Chapter 25 #3
And Jackie does. She does it again and again until Claire is quaking with the contained force of it. There’s something magical happening at the intersection of pressure and friction, and Claire wants to chase it down.
Somewhere beyond the closet door, a chorus of voices begins the countdown to midnight.
“Twelve! Eleven! Ten!”
The knowledge that it’s Jackie’s tongue that’s doing this to her, her mouth, that she’s drinking Claire in like wine and moaning at the taste, her fingernails leaving little crescents in Claire’s hips from the attempt to keep her close—it’s almost too much.
Claire squirms in her grip, eagerly following the rhythm of Jackie’s mouth like a woman possessed—
“Seven! Six!”
She’s on a train hurtling towards the edge of a cliff, and there’s no jumping off now. She can’t, she won’t. Jackie’s deep brown eyes are seeing Claire across the wide plain of her body, truly seeing her, as it all mounts to an inconceivable height—
“Four! Three! Two!”
Claire grasps for Jackie’s hand, lacing their fingers together over her own thigh. The unknown is opening up under her feet; it’s not a yawning chasm but a bright stretch of warm, blissful ocean, shimmering and waiting for her to land—
“Happy New Year!”
Jackie’s hand squeezes, her tongue doubles in its lashing over that blissful spot, and Claire’s body seizes as everything comes to its obvious conclusion.
1970 dawns with raucous cheers. There, in Jackie Callas’s coat closet with the muffled notes of the Rolling Stones playing over a rowdy party behind the closed door, Claire has her eureka.
It’s like nothing she’s ever known, those seconds of suspended feeling.
It’s a pot boiling over—it rises and rises until it spills over the sides of her, uncontainable, intense and yet brief.
Claire couldn’t stop herself from crying out even if she wanted to.
It’s involuntary, unstoppable—she’s so full to the brim with base, primal pleasure that her voice can’t fit anymore.
She bursts past the boundaries of herself, and it rolls in waves, lapping against brand-new shores.
Jackie groans. She buries her face deeper between Claire’s legs, her tongue still making sloppy circles as Claire’s world is reshaped entirely.
“Jackie,” Claire finally gasps, as the feeling tapers off into something less consuming. Her legs are shaking. She’s sure she’s only kept standing by the grace of Jackie’s shoulders holding her up. “Holy hell.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard you swear,” Jackie mumbles into Claire’s pelvis, trailing wet kisses over her inner thighs and then upward.
“This situation called for stronger language,” Claire says breathlessly as her leg slips back down to earth. “I mean…Jackie, my goodness.”
Jackie rocks back on her heels, looking up at Claire with an expression more vulnerable than Claire has ever seen on her face. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
Jackie stands up slowly, pressing herself against Claire again, which helps immensely with the shaking legs. Jackie’s mouth is wet and shiny with that between-the-legs slickness Claire has been waking up to for months, and it makes her throb as if the last five minutes never even happened.
“I’ve never—I didn’t know that was possible,” Claire says, clinging to Jackie’s shoulders. She feels bare as anything with her pants around her ankles and her shirt unbuttoned, while Jackie is still wholly clothed.
“And you liked it?”
“Are you kidding?” Claire says, absolutely giddy with whatever remains of this new feeling. “Can I…I mean, can you show me how to…”
Claire waves inarticulately at Jackie’s lower half. She wants even more than before, in a way she doesn’t have words for.
Jackie swallows hard. Her eyes are dark, not their usual warm mahogany but practically black, like deep pools Claire could dip her hand into. Jackie’s lip slides harshly through her teeth. “If you’d like.”
“Oh, I would very much like,” Claire says, with an eagerness she can’t bring herself to be ashamed of.
Jackie’s breath comes out in a rush. She tugs Claire closer by her open shirt, and then they’re kissing again. Jackie tastes like something deep and unfamiliar. Sharp and salty, but undeniably good.
Jackie tastes like Claire.
The thought lights Claire on fire. Silently, she curses every single day she spent not knowing that this was something she could do.
Remembering how good it felt to have Jackie press her into the door, Claire takes initiative.
She grabs at Jackie’s hips and spins them both until they’ve switched positions, and Jackie’s reaction is overwhelmingly positive—she groans into Claire’s mouth, low and deep, and digs her blunt nails into the base of Claire’s neck.
Claire’s shirt is still hanging open from her shoulders, and she wishes more than anything that Jackie was in a similar state.
“Teach me,” Claire pants, biting down on the soft skin of Jackie’s throat and feeling it vibrate with a moan. “Tell me what to do.”
Jackie moves one of Claire’s hands from its place on her hip down, under her dress, and between her legs. Her underwear is damp and sticky. Hot to the touch. Claire presses down firmly, and Jackie whimpers.
“You’re sure you’re ready?” Jackie says. “You want this?” She looks almost wild, her lips swollen and shiny. She looks desperate, truly desperate, but still her first thought is for Claire.
Claire has never been more ready in her life.
“I want you,” Claire murmurs. That new, fresh part of her thrives on how Jackie reacts to the words with bucking hips and breathy sounds. She presses her fingers down harder on the wet fabric, not knowing if it’s the right thing to do, but she’s gratified by Jackie’s breath hitching. “I want you.”
With that confirmation, Jackie puts a guiding hand over Claire’s again and slips it past her underwear.
Claire is a bit lost, at first. She can feel warm skin under her fingers, and then dry, curly hair, and then a hint of wetness—and then Jackie pushes at her knuckles, and Claire’s world narrows to slick heat and Jackie’s breathless gasp.
This is completely unfamiliar terrain. Claire has never so much as touched herself here, except for washing—whatever magic Jackie did when she was on her knees, Claire was too overwhelmed to pay attention. But Jackie’s hand is still firm on hers, guiding, and Claire does her best to listen.
She wants to make Jackie feel it, too.
Jackie is warm and welcoming, coating Claire’s fingers and opening to her exploration; when Claire’s fingers slip over a swollen spot, a raised bump near the crest of her, Jackie’s hips jolt like she’s been shocked.
It’s so startling that Claire almost pulls her hand away, worried that she’s done something wrong, but Jackie only presses her harder. Two fingers spread over the spot and then come together again.
“That’s—my clit,” Jackie gasps. Claire can feel it shifting under her fingers. “Feels—feels amazing.”
Clit, Claire thinks distantly. Good spot. Remember that.
Claire slides her fingers across it again, back and forth, and Jackie’s eyes roll back as her head hits the door with the thud.
“Claire, fuck…”
“It’s good?” Claire asks breathlessly.
Jackie’s reply comes before she can even finish the short question. “It’s so fucking good.”
She’s heard Jackie swear casually before, but not this often, and not this vehemently. It makes Claire feel hotter every time another word falls out of Jackie’s mouth—it’s as if she can’t help it, like the movement of Claire’s hand is forcing the vulgarity out.
The power Claire feels at being the source of Jackie’s pleasure is more potent than anything she’s ever experienced.
She nips at Jackie’s earlobe, and is rewarded with a breathy sigh; she shifts her fingers, swiping a wide and messy circle, and Jackie’s whole body rocks readily into her as if Claire is the puppeteer pulling her strings.
Back and forth her fingers trace, up and down, trying new pressures and patterns and mapping the results until finally Jackie’s shaking hand guides Claire’s lower.
“Want you inside,” Jackie gasps.
Claire wants to bite at her red lip like a ripe strawberry. When she remembers that she can, it lights a firework inside her.
“Where?” Claire asks, capturing Jackie’s lip between her teeth and cataloging the frantic sound that results. “Show me.”
“My cunt,” Jackie whispers.
That word makes Claire blush harder than anything so far.
It’s a word she’s only heard a few times, and certainly not in polite conversation; it’s something she’s sure her mother would have washed her mouth out with soap for saying in her youth.
But it seems to fit here in a way she can’t explain. It’s harsh, and dirty, and…hot.
Jackie pushes at Claire’s hand, and her fingers slip through what feels like an absurd amount of wetness until she finds a spot that gives. When she presses up and into it, sinking into Jackie to the knuckles, everything slows until Claire is hyper-aware of every sensation.
It all quiets. The party, the music, her own heartbeat in her chest—everything narrows to Jackie, just long enough for Claire’s world to shift once again.
She’s surrounded by Jackie, inside her, within her. They’re breathing the same air, sharing the same body. Claire is as close to Jackie as it’s possible to be, and she only wants to be closer.
Claire is at least vaguely familiar with this, from the other way round.
This is what Pete was always questing for, and she’s starting to understand why—for Claire, receiving this has never been anything special, just something to endure until it was over, but Jackie seems to be deriving a pleasure from it that Claire never did.
Being the source of that pleasure is a heady rush.