18. In a Faraway Land of Loaned Pleasure
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF LOANED PLEASURE
C hiara Conti always thought of herself as a calm individual. But it seems there was one person who knew exactly which buttons to push with her.
The sullen look on Vi’s face only ignited the embers already alight in Chiara’s chest. As she closed the door to the small, rarely used space off the main studio, Chiara turned away from her companion and breathed in deeply, trying to count to ten, to somehow stave off the raw emotion ravaging her, twisting her inside out until she no longer recognized herself.
However, as she turned back, one glimpse at the pouty lips and hooded eyes that looked at her with judgment and dare she say it, matching anger, and Chiara knew she wouldn’t be able to hold those runaway reins of hers any longer.
“How dare you?” The insult in her tone rang so clear to her own ears, she didn’t even care how transparent she was.
Vi, whose back had been resting on the closed door, pushed off it and took a step closer to her, which, in the close confines of the office, brought her just within reach.
“How dare I? It’s been days, and I’ve been nothing but a beating girl for you, Renate, Aoife…” Vi’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “And that’s all fine and dandy, but this Ricarda bullshit is a bit too much, even for whatever it is you are doing here, Chiara.”
“Whatever it is I’m doing? I’m not doing anything!
” On pure instinct, Chiara took a step back, bumping against her desk, scattering some of the post-its stuck to it.
Vi’s eyes followed the falling pieces of paper, and Chiara wanted to slap her.
“You have been nothing but insulting since you crossed my threshold.”
Vi’s throat worked as she visibly tried to contain herself. “I have apologized for the misunderstanding. I thought you knew me better than to think I’d mock you—”
“Well, that is certainly rich coming from you. Because once upon a time I did, in fact, think I knew you better… And that Vi never threw anything in my face. Unlike this version of you, who has done nothing but flaunt your women.”
Vi’s eyes narrowed speculatively before she took a step closer. When she spoke, her voice had a calculating lilt to it. Too precise, too practiced.
“And would it make you angry, that I’ve been loved?”
Chiara felt those words hit the mark. Each and every one of them dead center of her heart with vicious intent. Jealousy blacked the corners of her vision. Or was it greened ?
She couldn’t hold in the vitriol. Five years was too long anyway. She’d account for it with herself later, flagellate herself for the truth, for the lies, for everything in between.
“Yes, yes it would.”
The words fell out of her mouth like bricks, hard and heavy, clattering to the floor between them.
Chiara just stared, realizing how close she and Vi were standing to each other.
As her eyes trailed upwards, from the expensive shoes to the fitted trousers hanging on prominent hip bones, to the small gap showing off a toned midriff, then farther up still, she saw how hard Vi was breathing, how fast her heart was hammering with the pulse visible at her long graceful neck, exposed now as her t-shirt slipped down one shoulder.
“Good.” Vi’s voice was barely discernible in the air of the room that seemed flammable.
Their eyes met. Pain. So much of it, and all of it here, not even under the surface, not even under the skin like the ink of Vi’s tattoos.
All of it right in this space crackling between them—that was somehow getting smaller—even as Chiara realized Vi was indeed taking one more step and verbena enveloped her senses again.
And mixed with all that pain, was the one thing that was neither new, nor good, nor something she’d ever known how to fight. Desire.
A second… A truck passed under the windows, rattling the glass. Another second… Someone yelled an obscenity down the street. Yet one more second, and a ragged breath one of them drew in…
The moment was suspended in the air, stretching like a rubber band until Chiara physically felt it snap and all bets were off. All lines were in the rearview mirror.
She reached for the collar of the t-shirt, even as Vi’s hands dove into her hair, tugging and pulling until the pins of the carefully and artfully arranged bun were scattered on the floor.
Their mouths met, lips and tongues and teeth and all that rage, even as Vi lifted her onto the desk, further scattering the notes and the multitude of fountain pens she could never quite decide on.
“Vi…” She didn’t recognize her own voice, her own body. So needy. So hot. Her clothes too tight, too suffocating, because only one thing made sense. Everything was wrong. They were wrong. Not good. Not healthy. But so right. Right now.
Vi broke the kiss that was more a devouring than a caress and forced their eyes to meet.
And there it was again, that silent something in those ash depths, something that hadn’t been there five years ago, when Chiara had known every shade, every shadow in them.
But it had been here, hanging between them every second since Vi had stepped into Chiaroscuro, like a foreshadowing of things to come.
Their breathing ragged, Vi’s thigh between Chiara’s pressing just enough to remind her of its presence and not enough to give her anything she really needed, they stared at each other until Chiara could look no more. She was weak. This was wrong. Again.
Wrong.
But she needed this.
Again.
She closed her eyes and nodded, consent given, before reaching for those swollen lips again, licking the bottom one, biting it with just enough force to taste blood.
Whatever tether had been holding Vi back rent, even as copper filled Chiara’s mouth, and Vi unceremoniously tore her thong, pieces of ivory satin fluttering to the floor, as strong hands pushed her further onto the desk.
And then Chiara was taken. There was no other way to describe it. Not gentle, not careful. Nothing like their one night. She felt the lack of oxygen and let go of the need to breathe. Vi did not break the kiss as two fingers entered her, rough, forceful, thrusting deep with no preamble.
She came fast. Five years of longing, yearning, missing this very thing.
Maybe under different circumstances, she would have been embarrassed, but Vi was unrelenting, so Chiara let go of the shame as well. She moaned, her own arms limp around Vi’s neck, powerless to do anything but weakly hold on as she was taken again.
Another finger joined the first two, and she felt stretched, her own body bearing evidence of years of abstinence, and she whimpered against Vi’s lips, still on hers, still ravaging her mouth.
As she allowed the sound to escape, Vi slowed her thrusts down with a whispered, “shhh, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry…
,” and the words, as much as the slower, impossibly deeper thrusts, undid her.
The second time, she didn’t come as much as she shattered. Vi’s mouth swallowed her cry, then full lips kissed away the tears she hadn’t realized had fallen.
In the total silence of the dusty space, amidst the disarrayed desk, her breathing sounded almost obscene. Vi held her now that her tears had stopped falling.
When the realization that Vi’s fingers were still buried inside her permeated her consciousness, it hit like a runaway train of pure lust. More .
She raised her eyes to Vi’s and saw her own hunger reflected in them. Before she knew it, Vi was moving, dragging her dress down, exposing her breasts and yanking Chiara to the edge of the desk while kneeling down in front of her.
Her vision grayed as the mouth tasted her, and she may have blacked out, because it seemed like she was coming again within seconds, Vi’s ravenous mouth refusing to let up.
Chiara needed her unsteady hands to push weakly at that silken hair to make her stop, too sensitive now, too overcome, too overwhelmed, by both her orgasm and the reality suddenly as present as Vi’s grip on her thighs.
Rising up, Vi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the gesture as irreverent as it was sexy, and Chiara’s mouth watered. She wanted to lick herself off those lips. Wanted to push Vi against the wall and take her apart, exactly like she had done for her.
But when she reached out, Vi stepped back.
Her eyes were wide, fever-bright, surveying Chiara closely for perhaps a moment too long.
Because as Chiara’s breathing stilled and she sat up, she became aware of the state Vi had left her in.
The dangerous, self-satisfied glint in those eyes began to make sense, even if she wanted to hide.
She was spread on the desk, dress bunched up, leaving her naked from the waist down, exposed and vulnerable, sated and bruised. She knew she looked like she felt, fucked six ways from Sunday and begging for more.
“Vi…” She still did not recognize her own voice, but it was tremulous this time.
Like she’d screamed herself hoarse. And maybe she had, since there’d been that rather conspicuous moment when she was almost certain she wasn’t entirely conscious.
God, the things this woman did to her. After all this time.
The power this woman had over her. Vi destroyed her. Sexually and emotionally.
Even now, simply looking at her, eyes feasting on what the mouth had done just moments ago, Chiara felt exposed.
Defenseless. Wrung inside out for her own pleasure and on this one woman’s whim.
Because despite the satisfaction and the haze of her orgasms, Chiara was left completely clueless as to what it meant.
Vi had not allowed her to touch, other than their kisses, and even as Chiara lifted her hand to pull down the hem of her dress, Vi watched her every move speculatively.
“Are you going to fuck me or hit me, Vi?”
Well, that made those eyes finally tear themselves away from the marks on her skin, from her naked breasts and meet hers.