Page 31 of Windlass

She couldn’t risk losing her. She couldn’t go back to pretending things were normal, either.

“Better make like Cinderella then.”

“Okay. Okay. Um, living room?”

Stevie rose, clearing her plate, and after dropping it in the kitchen, most of her dinner uneaten, she sauntered into the living room as if she stripped naked in front of others on a regular basis, instead of being the girl who had changed for every gym class in a bathroom stall.

Angie met her there with her sketchbook and a glass of water, which she half-drained in a single gulp. Stevie did not make a joke about thirst traps.

“So, like . . . the couch?” Stevie waved a hand, glad her voice wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t ashamed of her body. She rather liked it, in fact, but that didn’t mean she needed other people to see it. Angie was different—both better and also so much worse.

“Actually, if you could crouch on the coffee table, like—”

“Like it’s a cliff.” She’d seen the brief sketch of scenery.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“If your cat scratches my ass—”

“You’d be lucky.” Angie settled into her customary chair, James sulking on the back. “Stevie, are you sure?”

The use of her name caught her off guard. She froze, her thumbs loosely hooked into her belt loops, listening to her heart hammer at her ribs.

Was she sure?

Yes. She was tired of pretending she didn’t notice the glances Angie snuck when she thought Stevie wasn’t looking. She was tired of pretending she didn’t care that Angie fucked other people. She was so damn tired of denying herself because she thought that was what Angie needed from her.

“I’m sure, Angela.”

This had gotten out of hand very quickly, and Angie had no idea how to rein it in, nor did she possess the inclination. Stevie’s eyes flashed a defiant blue as she pretended she was cool with stripping for an audience when Angie knew full well the opposite was the case. She needed to shut this down. She needed to—

Stevie slipped out of her tank top, and Angie squeezed her pen hard enough the plastic creaked.

Jesus Christ.

“Hair up or down?”

Angie had to wet her lips before answering. “Down.”

“Cool.”

“Do people even say cool anymore?” she asked, desperate for anything to cover the immediate, debilitating arousal that followed the rough yank of the hairband freeing Stevie’s slightly wavy hair.

“How would I know?”

“Ask your stable hand.”

“Youask my stable hand.” As comebacks went, it was not one of Stevie’s best, but Angie wasn’t about to point that out. Stevie was stepping out of her jeans, balancing on one foot with her hand on the arm of the couch to remove her socks, and words were irrelevant, because holy fuck, this was happening.

“Bra?”

She nodded, then shook her head, and then clarified: “Off.”

Stevie held her gaze as she lifted the hem of her sports bra. Angie squeezed her legs together and prayed for restraint.

The farmhouse lights were soft and warm, casting a yellow glow over Stevie’s body as she pulled her bra over her head and tossed it onto the floor with the rest of her clothes. Her breasts were tipped with rose, like her cheeks when she blushed, and the perfect size for cupping in one hand. Angie’s palms ached to feel their weight. She knew she should say something to break the silence, but she couldn’t speak; give her five minutes, just five minutes with those tits, and she’d die a happy woman.

“Underwear?” Stevie continued, relentlessly.

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