Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter
Thirty-Two
“The blue-and-white-striped dress,” Ramona said.
“Why?” Noelle asked.
Ramona took a breath. She stood in the center of the room, afternoon light streaming through the windows, making the white linens on the giant bed glow. The walls were gray, the furniture mid-century modern, a boring room, to be quite honest, but the clothes .
There were clothes everywhere. Metal racks on wheels filled the room, packed with garments of every color, every fabric, every price point. Some of the pieces—for Mallory’s character and her family, Ramona was sure—cost more money than Ramona made in six months. Louis Vuitton, Versace, Dior, Chanel—the legends in fashion, all right there, inches from Ramona’s fingertips. She didn’t dare touch any of it, though she was dying to know what thousand-dollar silk felt like.
Still, even the caliber of the clothes couldn’t distract her from the fact that she was standing with Noelle Yang in a wardrobe room.
Standing and talking .
Standing and giving her opinion .
Standing and being asked for her opinion.
“I think it looks more polished,” Ramona said, taking the cotton dress off the hanger and holding it up. It was sleeveless, but modest, with a scoop neck that would show off Dylan’s collarbones, and an A-line skirt that should hit right above her knees. Wide navy and white stripes gave it a summery, nautical feel. Perfect for a yacht-loving crew like the folks who would be at this fundraiser.
“We know at this point that Eloise is insecure about Mallory’s wealth and status,” Ramona said. “With an event this big, she’d probably try to find something that gave the illusion of money. Something simple, but a little more sophisticated than a sundress.”
Noelle nodded, took the dress from Ramona, and held it up in the natural light. “Yes, I think you’re right.”
Ramona had to press her lips together to keep from squealing—Noelle Yang just said she was right.
“Dylan, let’s get changed,” Noelle said, waving her toward the en suite bathroom. “And we’ll need different shoes.”
“Thank god,” Dylan said, already pulling a strap of her dress off her shoulder.
“Could you find some flats in navy?” Noelle asked, looking at Ramona over her glasses. “Or should we do a heel?”
“A heel, definitely,” Ramona said.
Noelle nodded. “In the closet. Size seven.”
“I’m an eight,” Dylan said.
“Size seven,” Noelle said again, not even looking at Dylan.
“You’re going to kill me. Tight flats are one thing, but too-small heels?” Dylan asked, hands on her hips.
“Fine,” Noelle said. “Seven and a half.”
Dylan threw up her hands, then took the dress from Noelle and disappeared into the bathroom. Noelle smiled and winked at Ramona, then started riffling through the racks again.
Ramona laughed as she stepped into the massive closet for the shoes. She felt like she was in a dream, her chest full of bubbles as though she’d sipped on some funky drink made by Willy Wonka. But as her eyes locked on a pair of pumps with a low kitten heel, the perfect shade of navy, seven and a half like Noelle wanted, she knew it was real. The faux leather under her fingers was cool, cracked, and perfect.
“How about these?” she asked, stepping out of the closet and holding them up for Noelle to see.
“Excellent,” Noelle said.
Ramona walked over to her, held out the shoes. But Noelle didn’t take them.
Not at first.
Instead, she tilted her head, eyes narrowing on Ramona’s face. “What was your name again?”
Ramona’s heart plummeted to her feet. She had to force her voice to stay steady as she said her name. “We met at Clover Moon a few weeks ago,” she added.
Noelle pursed her mouth. “Ramona, right. Dylan’s girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Ramona said, her face warming. “Well. I don’t know. We just…”
“And you went to RISD.”
Ramona’s eyes widened. “Yes, I did. Though I didn’t graduate.”
“Your medium?”
“Apparel design,” Ramona said.
One corner of Noelle’s mouth turned up. “I thought so.”
Ramona smiled, and then the bathroom door opened, Dylan stepping out looking perfect in the striped dress.
“What do we think?” Dylan said, smoothing her hands down the skirt.
“We think your girlfriend is a little genius,” Noelle said.
Dylan’s eyes popped, flew to Ramona, who could only stare back.
“She’s not…” Dylan said. “Well, she is a genius, but we’re—”
“Yes, yes, you can have your little DTR talk later,” Noelle said, walking over to Dylan and tugging on the dress here and there. “What I need right now is an assistant.”
Silence.
Dylan stood stock-still as Noelle plucked at her, and Ramona wasn’t sure what to say. Still, Ramona’s heart was full-on galloping in her chest, which was understandable considering how much the word girlfriend was flying around. She and Dylan hadn’t used the word, and they had always said from the start that this was just summer fun.
And it was .
But if it was so much fun, Ramona didn’t think the word girlfriend should feel so terrifying.
And so…right.
Autumn was nearing—Olive would be leaving soon, the movie wrapping—and Ramona didn’t want to look too closely at any of it.
Couldn’t.
“So?” Noelle said, eyes flicking to Ramona. “What do you say?”
Ramona blinked. “Say?”
“I need an assistant for the rest of filming,” Noelle said, pulling out a needle and thread from the apron around her waist. “You’re smart. Your instincts are good. The studio was going to send someone over from LA, but I’d prefer to have a say. Pay is shit and the hours are long, but you can’t beat the experience.”
Ramona felt all the color drain from her face. She felt dizzy. Had to grab on to the corner of the armchair by the window so she didn’t fall over. She glanced at Dylan, who was simply watching her with an expression Ramona couldn’t quite parse—half-curious, half…wary? No. Just surprised.
Because that’s all Ramona could think of right now—shock. Awe. Wonder. Pure impossibility.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
Noelle smiled. “You heard me.” She slid the needle through something at the back of Dylan’s dress. “But if you’ve got a job that keeps you from committing, or—”
“Yes,” Ramona said.
Loudly.
Nearly yelled it.
Noelle barely blinked. “Perfect. We’ll go over the details later, but for now, go tell Gia we need five minutes. She won’t stop texting me, and I’m about to throw my phone into the lake.”
Ramona hesitated, but only for a second. She knew this was a moment, a test of sorts—could the new assistant, a small-town girl, talk to the scary director? Noelle could easily text Gia back, surely, but she probably wanted to know she could count on Ramona to do her dirty work and the shit tasks, because that’s what an assistant did.
That’s what Noelle had done, working her way up and through Hollywood.
“Right,” Ramona said, squaring her shoulders and heading for the door. She wanted to look at Dylan again. Wanted to send her a holy shit nonverbal, but she was still processing the entire last half hour and wasn’t sure what Dylan was thinking.
She wasn’t sure what she was thinking either, how’d she explain her emphatic yes to Noelle’s offer. They hadn’t really talked about RISD since that night they went bowling, and it felt as though so much had happened between them since then.
Still, yes was the only answer Ramona could give to Noelle. She knew it. Dylan probably knew it too. Even April knew it, the news reaching her by some sort of astrological magic or best friend osmosis.
Ramona floated through the house and outside, spotting Gia gesticulating wildly at a crew member. She paused on the top porch step. One deep breath, and then she went and did her job as Noelle fucking Yang’s assistant.
“Okay, okay, tell me again.”
Ramona was sitting at April’s kitchen table with Olive and Leigh later that night, reliving the details of the day over and over. April, in particular, couldn’t stop freaking out about this development.
Ramona laughed, took another bite of one of the vegan bao buns Leigh had made them all for dinner—who knew pulled jackfruit could be so delicious—and shook her head. “I’ve already told you a million times,” she said, licking the garlicky sauce off her finger.
“I know, I know,” April said, wiggling in her seat. “I just can’t get over it.” She put on an affected air, pursing her mouth and lifting her pinkie finger and then speaking, inexplicably, with a British accent. “?‘So? What do you say?’ I mean, it’s classic!”
“Noelle did not stick out her pinkie finger like a douche, for the record,” Ramona said. “Nor is she from the UK.”
“In my mind, she’s the fucking queen,” April said.
“The queen’s dead,” Leigh deadpanned.
“What did Dylan say about it?” Olive asked. “Was she excited?”
Ramona opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. The truth was, she hadn’t spoken to Dylan since everything happened in the wardrobe room. She’d told Gia that Noelle needed five minutes, to which Gia said, Who the hell are you , to which Ramona managed to splutter out the words assistant and Noelle and new , not necessarily in a logical order, but the sentiment was conveyed nonetheless.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of running around the set, fixing loose buttons, and driving to and from Concord not once, but twice to procure a scarf Noelle needed and then a pair of socks for Mallory’s dad.
Socks that would barely be seen on-screen.
When she wasn’t driving or answering Noelle’s calls while in the car, she was following Noelle around set like a shadow, then double-checking all the costumes for the next day’s shoot, which was a boat scene on the water. By the time seven o’clock rolled around, they were still filming, but Noelle told her to go home.
“That’s enough insanity for your first day,” Noelle had said, and honestly, Ramona had to agree. Her feet were killing her—she definitely had not worn the right shoes to be running around on grass—she hadn’t taken a single sip of water or eaten a thing in five hours, and she was late for dinner at April’s.
Not that April didn’t understand.
In fact, April would’ve probably sent her back to set, if Noelle would take her, anything to make sure Ramona had a shot at LA.
A shot. At LA.
The words sounded foreign in Ramona’s thoughts, much less the concept itself. She couldn’t quite picture it—couldn’t see herself anywhere but Clover Lake, if she was being honest—but she wanted it nonetheless.
That life.
The kind she lived today, wild and stressed and hungry, helping create a story. It was hard, but god, it was so good .
Exciting.
And she had no idea if Dylan felt the same.
“I haven’t really had a chance to talk to her about it,” Ramona said. “Busy day and all.” She checked the time on her phone—nearly nine o’clock, and no text from Dylan. Before everything with Noelle, they’d planned to come to April’s for dinner together, but Ramona knew filming was unpredictable.
April lifted a pierced brow. “Ramona.”
“April.”
April sat forward, clasped her hands around her beer glass. “Does she still not know ?”
“Know what?” Leigh asked.
“That Ramona here is a costume design hopeful,” April said.
“Of course she knows,” Olive said. “How could she not? She’s your girlfriend.”
Ramona sat back, huffed a breath. “That’s the third time I’ve heard that word today, yet Dylan and I have never used it.”
“But she is, right?” Olive said.
“Summer fling?” Leigh asked.
Ramona sighed. “I don’t know what Dylan and I are exactly, and now, with this assistantship, I just…” She took a sip of beer. “It feels complicated.”
“What’s complicated?” April said. “You like her, she likes you, and you want to work in costume design.”
“Which I very pointedly hid from her when we first met,” Ramona said, “because I’m an idiot and had no idea I’d be making out with her a few weeks later—”
“More than making out,” April said, waggling her eyebrows like a cartoon character.
“And now, if I tell her the truth,” Ramona barreled on, “it just looks like I was hiding it.”
“You were hiding it,” Leigh said. “Pointedly.”
“Yes, thank you,” Ramona said.
Leigh lifted their glass in salute.
Ramona rubbed her temples. “I need to tell her, but she’s sensitive about this.”
“About what?” Olive asked.
Ramona let her hands flop to the table. “About people she dates using her for her fame and connections.”
God, it sounded so horrible when she said it out loud. She’d told herself a million times over the last few weeks—and at least a thousand since this afternoon—that she wasn’t doing that. Yes, hanging out with Dylan might have started like that, a way to possibly meet Noelle, but then Dylan asked her out and they kissed and slept together and went on dates and Ramona had barely thought about costume design in the last few weeks.
Barely.
“You mean like Jocelyn Gareth?” Olive asked.
Ramona frowned, Dylan’s most recent ex’s name settling heavy in her stomach. “What about Jocelyn?”
Olive rolled her eyes. “You need to read PopSugar more often.”
“I’d say less is best,” Leigh said.
“Jocelyn got a recording deal with Evenflow Records,” Olive said. “Jack Monroe’s label? And she did it all behind Dylan’s back. I mean, allegedly. But that’s what the whole rooftop party and helicopter mess was about. At least, that’s what social media says.”
Ramona just blinked, glanced at April. “Did you know about that?”
April shook her head. “No. I mean, I knew about the helicopter—everyone knows about that—but I never heard about the record deal thing.”
Ramona felt sick. A few weeks ago, on that walk through the woods, Dylan had talked about people using her—even lovers and friends—but she hadn’t mentioned any specifics. Ramona had no clue it was Jocelyn. And she had no idea it had anything to do with Dylan’s father.
Suddenly, Dylan’s reaction to her parents showing up a couple of weeks ago made a lot more sense.
“Oh my god,” Ramona said, her throat going thick.
“Hey, that’s not what you’re doing,” Olive said, reaching out and squeezing Ramona’s arm.
“Isn’t it?” Ramona asked quietly. “I mean, I wouldn’t have this job with Noelle without Dylan. That’s what it comes down to. Dylan, who I’m sleeping with. Dylan, who thinks I simply studied apparel design at RISD for a year and then came home to take care of my family.”
Everyone was silent. They knew she was right. They knew this looked as bad as it did in her head, even worse actually, because now everyone agreed with her.
“Apparel design isn’t all that different from costume design,” Olive said quietly, and god, Ramona loved her for it.
She dropped her head into her hands.
“Okay, okay, don’t panic,” April said, then got out her phone. “Let’s see what Madame Andromeda has to say.”
Everyone at the table groaned.
“Oh, please, you know you all read her when you’re freaking out about something,” April said, scrolling.
“We really don’t,” Leigh said.
“All right,” April said, ignoring them. “Libra this week…”
She trailed off as she read, forehead wrinkled in concentration before her brows shot suddenly into her hair. Then she put the phone face down on the table.
“You know what, Madame Andromeda is a hack,” she said. “Who wants dessert?”
“Absolutely not,” Ramona said. “What did Andromeda say?”
“She said you’re the most beautiful girl on the planet,” April said.
“Right,” Ramona said. “Don’t make me break out Llama Face.”
“Shit, I forgot about Llama Face,” Leigh said, leaning forward on their elbows. “Let’s see it.”
“Not until April reads me my horoscope,” Ramona said, folding her arms. “And there are seven words I never thought I’d say.”
“She said you’re doomed.”
All three of them looked at Olive, who had declared this lovely fortune. She held her phone in her hand, eyes on the screen.
“Doomed?” Ramona asked.
“Basically,” Olive said.
“Just read it,” April said, sitting back in defeat.
“ As a Libra, you crave balance and fairness ,” Olive read, “ but this week, as Saturn moves into emotional Pisces, you find yourself ruled by the heart. This is a welcome respite from your usual logical methods, but be careful. The heart is wild, and left untamed, it can place you in situations where you find yourself risking heartbreak. You’ll have to decide whether or not it’s worth it. ”
They were all quiet for a second, Andromeda’s words echoing through the room.
“Well, shit,” Leigh said, standing up. “This definitely calls for some black bean chocolate mousse.” They went to the fridge and pulled out a tray of tiny glass jars, each one full of silky-looking chocolate and topped with blueberries and shaved almonds.
Ramona just stared as Leigh placed a pot in front of her.
Heartbreak .
You have to decide…
“Hey, everyone,” Dylan said, coming in the side door. She still had a full face of makeup, but she was dressed in jeans and a plain gray T-shirt instead of the fateful striped dress. “Sorry I’m late. Gia was on a tear tonight.”
“Hey,” Ramona said, standing up and pulling Dylan into her arms.
She held on a little longer than was necessary. When she pulled back, Dylan met her eyes, her brows lowered a little. She tucked Ramona’s hair behind her ear.
“Congrats on the job,” she said softly. “Didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier.”
Ramona forced a smile, searching Dylan’s eyes for…she wasn’t even sure. Anything.
“Thank you,” Ramona said when all she found was Dylan’s calm expression, no smile, but no angst.
Which really wasn’t like Dylan at all.
Dylan looked at her for a second, brushed her thumb over her cheek before she sat in the chair next to Ramona’s. Leigh handed her a plate full of bao buns and Dylan dug in, marveling at how much jackfruit could taste like pork, just like they all had earlier. She was beautiful. She smiled. She ate. She complimented the food. She asked Olive about college preparations and April about recent tattoos she’d done and Leigh about why the hell anyone would ever want to put black beans in chocolate, and then they all talked about how they hated the Fourth of July and its illusory celebration of American independence, which led to laments about the next election’s possibilities.
It was a perfect night, really. There was humor and food and shared camaraderie over genuine fears, laughter and stories and strong coffee.
But the entire time, Dylan never really looked at Ramona again. She didn’t ask her anything, didn’t say anything else about Noelle, and neither did the rest of their party.
Unease slithered through Ramona, slow and steady, like an oncoming sickness.
She reached out and took Dylan’s hand while they all drank coffee, and Dylan let her. Their fingers tangled together, a perfect fit, but Dylan still wouldn’t look at her, and Ramona had never craved a pair of eyes on her own so much in her life. She felt feral with want, and as she sat there, other wants bubbled to the surface, wants she’d been avoiding, been brushing off.
Dylan with her friends like this, with her sister. Dylan with her . Ramona wanted all of that. She wanted more than the summer, and she wanted more than just a fling. She wanted, and she wanted, and she wanted.
And she wanted to tell Dylan the truth. And she would. She would .
She just had to figure out the right time.
Dylan was quiet on the way back to her house.
She and Ramona walked, holding hands through the twinkle-lit downtown, red, white, and blue decorations already hanging in the square for the Fourth celebrations tomorrow. The entire way, Ramona didn’t break the silence, her mind too busy trying to figure out how to broach the subject of Noelle and RISD and all the things Ramona wanted.
The shape of her dreams.
A shape that had morphed in the recent weeks to include Dylan Monroe.
She still hadn’t figured it out when they walked into Dylan’s house, the glow from the stove the only light.
Dylan dropped her bag, then went straight to the refrigerator and poured a glass of water. She drank the whole thing down in five gulps.
Ramona stood by the couch, watching her. Thinking.
Dylan, when we first started hanging out, I had hoped you could introduce me to—
God, no.
Dylan, I’ve pretty much worshipped Noelle Yang since her first film—
Jesus Christ, the idea here was to not sound like an opportunistic asshole.
Because that’s not what Ramona was at all.
Was she?
She shook her head. Took a breath.
Dylan, I want to be a costume designer. I always have.
There. Simple. To the point. Left Noelle out of it altogether, which seemed best. Maybe Dylan would simply say, Great, babe, anything I can do to support you .
Ramona swallowed about a billion times. Clasped her hands in front of her. Then behind her. Then folded her arms, but no, that looked confrontational, so she let them dangle by her sides like deadweight.
Dylan…
Her brain told her to say it.
Dylan…
Her tongue wouldn’t cooperate though. She swallowed some more. Linked her hands in front of her again.
Meanwhile, the real flesh-and-blood Dylan stood watching her, that cool expression she’d worn all evening on her face.
“Come here,” she said.
Ramona hesitated, but only for a second. She’d give Dylan the moon right now if she could. She walked over, stood in front of Dylan by the center island.
Dylan set her empty glass on the counter, her eyes never leaving Ramona. She watched her for so long, head tilted, eyes soft and hooded, Ramona started to squirm.
She started to sweat and breathe heavily.
She started to think maybe Dylan already knew, or at least knew that Ramona had used her.
But that wasn’t true.
Ramona…fuck.
Ramona loved Dylan.
That was the truth of it.
But she couldn’t just say that. Not right now, not with so many other things she needed to say first, but she couldn’t say those things either. She didn’t want to say anything right now. She just wanted to do . To act, to show Dylan that she was hers.
Ramona was hers .
She stepped closer, set her hands on Dylan’s waist, and pulled her against her body.
Dylan let her, eyes still watching her.
Then Ramona kissed her cheek. First one, then the other, going slow. Giving Dylan plenty of time to stop. She kissed her nose then. She moved to her eyebrows, listening to Dylan’s breathing stutter and start. Ramona worked her way around Dylan’s lovely face, trailing to her neck, below her ears, her throat.
Ramona let her hands roam too, up Dylan’s rib cage and around to her spine, then down over her ass and around her hips again. She wanted to touch every inch of her skin, every nerve ending, every goose bump her fingertips pulled to the surface. She kissed Dylan’s neck, reveling in the soft moan Dylan released. Ramona’s fingers stopped on the button of Dylan’s jeans, pausing before she kissed Dylan’s mouth.
“Give me a color,” Ramona said softly.
Dylan paused, eyes fluttering closed, then said, “Yellow.”
Ramona knew that meant caution , to go slow, so that’s what she did. She cupped Dylan’s face in her hands, then kissed her mouth. Soft. Closed. Gentle and barely there, letting Dylan take the lead.
Ramona loved their sex life. She’d experienced things with Dylan she hadn’t with anyone else, things she never even thought she’d be into. But she was. She loved getting tied up and being called names and having to beg Dylan— Ms. Monroe —over and over to make her come. It was wild and exciting and safe , and Ramona loved every moment.
And she loved this too.
This slow dance, emotional and quiet and close.
“Dylan,” Ramona whispered against her.
Dylan’s breath hitched, her mouth opening to Ramona’s, letting her in. Their tongues met, both women moaning at the contact, and Dylan finally grasped Ramona around the waist, pulling her closer and closer. The kiss grew deeper and more desperate, teeth and gasps and hands in each other’s hair. In this moment, Ramona didn’t think she’d ever wanted anything like she wanted Dylan right now—naked, sprawled underneath her, her mouth pressed between Dylan’s legs.
“Baby,” Ramona said, fingers skimming Dylan’s waistband. “Give me a color.”
“Green,” Dylan said, her mouth right under Ramona’s ear. “So green. Dark, bright, fluorescent, whatever.”
Ramona laughed. “Thank god.”
Then she pulled Dylan over to the plank-style, driftwood kitchen table. Ramona didn’t want a bed right now, didn’t want the couch. She wanted Dylan right there on this table, wanted Dylan to see that Ramona wanted her there, wanted her anywhere, any way, anytime.
Ramona didn’t waste time getting Dylan’s clothes off. She lifted off her T-shirt, unhooked her bra, and had her jeans off her legs in under ten seconds.
“Efficient,” Dylan said.
Ramona just laughed, then pushed Dylan to the edge of the table, her ass, still in her purple underwear, hitting the wood.
“Bossy tonight,” Dylan said.
“I just know what I want,” Ramona said, looking her in the eyes.
Dylan canted her head. “Do you?”
“I do,” Ramona said firmly.
They both watched each other for a second.
“And what’s that?” Dylan asked. Her voice was soft, even small.
“You,” Ramona said. No hesitation. No coy smile. She knew. “I want you, Dylan Page Monroe.”
Dylan didn’t respond right away. Not with her mouth, at least. But her hands worked, unbuttoning Ramona’s lipstick-print blouse, sliding her bra straps down her arms before unhooking the clasps. Then she plucked at both of Ramona’s nipples before she moved on to her jeans. Ramona gasped, body arching toward Dylan for more. But Dylan simply unzipped her jeans, shucked them down her legs, and then did the same with her underwear.
Soon Ramona was naked, and Dylan trailed her eyes up and down her body, devouring her. Ramona felt herself get even wetter just from that look, those icy eyes somehow smoky.
Finally, when she’d had her fill, Dylan pushed the chairs out of the way and slid herself onto the table, leaned back on her elbows.
Then she spread her legs, a slow, exquisite reveal.
“You got me,” Dylan said.
Ramona didn’t wait any longer. She pressed her thighs between Dylan’s legs, hands on Dylan’s hips to pull her even closer, kissing her hard, then soft, then hard again. She wanted everything—the wild rollick and the slow dance, feral and gentle all at once, a kaleidoscope of everything she felt.
Ramona cupped Dylan’s breasts, pulling at her nipples as they kissed, Dylan’s moans making her crazy. Making them both crazy.
“Please,” Dylan said against her mouth, and Ramona loved that too. The begging. Usually she was the one to beg, but these turned tables were exciting. “Ramona, please.”
“Please what?” Ramona asked, happy to stay here, kissing Dylan’s perfect mouth, sliding down to get her mouth on her tits.
“You know what.”
“I want you to say it,” Ramona said, taking Dylan’s nipple between her teeth.
Dylan slid her hand into Ramona’s hair, right at the back of her head, then pulled her head up to look her in the eyes. The tug stung in the best way, Ramona’s mouth open as she looked up at the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Put your mouth on my cunt,” Dylan said.
“Ask nicely,” Ramona said. She didn’t want to give up quite yet, the power she so often begged to relinquish to Dylan. But tonight, she wanted it. Not to exert over Dylan, but to share.
To share everything.
Dylan leaned forward, bringing her mouth right against Ramona’s. “Please, Ms. Riley, put your mouth on my cunt.”
Ramona smiled, then licked into Dylan’s mouth. Once…twice, before she pulled away so she could push Dylan onto her back. Then she just looked.
Because this.
This was how Ramona had wanted her—spread out, vulnerable, laid bare. Just like Ramona had felt all night.
How she always felt around Dylan, if she was being honest.
“God,” Ramona said, sliding her hands down Dylan’s thighs. “You’re gorgeous.”
Dylan’s only response was to arch her back, those tits bouncing with the movement, nipples peaked and hips bucking at the air for friction. Ramona didn’t want to make her wait any longer. She didn’t want to wait any longer. She pressed her face between Dylan’s legs and inhaled, her nose right against that wet spot at the center of her underwear.
Dylan gasped.
And Ramona licked.
A slow slide of her tongue up toward Dylan’s clit.
“Fuck,” Dylan said, drawing out the vowel, breathy and needy.
The sound made Ramona crazy, just as desperate to devour her. She kept licking, swirling, sucking the cotton into her mouth, tasting Dylan through the barrier while Dylan writhed on the table.
Soon, though, the underwear was in the way. Ramona wanted more, so she stopped what she was doing, pushed Dylan’s legs together, and pulled down her underwear as fast as she could. It got stuck on Dylan’s ankle, but Ramona didn’t care, spreading Dylan out before her again.
“Oh my god,” Dylan said, right before Ramona’s mouth touched her, then said it again even louder when Ramona made contact. Skin to slick skin. “Baby, that’s so good.”
Ramona moaned against her, licking and kissing, sucking Dylan’s clit into her mouth until her body locked up, back arched, one of Ramona’s hands cupping her breast and pinching her nipple.
“Jesus,” Dylan said when she relaxed back onto the table. She looked down at Ramona. “You.”
Ramona smiled, but she wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. She loved making Dylan come any way she could, every way, but right now, she wanted something more.
Closer.
“Stay here,” she said, then turned and walked into the bedroom.