27. Lucky dip fucking?
Chapter twenty-seven
Lucky dip fucking?
Peering over the top of her laptop, Dylan cocked an eyebrow as Greta crossed the bedroom. ‘Am I supposed to finish this dissertation while you flounce around in a T-shirt that skims your arse cheeks like that?’ The frustration in her tone was almost palpable.
Quickly whipping her body around, Greta raked her gaze over Dylan, who was propped up on cream linen pillows, wearing grey cotton shorts and nothing else but a smile.
‘Well, I managed to go about my business with you topless all the time, so you’ll have to cope,’ she said, flashing her biggest smile.
Dylan gave a crooked grin. ‘G, you’ve stolen all my T-shirts so what am I supposed to wear? Your silky camisole things don’t fit me.’
Greta let out a throaty laugh. ‘Nooo. Not really you, are they?’
‘Err, no.’ Dylan smiled. ‘Where are you going, anyway?’
‘Mind your business, St John.’
Dylan softly chuckled, watching Greta toss a smile over her shoulder and make a show of swaying her glorious hips as she left the room. Greta returned moments later.
‘Why did you never finish decorating this room, G?’ Dylan asked, her eyes scanning the bare Venetian plaster.
Stopping dead in her tracks, Greta looked at the walls. ‘It is finished, Dylan.’
‘Piss off! Is it really?’
‘Err, yeah,’ Greta confirmed, her tone incredulous.
‘Jesus. You rich folks. You’re all or nothing.’
Greta made her way back to the bed, shaking her head and chuckling, while holding onto a small brown box.
‘Whatcha got there, doctor?’ Dylan sing-songed as Greta climbed onto the bed beside her.
‘I know that we’re not managing much time together at the minute,’ Greta began, propping herself up next to Dylan.
Huffing out a worried sigh, Dylan closed her laptop. ‘I know, G. I’m sorry. Once this diss is in, I’ll–’
‘Dyl, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. You needed and deserved the extension for your dissertation. We knew it would all be tough logistically, it's been a couple of months and we’re doing fine,’ Greta said softly, her blinking quickened when Dylan didn’t speak. ‘We are doing fine, aren’t we?’
‘Abso-fucking-lutely,’ Dylan replied without missing a beat.
‘I also know that you miss me when we're not together,’ Greta turned to Dylan. ‘A lot.’
‘No lies there,’ Dylan placed her laptop on the bed to free her hands for the box Greta was handing to her.
‘So, I wanted to give you these.’
After fiddling clumsily with the lid, Dylan managed to pull it off. Inside was a mound of small brown envelopes, each sealed with a tiny red heart sticker. Every one had something different handwritten on the front in Greta’s handwriting.
‘Hmmm,’ Dylan hummed curiously, while poking through them with her fingers. ‘Is this kinky? Like lucky dip fucking?’
‘Precisely. Hurry up and choose so we can crack on,’ Greta deadpanned, making Dylan snort-laugh as she pulled one out at random. ‘You can only open them when we are apart, and your mood matches the description on the front. Okay?’ Greta dipped her gaze to find Dylan’s.
‘Read when you’re horny?’ Dylan read aloud from the tiny card pinched in her fingertips, before flipping it to see if there was more on the back. ‘So they are kinky?’
‘They're not. That’s just one card, Dylan. Jesus Christ, you’re like a hormonal teenager.’
Dylan laughed and pulled out another. ‘Read when you want to borrow Ingrid. Huh—’
‘It does not say that!’ Greta tried to snatch the card, but Dylan held it out of her reach, shaking it as though the car keys might be inside. Greta wrestled it away, spinning it to read for herself. ‘Read if you feel lonely,’ she read, before handing it back with a satisfied head tilt and smirk.
‘Shall we do the horny one now? As it’s out?’ Dylan asked with a mischievous eyebrow wiggle.
Greta rolled her eyes as she laughed. ‘What did I just say?!’
‘When I’m alone, okay, okay, Jesus.’ Dylan huffed through her grin, replacing the lid and placing the box on the bed.
‘This is really sweet, G. Thank you.’ She leaned in.
‘Kiss me, Doctor Vincent,’ she demanded softly, eyes screwed shut and lips already puckered.
Greta held her chin and kissed her, breathing her in as she always did. ‘When are you back?’
‘A week tomorrow,’ Greta replied with a forlorn sideways glance. ‘Quite why this year’s TYA Congress is in California, I have no idea. It’s usually a three-day conference, but now it’s a bloody week.’ She turned to Dylan. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘Not as much as I’ll miss you.’ Dylan craned for another kiss. ‘Anyway, I’m smashing this dissertation out while you’re gone. It’s getting on my tits.’
‘Smashing it out?’ Greta rolled her eyes at her flippancy. ‘What you’ve written so far is very good. Don’t get impatient with it, Dyl.’
‘You finish it for me,’ Dylan whined, leaning a pleading face toward Greta.
‘Oh, the university would love that. I think corruption and coercion is enough for one rap sheet, don’t you? Anyway, you need to do it to prepare for your PhD.’
Dylan guffawed. ‘Don’t swear at me.’
‘Why not? You’re more than capable.’
‘Have you been smoking crack in the big bathroom again?’
Leaning into Dylan’s outstretched arm, Greta laughed hard. ‘I love you, Dylan St John.’
‘I love you too, ya crazy wench,’ Dylan replied in one of the unidentifiable accents from her heavy rotation, as she kissed Greta’s temple.
***
After closing her laptop, Dylan tapped her phone screen to check the time. It was almost midnight. Rubbing her tired eyes she leaned back in the chair, drawing her knee up to rest her chin on and sighing as she looked out over the garden dimly lit by strings of twinkling solar lights.
It had been five days since Greta had left for her conference in America—the longest time they had been apart in months—and Dylan was feeling every second.
Even though work, studying, caring for Margaret, and seeing Greta’s parents impacted their time, they would try to steal as much as they could to be together.
She missed her. She missed the instinctive reach for her in the dark, pulling her back into the curve of her body whenever she moved too far away.
She longed for the feeling of Greta’s breaths landing on her skin when she lay on her chest. She missed the floral scent of her shampoo when she would press her face into Greta’s thick waves as they lay in bed together; or when Greta would swoosh her hair from side to side, before scooping it back into a bun.
She missed watching her, the heavy, sweet comfort of simply observing the woman she loved.
Greta had a particular way of moving around Dylan—around their now combined world—that felt like a constant reassuring pulse.
She ached for the heat of Greta’s hand on her thigh; her habitual need to be touching.
No matter if they were driving, or just sitting on the sofa, a part of Greta would be touching Dylan.
Although they FaceTimed every day, sometimes twice, it wasn’t the same as hearing her voice in person, watching her mouth as her lips formed the words “I love you”. She craved the way the words felt as they landed and tingled on her skin.
‘Get a fucking grip, St John,’ she chided herself aloud, as she picked up her mobile and thumbed open Greta’s WhatsApp thread to type a message.
Dylan:
‘Going to bed soon. I know it’s only 4pm there so no worries if you’re busy. I’ll leave my phone on loud. Call me when you can. I love you, girlfner. Dx’
After showering, she padded downstairs to check on her mum.
Finding her as she had left her, settled and sleeping, she watched her from the doorway.
Life had become much tougher without her escorting income—although she could never contemplate a return to that life—she was feeling the squeeze financially and on her time.
Losing nursing hours meant her time at home caring for Margaret had to increase.
Greta was splitting her time between her own apartment and Dylan and Margaret’s house.
Dylan would go to Greta’s when she could, but it was far from ideal.
Still, all the problems she now faced, she faced with Greta.
As stressful as it all was, nothing felt insurmountable.
With the sacrifices Greta had made for them to be together, and the fierce sincerity in every “I love you”, Dylan knew she was in it for the long haul.
Even though the feeling that she’d bitten off more than she could chew with her dissertation gnawed at her some days, Greta’s expertise, reassurance and guidance meant it was all finally pulling together.
Pressing her soft lips to her mum's head, Dylan whispered, ‘Lymsil’ into her hair and headed back upstairs.
Her bedroom was softly lit by the bedside lamps, the warm amber glow making the space cozy and soporific. After setting up her iPad and monitor, she tapped her phone screen.
Nothing.
The little brown box of envelopes sat on the bedside cabinet.
She pulled the lid off, smiling at the one staring back at her: Read if you’re horny.
Pressing the card to her nose she inhaled deeply, hoping the scent of Greta might still be lingering on it.
Peeling back the tiny heart, she unfolded the note.
Her lips curved into a wide smile as she read Greta’s gorgeous handwriting: Don’t touch yourself alone. Call me. Gx.
She brought it to her lips again, her smile pressed against the paper.
Lying back on the bed, she pulled up her navy vintage T-shirt just enough to show her toned abs.
Hooking her thumb in the elastic waistband of her white boxers, she pulled them down until they skimmed just the top of her pubic hair.
Placing the note over her belly, she took a picture angled down her body and promptly sent it to Greta.
Dylan:
‘I should have saved this one for when there was no time difference. I suppose I’ll have to go it alone. Dx’
Within seconds three dots appeared on the screen.
Greta:
‘You can’t do this to me. I’m networking. Fuck Dylan! Gx’