Page 12 of The Apples Hung Like Stars
I pause, wait to see what she’ll do next.
Janet reaches out, and strokes my hair. It’s long and red, and I’ve been told many a time, rather creepy when accompanied by my keen. But right now, it’s just hair, not a harbinger of grief.
“How do you fuck with all this hair?” she asks. “Doesn’t it get in the way?”
I don’t know how to tell her that I don’t fuck, that neither Aoibheall or I do. That it’s too messy, too bound up with fae politics. And that the mortals we fucked centuries ago put us off ever messing with them in that way again.
Because I want to fuck her, very much.
“I suppose,” I say, avoiding the question. “I’ll just have to pin it up.” Her eyes widen as she watches me gather it all up and with a flicker of my fingers, magic it into a carefully assembled updo. “How about that?”
She looks like she’s about to giggle.
“What?”
“‘What?’” She imitates me, laughing. “As if you don’t know.”
I look at her blankly, and she sobers up.
“Oh, you really don’t know. It’s just that women in suits, putting their hair up like that, has kind of become synonymous with…” Janet’s voice trails off.
“Synonymous with what?”
“With cunnilingus.” Her voice is quieter than it’s been all evening, quieter even than when she was in subspace. She’s flushed and looks shy, and I’m a little confused because didn’t she tick cunnilingus on her form?
“But you said that you were open to cunnilingus?”
Dark lashes blink rapidly, and she looks anywhere but straight at me. “I mean, yes…”
“Do you not want me to eat you out?”
“Oh no, I definitely do!”
“Ask nicely.” The atmosphere has changed now, teasing turned dark. I like that flush, I like the way the swell of her breasts is touched with pink, and I want to see where else that pink goes.
“Please. Clíodhna.”
“Good girl,” I say, and grab her.
Chapter Nine
Janet
One second we’re laying back, talking, and the next Clíodhna’s hands areeverywhere, touching teasing, caressing.
She pulls me to her with a roughness that mirrors our first kiss, but her hands aren’t as harsh as the flogs that she subjected me to. But her mouth, fuck, her mouth is nipping and biting its way down from my lips to my navel.
She tugs at my bra. “Take it off, kitten.”
“Say please,” I tease her, but her eyes darken and I realise that if I don’t take it off myself, she’s going to rip it off me, and I like this bra.
I don’t think I could feel more desired, but when my breasts fall from their perch, heavy, she curses and I’m hit with this sense of longing, the way I felt her grief when she keened.
She’s not aware that she’s doing it, that much is apparent, but the weight of her desire makes my head spin, and I reach for her.
“You’re not touching me,” I say, plaintively. “I need you to touch me, Clíodhna.”
Her touch is drugging, in the best kind of way, and it is exactly what I need. Her fingers dance across me, painting patterns on the undulating waves of my skin. My body isn’tsmall and delicate. I’m stocky. Fat. And the way she touches me, with such reverence, with such unbridled desire and longing for each and every inch of me, makes me feel seen like never before.
