Chapter 13 Coming Up Roses
COMING UP ROSES
Sasha was trying like hell to sleep, but it wouldn’t come.
She chewed a melatonin gummy, ate an edible, and took a Tylenol PM.
Still nothing. For hours, she lay awake, feeling restless and ungrounded.
Eventually, her mind drifted to Deep Thoughts.
She began asking herself the big questions.
Where was she going in life? How would she get there? Who even was she?
Who I am, she thought, is a woman who is suddenly, desperately horny.
She rolled onto her back in the cool cocoon of her sheets, determined to solve her problem.
Her fingers dipped under the waistband of her cotton boy shorts, sliding down, down, down.
Slowly, she stroked herself, sending pleasant—but relatively placid—ripples through her body.
Jesus, she was wound tight. She was unsettled about the case and feeling unproductive at work.
If she didn’t take the edge off her personality, she’d never find sleep. And definitely not an orgasm.
It had been so long since she’d had an actual orgasm, that she didn’t aim too high. But she never stopped trying.
Restlessly, in the dark, she pulled up Seat F sense memories.
The feel of his rough hand in hers. His bold, expensive scent.
The surreal, almost translucent wintergreen tint of his eyes.
The florid accent. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she let out a long, uneven sigh.
Instead of calming her, thinking of him made her feel hectic.
Confused. Desperate. Where the fuck was he?
Why did she meet The One, only for him to slip out of her grasp?
Evade her? It was maddening. With a frustrated sound, she reached for her bedside lamp, flicking it on.
And then, she lit her cypress-and-the-sea candle.
She tried to send her thoughts to Gallipoli, a place she’d never been, with a man she barely knew. Her lids fluttered closed.
Let go of the tension, bitch, she told herself. Just let go. Relax.
But never in the history of overfocusing on unfocusing did anyone actually relax.
Time for the Rose. Her palm resting in her panties, Al Bundy–style, was no longer good enough.
She needed more than relaxation. She needed an orgasm.
Fucking terribly. And just because she’d been blocked for years, didn’t mean it’d be that way forever.
With an almost-pissed-off scowl, she pressed the vibrator button to level three (there were five), and slid it over her clit.
Her cotton panties were the only barrier.
Sasha drew in a deep breath, held it, and let go. And then, she tried to think of sexy things.
A$AP Rocky’s cheekbones, she thought desperately.
Gucci’s Jackie 1961 handbag. Their Eyes Were Watching God.
The chocolate treatment at Body By Brooklyn spa.
Old black-and-white photos of Black cowboys.
SZA’s rasp. Curiosity. Ana?s Nin’s diaries.
The caramelized edges of a peach cobbler.
The entire cast of Sinners. Humor. Dimples.
Her eyes flew open. Dimples? Hold on. What?
Yep, dimples, she thought. A thigh-melting smile.
A raspy, late-night voice. Strong hands.
Sinfully suckable lips you can’t help imagining skimming the length of your throat.
Soulful, intense eyes framed by mesmerizingly long lashes that have absolutely no Black-ass business adorning a man.
Grill game. Loyalty. A name that begins with W.
Wes. Wes. Wes.
Oh. Ohhh. Okay, now she was starting to feel something.
Searing warmth radiated from the Rose. Her lids shuttered closed.
No. Wes wasn’t supposed to be the thought that made her pussy throb.
His face wasn’t supposed to make her thighs tremble.
But it was probably a normal association, seeing as how they’d just discussed the Rose a few nights ago.
She turned the vibrator up to four, sending a jolt of electricity through her.
With a small moan, she arched her back, riding the waves of pleasure.
Heat was building, her pulse was racing, but she couldn’t quite get there.
In fact, the more she imagined Wes doing Wes things—cracking wise, writing in his notebook, chuckling in that adorable, eye-disappearing way—the more frustrated she became.
Simply imagining him wasn’t enough. It wasn’t good enough. She needed more.
Sasha Cruz, thirty-two, made an executive decision.
And it was crazy. It was something she would’ve never done a year before, but it was happening.
She was going to call Wes. She fucking ached to hear him.
His voice in her ear might send her over the edge.
And he didn’t have to suspect anything. They talked every night, so it wouldn’t be cause for alarm.
Plus, it was 2:30 a.m. She decided anything that happened at this hour, could be stricken from the record.
Her left hand held the Rose in place. With her right hand, she grabbed her phone off the nightstand and thumb-dialed his number. Then, she put the phone on speaker and propped it next to her ear, on the pillow.
She was sweaty, hot, and unbearably flushed. But she channeled all her experience coaching actors through auditions, and told herself to act normal.
“Hey,” answered Wes, sounding drowsy-cozy. “Wassup.”
His voice was low, deep, and raspy with sleep. Wes’s languid rasp, so intimate in her ear, sent her spinning. She imagined him next to her, close enough to touch, to bite, to kiss.
“Hi,” she breathed into the phone, trying to steady the tremor in her voice. She pressed the vibrator deeper into her, and the electric surge was almost too good. She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed a whimper. “Wh-what are you doing this weekend?”
“You good? You sound different. Are you high?”
“No.” The vibration of his voice thrummed through her, arching her back, pebbling her nipples under the thin cotton of her nightshirt. The rush was excruciating, obliterating. She worked her hips, sinuously, against the Rose. Against his voice.
Wait, she thought, what are we talking about? Hurry, think of something.
“Sasha?”
When Wes said her name in that breathy, sleepy, slightly confused way, she almost came from that alone. Just from the way her name sounded in his mouth, in the dark. Her toes curled. She bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Oh God, was she doing this? She was really doing this.
“You told me you used to teach boxing, right?” she managed.
“Years ago, but yeah. You want me to train you?”
“Yes. Yes!” She turned the Rose up to five, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “I—I want to learn self-defense. I need . . . I need . . .”
“What do you need?”
Oh God. Now, everything he said had a double meaning. She would not survive this conversation.
“If I could fight,” she huffed, “I’d feel safer.”
“I hear you. But you should know, I was teaching off the books. I don’t have a certificate to train or anything. You sure you don’t want to take a real class?”
“No, I want you.” She choked back a moan on “you,” and pushed the vibrator deeper into her clit. Pleasure seared through her, and she arched again, riding the wave in agonized silence.
Why did I say I wanted him? she thought. He’s gonna know, he’s gonna know . . .
“You want me.” He paused for a moment, and then let out a low, soft chuckle. “Good to know. Your place or mine?”
“Yours,” she breathed. “Yours.”
“Mine. Cool.” Pause. “Do you have asthma? You’re breathing a lot.”
“Everyone br-breathes a lot. If we didn’t, we’d be dead.”
“Wait, you’re serious about training at my house? You really wanna come?”
Jesus, the word “come.” The way Wes said it, it was just . . . it was too . . .
“Do I wanna . . . what?” Sasha was close. She rubbed the Rose against her panties, the delicious friction almost too much to take, now. Her face rolled against the pillows and she swallowed a moan, trembling uncontrollably.
“Come.”
A spike of electricity tore through her. Wes’s voice licked into her every opening, tasting every thirsty, needy, desperate part of her, driving her utterly insane. She needed it again.
“You’re breaking up,” she lied, trying to keep her voice steady. “Can you repeat that?”
“I was just rhetorically asking if you really wanted to come.”
“Wh-what?”
“You still can’t hear me? You must have T-Mobile. Verizon ain’t cheap, but it’s worth it.” Then, he raised his voice, intentionally articulating every word. “Do. You. Wanna. Come.”
“Yesss,” she groaned, turning her face to one side, burying her moans in the pillow.
She was losing it, fast. She was so close, she was soaring.
A few beats passed; or maybe it was several beats, she couldn’t tell.
Time was liquid, and so was she—her panties were drenched.
Bucking helplessly against the Rose, her thighs began to quiver and her breath hitched.
When Wes spoke again, it was different. Something changed in the brief, loaded pause since he last spoke. Sasha thought she heard him suck in a sharp breath. His gasp felt close, excruciatingly close. She was losing her mind.
“Oh.” His voice was a low rumble, deep in his throat.
She held her breath, waves threatening to explode. Did he know? She couldn’t speak, or she’d cry out. She’d give herself away.
“Sasha.”
He spoke her name like a command. It was too delicious to process. It was coming from a place she’d never heard—and it was guttural, dominating, and dirty as fuck. Wave upon wave of arousal crashed through her.