe under different circumstances, she would have been embarrassed, but Vi was unrelenting, so Chiara let go of the shame as well. She moaned, her own arms limp around Vi’s neck, powerless to do anything but weakly hold on as she was taken again.

Another finger joined the first two, and she felt stretched, her own body bearing evidence of years of abstinence, and she whimpered against Vi’s lips, still on hers, still ravaging her mouth. As she allowed the sound to escape, Vi slowed her thrusts down with a whispered, “shhh, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry…,” and the words, as much as the slower, impossibly deeper thrusts, undid her.

The second time, she didn’t come as much as she shattered. Vi’s mouth swallowed her cry, then full lips kissed away the tears she hadn’t realized had fallen.

In the total silence of the dusty space, amidst the disarrayed desk, her breathing sounded almost obscene. Vi held her now that her tears had stopped falling.

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