Page 71 of Stealing Sunshine

Folding my fingers in the hem of my shirt, I let myself lean closer to her, just enough for our arms to touch.

“Thank you for sharing your special place with me, Bryce.”

She turns her head, eyes calm as they brush over my features, the storms from within them gone for this moment in time.

“It’s not just my place,” she argues half-heartedly.

My sigh is soft in the river-kissed air. It’s not nearly as cold anymore with her by my side.

“It’s somewhere special to you. That makes it somewhere worth sharing. Even if it is just with me,” I declare.

“It’s not just you, Daisy. It’sonlyyou. I’ve never brought anyone else here, and I don’t want to. I like it like this. With only us.”

I do too.

I creepout of my room and down the hall, careful not to make a sound once I realize Bryce’s bedroom door is cracked open. It’s late, but insomnia doesn’t care much about the numbers on a clock. Apparently, the same can be said about Bryce since there’s a soft light escaping the crack in her door.

With a flick of the lights in the kitchen, I roll some of the soreness out of my shoulders. It’s not the part of my body I expected to be sore after a hike, but honestly, every inch of me is sore.

The hour-long bath I took shortly after we got home didn’t do much for me other than tease sleep I knew wouldn’t come.

My favourite brand of iced tea—the kind in juice boxes—is stocked in the fridge, and I grin at the twin rows of them on the top shelf beside Bryce’s cans of Fanta. She must have picked them up earlier because I remember taking the last one with me to work this morning.

I steal a box and rip the straw off and out of the wrapper before plunging it deep. The cool, sugary liquid coats my throatas I gulp it down, and my eyes droop. Another tease. I’ll be half-asleep out here before heading back to bed and spending the next three hours staring at the ceiling.

My inability to sleep is an on-and-off issue that I only started suffering from in my late teens. Like a timer finished ticking, it hit out of the blue, taking nights of peaceful sleep with it.

I finish my drink too quickly and pull open the fridge to grab another. Only this time, I hover my hand over a chilled orange can, contemplating bringing it to Bryce as another thank you for today. Even if I already know she’ll tell me not to waste my time thanking her again.

It wouldn’t be a waste, though. Not to me.

Decided, I turn off the light and retrace my steps. When I reach her door, I ignore the way my pulse speeds with nerves and knock twice, keeping it quiet in case she just fell asleep with the light on.

No answer comes, so I do it again. Another minute passes without a word, so I push open the door just an inch and peek inside.

I think my stomach tries to climb out of my throat.

Blood cranking to a boil beneath my skin, I try to turn and leave but find that I can’t. My feet are glued to the floor while I focus on what’s happening, unable to do anything else.

The buzz is nearly silent. So quiet I only pick it up when I strain to hear, my fingers wet with sweat as I grip the edge of the doorframe. Tension coils in my belly, my nipples tightening and scraping against the soft material of my nightshirt.

Bryce is turned away from me on the bed, one hand draped down between her legs while another grips onto the headboard so tight her knuckles and biceps strain. The slow, controlled rocking motion of her body makes it obvious what she’s doing, even without the low buzz of the vibrator.

She’s a straight line from the base of her spine up her neck, rigid in a way I’ve never seen her. But this isn’t the same rigidity as when she’s uncomfortable or frustrated.

This is from pleasure. A drive to find release.

I gulp down the moisture in my mouth and press a hand to my chest, the innocent touch feeling anything but. My teeth scrape my bottom lip as I slide my hand an inch to cup my breast, squeezing just once.

Bryce releases a heady, desperate moan and drops her head forward, her rocking growing in intensity. I wish I could see past the mountain of blankets at her feet just to catch a glimpse of what she’s using between her legs. What’s prying these sounds from her throat and transporting her somewhere far outside of this dark room.

A deep blue shirt hangs off her body, hitched at the hips and sagging off one shoulder. The top curve of her ass is exposed, bare for my prying eyes. While pale like the rest of her, it’s completely uninked. My fingers twitch to whip off the blankets around her to see if the rest is as void of designs.

My head swims, emptying of warnings and demands for me to leave. It’s an invasion of privacy to be standing here, but I’m not thinking logically. If I were, I wouldn’t be slipping a hand between my legs to press a single finger against the slick material of my panties, feeling how it molds to my slit and makes my knees shake with the force of the sudden relief.

The headboard creaks, thumping against the wall once as she shakes and lurches forward. Muscles straining in her jaw, she lets her mouth fall completely open and whimpers, the entire length of her body trembling.

“Fuck.” She bucks, abandoning the space between her legs and using both hands to gain balance against the headboard. Her head turns my way slightly, but full, dark lashes brush her cheeks, giving the appearance that her eyes are closed. “Fuck—Daisy.”

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