12. Juice? #3
‘Look at me, Greta. Please.’ Greta dropped her head as Dylan pulled her flush, erasing every remaining millimetre of space between them.
The curved palm at her throat was gentle, fingers tracing the line of her jaw, coaxing her head back.
‘I won’t kiss you, not if you don’t want that,’ Dylan whispered earnestly.
‘I would never do anything to hurt you.’
The tenderness of the promise rang in Greta’s ears while she screamed at herself to turn.
Look at her.
Just fucking look at her.
Dylan had proven herself; she had never put her lips to any part of Greta, not without explicit instruction. She could trust her—she did trust her. She just didn’t trust herself.
The gentle urge of hands on her hips, turned Greta slowly. Head dipped and eyes squeezed shut, she felt a wave of fragile reluctance at finally facing Dylan.
‘Look at me,’ Dylan whispered. Greta's chest heaved at the featherlight touch of fingers moving a stray strand of hair, tenderly securing it behind her ear. 'You know you can trust me, Greta.’
Greta slowly opened her eyes as Dylan pulled back, head canted.
She scanned Dylan’s face, overcome by just how fucking beautiful she was.
Amber flecks shone in Dylan's green eyes, as if Greta's reflection was the one thing they had needed. She looked invigorated; the exhaustion she saw earlier had been replaced by a raw, bright energy. A few brown curls kissed her pleading eyebrows. Greta struggled to hold the intensity of their gaze, just as Dylan’s lips broke into a soft, relieved smile.
Leaning back in Dylan’s arms, Greta raked her gaze over her torso.
Her tattoos were brighter than ever. The body she had trained every day since they last met was lean and powerful; the contours of her muscles mouth-wateringly well-defined.
Greta’s hands travelled over the sides of Dylan’s neck, dragging down over her chest, palms grazing Dylan's modest breasts. With Greta’s palms pressed over her hard nipples, Dylan’s eyes drifted shut, a ragged sigh shaking her entire frame.
Tracing the lines of Dylan’s stomach, Greta’s fingertips dragged lower, making the muscles beneath them tense and twitch.
A slow arch of Dylan's body pushed her forward into the contact. With Dylan’s fingers buried in her hair, Greta allowed herself to lean into the touch, exhaling a long, slow breath as blunt fingernails raked over her scalp.
‘You look incredible,’ Dylan whispered softly. ‘I’ve missed you so fucking much.’
Greta’s blinking quickened as the words hit her, mirroring the ones in her head she was too terrified to say out loud.
Try as she might not to miss Dylan, not to think about her incessantly, she had.
There was no getting away from it. She had missed her so deeply that being together now was almost too much to bear.
With their hips anchored and hands reacquainting themselves, Greta stared at Dylan’s mouth.
The glistening lips Dylan had just moistened with her tongue stayed slightly parted as heavy breaths fell from them.
Without thinking, Greta traced the tips of her fingers over them, catching Dylan’s plump bottom lip with her thumb and pulling it down as she passed over it.
The air crackled as they stood pressed together, the growing heat beginning to scorch Greta’s lungs.
Her Mum’s words rang in her head:
You deny yourself what you really need.
Enough.
Focused on the gaze trained on her mouth, Dylan let out a quiet breath; her lips slightly parted, as if she were waiting for their lips to finally meet after all this time.
Greta tried to speak, but her voice fractured, the words lodged in her chest, along with the five years of unrelenting suffering.
It was a pain that had eaten away at her, a debilitating, all-consuming agony she believed could never be replaced with joy or happiness.
Nor could it be soothed or fixed. She wouldn't allow herself to think that this person—not yet thirty, a university student still living at home—could be the one to fix anything.
But fuck, she wanted her.
She wanted her. She needed her.
Greta broke.
‘I’ve missed you, Dylan,’ she whispered.
A long, shuddering sigh escaped Dylan at the words. Moving to cradle Dylan’s cheek, Greta’s hand caught the weight of her face as she leaned into the warmth and turned to press her mouth against Greta’s palm.
The soft kiss sent a lightning bolt through Greta’s body, so powerful it forced her head to drop forward.
The image of Dylan’s full pouted lips against her skin pushed at the heart hanging broken in her ribs, yet screamed at her to stop the denial.
An internal battle raged, Greta’s chest heaving as the war went on, but she couldn’t do it anymore.
She was exhausted.
She was done.
‘Kiss me,’ Greta uttered, barely audibly, but Dylan caught it.
Motionless, Dylan’s gaze frantically searched Greta’s face, the air trapped in her throat, unable to look away.
‘Are you—’
‘Kiss me, Dylan. Please,’ Greta repeated breathlessly.
Reaching for her face, Dylan abandoned any remaining hesitation, softly licked her own lips and leaned forward.
Reflexively Greta dipped her head before a soft hand scooped up her jaw, gently pulling her in.
As if in slow motion, Dylan narrowed the remaining distance while Greta’s hands pressed flat over her chest, a rapid heart pounding under her palms. Torturously, Dylan hovered for what felt like a lifetime, pulling back just an inch to cast her gaze fleetingly at Greta’s mouth before finally pressing their lips together; drawing a stuttered whimper from Greta’s throat.
The kiss was soft and chaste at first, a tentative question almost. The feeling of Dylan’s breaths, the taste of her soft skin, the thrum of her moan was an instant but terrifying release, shattering the defences Greta had kept up since she last pressed her kiss to Muriel’s cold lips.
For one second, the sheer physical sensation drowned out everything else, before a wave of guilt hit, sick and heavy in Greta’s gut.
Determined not to be dragged under and swept away by it, Greta tried to be in the moment but enjoying the kiss felt like a betrayal.
Every bit of warmth made her feel like she was erasing her wife, pushing her into the past just to feel something new.
The dichotomy of emotion pushed against the inside of her ribs, filling her, but she didn't pull away, because all she wanted was Dylan’s mouth to rove over hers.
For Dylan’s lips to slide into the space she was making for them as though they had been designed to do just that.
She wanted their tongues to press and dance, it was all she wanted, but as she let herself be kissed, she felt completely torn between the woman she had buried and the one holding her jaw.
The sheer desperation of the noise Dylan made against her lips drowned everything out.
Greta stopped fighting the past and the burden of her self-denial.
She let the memory of the funeral, the years of devastating anguish and the quiet apartment slip away, choosing instead the solid, bruising reality of the chest pressing against hers.
If this was betrayal, she didn’t care anymore.
How could it be a betrayal? How could finally choosing to breathe when she was starving of oxygen be a betrayal?
Pulling Dylan in tighter, Greta buried herself in their heat until there was no room left for anything but Dylan’s soft mouth moving over hers.
Until there was no space but for the breaths and moans she was swallowing from the woman she had fallen for.
Greta’s hands roved over Dylan’s face and neck, fingertips raking her smooth buzzed fade, tangling in her curls, pulling her closer.
They were touching, but it wasn't enough. It was everything she hadn’t dared to admit she wanted, yet it still wasn't enough. Her hands hungrily roamed as if for the first time. They moaned into one another’s mouths, their breaths coming faster, louder, and hotter.
The warmth of their lips ignited into a ferocious heat as the kiss deepened into a frenzied hunger spilling from them both.
Unfettered and at-fucking-last.
The backs of Greta’s fingers pressed into Dylan’s firm belly as she reached for the top button of her jeans.
A light grip halted her movement, as Dylan guided her hands around her waist to press them into the muscles of her lower back.
Confusion forced Greta’s eyes open, but Dylan didn't pull away. The kiss only deepened with a desperate, consuming intensity, as if Dylan couldn’t survive a single second without Greta’s mouth.
Baring her throat, Greta tilted her head back to welcome the trail of open-mouthed kisses Dylan began bathing over her face and neck.
‘I’ve wanted this for so long,’ Dylan confessed, the words breathed against Greta's skin. ‘I’ve wanted you for so fucking long.’
Greta inhaled the words, letting them flow through her until they wove into the very fibre of her being.
As their passion deepened, Dylan’s mouth grew harder, hotter.
Tongues pushed and pressed in a frantic rhythm as they tasted one another, licking into each other's mouths. With a thrilling urgency Greta’s leggings were roughly shoved down over her hips, forced all the way to the floor then kicked away.
Greta felt Dylan’s grip tighten on the backs of her thighs, lifting her straight into the air.
She wrapped her legs around Dylan’s waist, pressing herself into her firm stomach and smiling into the kiss as Dylan stepped forward to settle her onto the kitchen island.
The reluctance, the worry, and the weight of the room slowly faded, pushed completely from her mind.
With Dylan pressed securely between her thighs, Greta possessively locked her arms and legs around her, as though she intended to keep her there forever.