Page 73 of Dr. Roz Harrington
Always.
It had rained that morning, the kind of relentless, sideways city rain that soaked your pants and made everything smell faintly of concrete and old pipes. The Harrington estate had been stifling all day, tension stretched taut across its top floor like plastic wrap, and even the usually untouchable Roz Harrington had seemed on edge.
But the moment they stepped through the front door of their apartment, it shifted.
The weight fell from Roz’s shoulders. The corners of her mouth softened. She kissed Sam on the forehead, kicked off her boots, and asked, “Do you need to talk, or do you need to be quiet?”
And Sam—drenched, exhausted, overstimulated—had whispered back, “Quiet, please. Just…you.”
Now it was evening, and outside the windows, London thrummed beneath a storm-dark sky. The lights of the city bled gold and violet into the clouds, the pulse of buses and sirens muffled by double glazing and thick velvet curtains. Inside, the apartment was all low light and warmth, soft jazz playing on vinyl, a faint hint of sandalwood still lingering from the diffuser Roz always remembered to refill.
Sam stood at the edge of their bedroom, barefoot in her slip, the one with the tiny lace straps Roz liked to tug on when she wanted Sam speechless. Her fingers toyed with the ribbon Roz had left on the bed.
It was a newer one. Thicker. A little longer. Still blush pink.
She picked it up, running the silk through her hands, and then—because she didn’t want to wait to be asked—she crossed the room and knelt beside the bed.
Not perfectly. Not performatively. Just honestly.
And she waited.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe more.
Then Roz appeared in the doorway, quiet and still and devastating.
She wore soft gray loungewear pants and a black tank top, her hair pulled back, her face makeup-free and calm. She said nothing for a moment, just leaned against the doorframe and watched.
Sam didn’t speak. She just looked up and offered her the ribbon.
Roz crossed the room without haste and knelt down in front of her. She took the ribbon with careful hands.
“Color?”
“Green,” Sam said, voice steady. “Very green.”
Roz smiled, slow and private. “Any requests?”
Sam exhaled. “Could you put me to bed?”
Roz kissed her. Once, then twice, then pressed her forehead to Sam’s and whispered, “Of course I can, princess.”
She took her time tying the ribbon, gentle fingers, perfect bow, a kiss pressed to the center knot, and then she rose and helped Sam to her feet.
“Come here.”
Sam followed, docile and trusting, as Roz guided her onto the bed and pulled back the covers. The sheets were warm, and the comforter smelled like lavender.
Roz didn’t rush. She undressed Sam with quiet care, one strap at a time, letting the slip fall to the floor before folding it neatly and setting it aside.
Then she laid her down like a secret and climbed in after her.
Roz lightly caressed her across her entire body, over her collarbone and along her shoulder, the divot of her elbow, between her fingers, along her hips, over her stomach, between her breasts. Each touch elicited a flutter from Sam’s heart, and she let go of everything except the present moment.
Roz shifted her body to sit between her thighs, but she didn’t rush. She stretched her arms and ran her fingers from the tops of Sam’s feet, up her ankles, legs, knees, and back to her thighs. With the most delicate of touches, she dragged her fingers along Sam’s inner thighs, and Sam felt heat pooling in her belly as every sense within her awakened, as they always did around Roz.
As Roz mapped the space between Sam’s legs and reached her already warm core, Roz looked up at Sam, who was already watching her. Sam smiled, the corners of her lips curling upward in that soft way reserved only for Roz in their most private of moments. She rested her head back on the pillow and felt Roz bend low, her hair tickling Sam’s thighs as she ghosted her pursed lips over Sam’s heat before running her tongue between her folds up to her clit. Roz drew circles around Sam’s clit before sucking on the nub, and Sam felt the rush of pleasure spike in her body as Roz knew exactly where, when, and how to make Sam go feral with need.
“Oh fuck, Roz, right there.” She moaned loudly, no longer self-conscious about how her body responded to Roz’s expert touches.
