Chapter 14
SLOANE
The scent of garlic hit Sloane the moment the elevator doors opened. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, just a little too sharp, too toasted. She smiled to herself as she stepped into the hallway, the wine bottle cold in her hand, flowers tucked awkwardly beneath her arm.
When Catherine opened the door, she was barefoot, her cheeks flushed and hair pinned back messily. Behind her, smoke curled from the edge of a pan on the stove.
“I’m…managing,” Catherine said instead of hello, stepping aside to let her in.
Sloane bit back a grin as she handed over the flowers. “These are for the grave you’re digging with that garlic.”
Catherine rolled her eyes but took them anyway, holding them like she didn’t quite know what to do with them. “You brought more flowers.”
“You’re cooking again,” Sloane said, kicking off her shoes. “We’re both full of surprises tonight.”
The kitchen was warm, too warm, and the oven was clearly forgotten. A pan of something—maybe vegetables?—was half-scorched on the stove, and Sloane caught the distinct smell of soy sauce clinging to the air.
“You’re trying to kill me with stir fry,” she said as she leaned against the counter. “That’s how this ends.”
Catherine gave her a deadpan look, but Sloane saw the faint tug of amusement at her mouth. “I didn’t realize the bar was gourmet.”
“Darling, you set the fire alarm off last time.”
“That was one time.”
“Exactly one more than me.”
Sloane moved toward her without thinking, slipping a hand over Catherine’s waist, and Catherine turned slightly toward her. The kiss was soft and brief, not hungry or rushed. Just hers.
Catherine pulled back a beat too soon, her eyes dropping to the stove like she needed an excuse to break the moment. “I hope you brought wine.”
Sloane wiggled the bottle. “And an emergency backup plan if this ends in char.”
It did.
They ended up on the floor of the living room, their chopsticks digging into takeout noodles and their backs against Catherine’s plush gray couch.
A candle flickered on the coffee table. Catherine had opened a window to let the smoke clear, and the air drifted cooler now, brushing along their ankles.
Sloane’s legs were stretched out beside Catherine’s, tangled loosely, casually. Her fingers brushed against Catherine’s knee as she reached for her wine. It felt easy in a way that almost startled her.
“You don’t cook much, do you?” she teased.
“I perform surgeries. I don’t sauté.”
Sloane raised a brow. “You do know there’s more to life than scalpels, right?”
“Well, that’s debatable.”
They sat in a quiet rhythm for a while, chewing, sipping, and stealing glances. Catherine had changed into jeans and a soft navy T-shirt, and something about seeing her like that—unguarded, slightly ruffled, no scrubs or sleek bun—made Sloane’s chest tighten.
Not with lust, something gentler.
“So,” Catherine said, setting her empty box on the table. “Tell me about your first exhibition. The real one, not the high school hallway kind.”
Sloane blinked at the shift. “You want the glamorous version or the truth?”
“I’ll take the one with fire code violations and tears.”
Sloane smiled slowly. “That was the one in the old shoe factory loft. I couldn’t afford real lighting, so we strung fairy lights from nails in the ceiling.
Dani nearly got electrocuted. A critic said my use of shadow was ‘disorienting’, and he meant it as an insult, but I used it as a quote on the promo flier for the next one. ”
Catherine laughed, a low, warm sound that Sloane barely ever got to hear. She wanted to bottle it.
“What did you show?” Catherine asked. “What did twenty-two-year-old Sloane think was worthy of the world?”
“Angst,” she said dryly. “Painted angst. I had one piece where I mixed black acrylic with soil from my mom’s garden. I was going through a thing.”
“You don’t say.”
“I also had a red canvas I slashed in three places with a box cutter. I called it Inheritance.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Your subtlety is remarkable.”
“I’ve grown since then.”
Catherine didn’t say anything for a second, just turned her head toward Sloane, watching her with something that looked a lot like reverence.
Sloane cleared her throat, trying to ignore how warm that look made her feel. “What about you? First time you felt like a real surgeon?”
Catherine hesitated. “The first time I failed.”
Sloane blinked. “That’s not what I expected.”
“I was twenty-nine. The patient coded on the table. I followed every protocol, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I stood in the scrub room afterward, staring at my hands like they belonged to someone else.”
Sloane leaned in just slightly, quieter now. “And?”
“And I realized I didn’t want to feel nothing. Not even if it made me a better surgeon. I wanted to care. I just didn’t know how to do both.”
Sloane’s fingers moved, slow and instinctive, threading gently through Catherine’s. “You figured it out, though.”
“I’m still trying.”
Their hands stayed clasped like that. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it pulsed with everything unsaid but understood.
Sloane glanced down at their fingers. Catherine’s knuckles were slightly tense, always holding back a little, always unsure if she should hold tighter.
She didn’t ask because she was curious, Sloane thought, the words forming before she could stop them. She asked because she cared. And it undid me.
And it did.
Because for all Catherine’s guarded looks and clipped words, her hands told the truth. They didn’t let go.
Catherine stood in the doorway to her bedroom, one hand on the frame, her eyes unreadable in the low light. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Sloane followed.
There was no rush, no heat sparking off her skin like it had before. No fumbling in doorways or tangled clothes scattered across the floor. This was something else entirely. Quieter. More deliberate.
The room was neat, like the rest of Catherine’s condo—cool tones, crisp lines, an absence of clutter.
But there was a softness to it Sloane hadn’t expected.
A worn sweater tossed over the chair in the corner.
A candle burned low on the nightstand, its scent something faintly floral, almost nostalgic.
Catherine moved toward the bed and sat, smoothing the comforter beneath her palms. Her shoulders, still tense from dinner and conversation, rose with a breath and then settled.
Sloane approached slowly, giving her space to change her mind.
She didn’t.
When Sloane reached her, Catherine looked up. Her eyes were open in a way they hadn’t been before. Not guarded or calculating.
Just…bare.
Sloane lifted a hand, brushing her fingers along the curve of Catherine’s jaw. Her thumb swept across the sharp angle of her cheekbone, and Catherine closed her eyes at the touch, like it steadied her.
“Do you want me to stay tonight?” Sloane asked softly.
Catherine didn’t speak. She didn’t nod. She simply reached for the hem of Sloane’s shirt, her fingers brushing against the sliver of skin at her waist, and tugged gently. Sloane let the moment bloom.
She undressed Catherine slowly, peeling away each layer like an offering. The zipper of her jeans slid down with the quiet rasp of surrender. The cotton of her shirt clung to her spine, and Sloane eased it over her head, her hands warm on the skin beneath.
Catherine didn’t look away. Her eyes held Sloane’s, unblinking, as if grounding herself in the connection.
And then Sloane let Catherine undress her, too, carefully, reverently, as if each button meant something. As if this act was sacred. In a way, it was.
The covers rustled as they sank beneath them, and Sloane swore she could feel Catherine’s pulse in the inches of air between them. She reached for her hand first, fingers threading together like they had on the couch earlier, but this time bare skin met bare skin, and it was electric.
Sloane felt excited by the feel of Catherine’s naked body against her own. Feeling Catherine melt for her was the most precious thing she had ever experienced.
Sloane kissed her everywhere she could reach without breaking contact for long—jaw, throat, the fine line of collarbone, a slow survey that wasn’t about memorizing facts so much as feeling what changed under her mouth.
She worked lower, and Catherine’s hand slid to the back of Sloane’s neck. Sloane obeyed.
“More,” Catherine breathed.
Sloane answered by slipping her hand between Catherine’s legs and feeling her hot wet desire there. She smiled to herself.
“So wet for me, Beautiful,” Sloane murmured into Catherine’s ear as her fingers teased, sliding back and forth against Catherine’s wet pussy.
Little noises escaped Catherine’s lips and Sloane knew she was letting go so much easier now. Her body was relaxed and her hips were moving of their own accord to seek out more of Sloane’s touch.
“Please…” Catherine whispered.
“Not yet, Beautiful, you will come so much harder for me, if you have patience,” Sloane continued her slow torturous strokes of Catherine’s pussy.
Sloane moved down Catherine’s body, continuing with the teasing of her fingers as her mouth tasted the light sheen of sweat on Catherine’s breasts, across her abdomen, to the crease of her groin.
Sloane ran her tongue over Catherine’s skin feeling it react under her touch.
“Oh, Sloane… oh god..” Catherine’s voice was breaking.
Sloane positioned herself on her knees between Catherine’s legs and ran her fingers teasingly up and down her wet folds once again as she watched Catherine’s body respond.
Her body was shaking and shivering with each touch. She was so beautiful splayed out on the bed in front of Sloane.
Sloane smiled. She could play this game forever, but maybe it was cruel to hold off on Catherine for any longer.
And the truth was she couldn’t wait to taste Catherine’s soaking wet pussy.
“OK, Beautiful, I’m going to lick every bit of wetness from your beautiful pussy now until you come hard in my mouth.”
Catherine squirmed before her.