Page 115 of Windlass

Angie strained at her binding, the delirious relief of Stevie moving inside her too much. She would burst with it, and it wasn’t enough.

“Fuck me hard, and I’ll tell you,” she barely managed to say. Whatever Stevie was doing with her hips was heavenly.

“I’m making the rules.”

Despite Stevie’s objection, Angie heard the way her voice roughened. Steviewouldfuck her. All Angie had to do to earn it was open at last: the door in her head she kept locked, barred, and barricaded.

“I’m not sure how to explain it—” Her voice rose as Stevie obliged her with a hard thrust. “Stevie, please—”

“Try.”

“Love is conditional even when it pretends it isn’t.” That earned her another thrust. She needed more. It was unreal how much she needed more. She flailed around for words. “Love doesn’t go away even when the other person stops loving you. Love opens you up for betrayal. Love is a leash other people can use to manipulate you. Oh,fuckStevie.”

She’d loved her family. She’d even loved her uncle before hate overpowered the sentiment. She’d loved the best friend who hadn’t stood up to her mother and had abandoned Angie. She’d loved, and each time she’d loved she’d been used and thrown away.

“I think,” said Stevie, pausing to cup Angie’s hip with her free hand in a gesture tender enough to bruise, “that you haven’t been loved by good people.”

“No shit.”

“I’m serious.” And she sounded serious. Stevie so rarely sounded serious, which was one of the reasons Angie loved her. The hammering of her heart now tasted like fear. “It’s not supposed to be like that.”

“Then what the hellis itsupposed to be like?” Her body was going to implode under these merging pressures. Something hot ran down her cheek. A tear? Sweat? Stevie looked at her. Stevie was always looking at her. It made her feel real in a way nothing else did.

Slowly, but without hesitance, Stevie lifted Angie’s other leg over her shoulder and kissed the inside of her knee. Eyelashes tickled her skin. Another hot flash of liquid rolled down her cheek. Tears. Angie had bared herself, which meant somewhere, a freshly honed knife was waiting.

And she was right. There was a knife. With surgical precision, Stevie’s next words cut out the damaged part of Angie’s heart and cauterized the wound.

“Can I show you?”

Sometime later, Stevie tried to prop herself up, but settled for tilting her head so she could see Angie’s eyes. A lazy, satisfied smile curved her lips. “Hi.”

“Hi. Ready to sing for your supper?” Angie asked, stroking the line of Stevie’s jaw.

“Ugh. More like ready to be mocked for the rest of the evening.”

“I promise I’ll choose good songs for you.”

“Liar.”

“You’ll love it.”

“I’ll hate it,” said Stevie. Her eyes moved over Angie’s face, seeing her. Really seeing her.

“Get ready for Sarah McLachlan,” Angie said. She braced herself for the panic that came with being seen.

It didn’t come.

“Angie.”

“Stevie.”

Stevie’s eyes were so very blue. “What do you want to tell them? And we don’thaveto tell them anything.”

No need to qualify the “them” in question. Stevie meant their friends. They were having the rest of this conversation now, it would seem.

“We could say we’re figuring it out,” Stevie added.

“No.” Angie settled across Stevie’s chest.

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