29. Carrington #4
Lucy climbed onto the bed. She straddled Carrington's thighs and leaned down and kissed her again.
The full weight of her was against Carrington's body and the warmth of her was everywhere.
Carrington could feel her, the wet heat of her against her stomach.
She simultaneously wanted to touch her and wait.
Lucy kissed her way down. She kissed Carrington's throat, then Lucy's mouth moved down to her chest, between her breasts, along the line of her sternum, and Carrington watched.
She propped herself on her elbows and watched Lucy's mouth move down her body. She didn’t close her eyes or turn her face away.
Lucy's mouth reached her belly. She kissed the soft skin below the navel, the crease of her hip, and the top of the dark hair lower down. She moved between Carrington's legs, and her hands pushed Carrington's thighs apart. Carrington let them, and then Lucy's mouth was on her.
The first touch was light, just lips, just warmth, just the suggestion of pressure. Carrington's hips lifted. Lucy held them down with both hands, pressing them into the mattress, and then her tongue found Carrington's clit and Carrington stopped thinking.
Lucy was slow in a way that was almost cruel, in a way that made Carrington aware of every nerve ending individually.
She used the flat of her tongue and then the tip, and she found a rhythm and kept it.
When Carrington got close to orgasming, Lucy changed it—slower, softer, a different angle—and Carrington groaned loudly.
"Lucy."
"Mm." The vibration of it against her was almost enough.
"Please."
Lucy didn't speed up. She kept the same pace and slid two fingers inside Carrington’s pussy.
Carrington's walls tightened around them and the sound she made was not quiet.
Lucy's fingers moved slowly, curling, pressing, and her mouth kept its rhythm.
Carrington could feel her orgasm building, deeply, like a tide.
She came with her back arched and her hands in Lucy's hair.
Her mouth was open and she heard herself make a sound from far away, loud and unguarded.
Lucy's mouth did not stop until Carrington's hands pulled her up.
Lucy crawled back up the bed. Her mouth was wet when she kissed Carrington.
Carrington could taste herself, and she kissed Lucy harder.
"Your turn," Carrington said.
Lucy lay back on the pillows. She was flushed from the chest up and her hair was wild.
Her legs fell open, and Carrington moved between them.
She kissed the inside of Lucy's thigh, the soft skin there, the warmth.
She could smell her—musky, warm, intimate—and she put her mouth on her.
Lucy's hips jerked once and then settled.
She wasn’t always sure of herself with this.
She had not done it much before Lucy and she had not done it with anyone since.
The first time she had knelt by the bed and gone down on Lucy, she had felt clumsy and unskilled.
Lucy had been patient with her in that steady, unimpressed way she had.
But Carrington had learned. She had learned what Lucy liked—the flat of her tongue, pressure from below, two fingers inside curled upward—and she did those things now.
Lucy was wet, and Carrington's fingers slid into her easily. Lucy made a sound, and her hips moved against Carrington's mouth in a rhythm that wasn’t slow anymore. It was the first time Lucy had let the pace slip, and Carrington felt it like a gift, like being let in behind a wall.
She kept her mouth on Lucy's clit and her fingers inside her. She found the spot—the rough, swollen place on the front wall—and she pressed it. "Fuck," Lucy moaned.
"Carrington!" she cried out, and her orgasm came, her thighs closing around Carrington's head and her whole body lifting off the bed.
Carrington gentled her through it. Slower tongue, softer pressure, fingers still inside but not moving.
She felt the contractions around her fingers, felt them slow and felt Lucy's thighs relax.
She pressed a kiss to the inside of Lucy's thigh and pulled her fingers out carefully, then wiped them on the sheet.
She crawled up the bed and lay beside Lucy, and their shoulders touched. Lucy turned her head. Her eyes were open. She looked wrecked in a good way—flushed, loose, her hair sticking to her temples, her lips swollen.
Lucy's hand rested on Carrington's hip. Her fingers moved, tracing the bone, the dip above it, the soft skin below. Carrington put her hand over Lucy's and held it. Lucy's fingers went still under hers, just for a moment, and then they turned and laced through Carrington's and squeezed once.
Later, with the light still on, Carrington got up for water and stepped on her own clothes on the way past. Grace's page had come out of the pocket and was lying face down on the rug.
She picked it up and unfolded it and read the last line on it again.
Then she put it in the drawer of the nightstand and left the drawer standing open.