Page 45 of Left-Hand Larceny

I squeeze my thighs together again, just for a second. It helps. But not enough.

Me:

You really shouldn’t say things like that.

Not unless you mean them.

Or unless you’re prepared for what they do to me.

But I don’t send that last bit.

Ólaffson:

You know I do.

A low, breathy sound escapes me. I slide further down the bed and drop my phone on my chest, one hand sliding under the waistband of my leggings before I even think about it. My skin is so warm. So sensitive. My fingers ghost over the slick heat between my legs and I shiver. Should I be embarrassed about how wet I am?

He isn’t even here. I didn’t even see his gorgeous Viking face, but his words… his words are wrecking me.

I find my clitoris and rub in slow circles. Just enough to tease, to build. My head presses back into my pillow, thighs shaking. This is going to be fast. I circle my entrance before I slip a finger inside, my breath hitching. One isn’t enough. He’d be bigger. Then I add another finger, curling them to find the spot at the front of my pussy. My hips arch against the motion, back bowing.

Am I crossing a line? I can’t bring myself to care. No one needs to know how close I am just from a few nice words and some tentative touches. I pump my fingers faster, chasing an impossible release. My phone sits on my chest and I clutch it in my free hand. My nipples tingle. I want to tug them, twist them until it just hurts. But I don’t want to let go of my phone. Like it’s my one connection to him. Like he kept a heavy hand splayed on my chest while his other danced between my thighs. Like it’s him who is pushing me closer and closer to the finish I don’t deserve.

My orgasm surprises me. Ripping through my body with a quiet intensity that seems a perfect echo for the man who inspired it. I lay on my bed for a long time, quiet, aching, breathless. My fingers are still, my body pulsing And I can’t stop staring at the ceiling, stunned.

Not just by the orgasm. But by the way it felt to want someone who saw me like this. Smart. Capable. Deserving. Wanted right back.

My phone feels like it weighs more than the bags of ice I have to schlep to the metal tubs in the rehab rooms. The ones we use for ice baths after practices and games. I lift it anyway. My messages are still open.

Me:

Thank you Ragnar

Ólaffson:

Anything you need. Any time, Sadie.

I wonder if he knows the double meaning in my thank you. I want to read into his reply. And think he’s green lighting the way he made me come, but I’m not sure I’m ready to admit it. Not even to myself.

I fall asleep still holding my phone, a smile teasing the corners of my lips.

Sadie’s already at the tubs when I walk into the rehab room after practice, struggling with the heavy bags of ice. I see the way she grits her teeth and heaves one onto the rim of the empty tub; the plastic crinkling as it sags into the metal rim. She’s not herself today. Usually, she’s humming, smiling, chatting away with my teammates about some random thing she saw online. Today, she’s stiff, her movements clipped, her expression tight.

“L-let me h-help,” I say, striding over before she can argue.

I reach around to take the bag from her hands, but Sadie whirls, startled, clutching the ice to her chest. Her eyes are wide, framed in inky black lashes, her pink glasses slightly crooked. I want to smile at the picture she makes. I don’t.

“I—no, it’s okay. I could’ve gotten a cart.”

“C-could’ve.” I lift two bags from the cooler with ease. Practice was brutal today. My quads burn and I don’t want to admit to the tremble in my limbs, but I can still sling ice. “But you…you…you d-didn’t.”

She huffs out a little breath that sounds like a laugh and a sigh smashed together.

“Yeah, well…I didn’t think it through.”

I want to tell her it’s fine, but something about the tightness around her eyes keeps me from making a joke. Instead, I follow her silent lead, helping her load the bags into the tubs, dumpingthe ice until it crackles and pops against the chilled metal. By the time we’re done, she’s perched on the edge of one tub, hugging a knee to her chest. If the floor wasn’t soaked, she’d definitely be splayed out on the linoleum.

Her whole body seems coiled, vibrating with tension as if she’s barely holding herself together. So far removed from the confident, happy, friendly Sadie that I’m used to. This Sadie is the one I saw glimpses of last night in our texts, the one who clearly thought asking me for help was a personal failure. Even when I’d already agreed to help her. When I would carve out an organ for her if she even hinted at needing one.

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