Chapter 25
chapter twenty-five
The storm turned vicious, the wind tearing through the city like a beast clawing at brick and glass. Christine’s loft trembled under its weight, old pipes groaning, snow scraping restlessly against the windowpanes.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth, and the low hum of the television flickered a soft blue light across the room.
Everyone else was out—either asleep or otherwise occupied. Spencer and Dax sprawled across Christine’s bed. Gruit nestled between them, his giant body lost in a deep, dreamless sleep. Silver disappeared with the girl from the bar, her bedroom door shut.
Which left Christine and Oakland alone.
Christine perched at one end of the couch, flipping through channels with no real interest. The TV flickered, but her attention kept slipping to the other side of the sectional, where Oakland lay sprawled on her side, half-buried in pillows, draped in Christine’s clothes like they belonged to her.
And fuck, was that a problem.
Her tank top was loose, slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the delicate lines of her collarbone.
The pair of boxers she chose were, unfortunately, the shortest ones Christine owned.
Not intentional, obviously. Because she wasn’t a sadist. She wouldn’t willingly put herself through this level of suffering.
Oakland shifted slightly, and Christine’s gaze trailed along the bare skin of her thighs before she could stop herself. The flickering light from the TV cast soft shadows over every dip and curve, every place Christine wanted to touch but absolutely shouldn’t.
And then there was the other problem.
No bra. No fucking bra.
And the loft wasn’t exactly warm.
Christine clenched her jaw, dragging her eyes back to the screen like that would help. It didn’t. She was fucked.
“You know,” Oakland murmured, stretching out like a lioness, utterly oblivious to the torment she was causing. “You should really downgrade your media package. Legacy streaming is way cheaper.”
Christine forced herself to focus on the words, not how Oakland’s stomach flexed slightly when she moved.
“I like flipping,” she said, voice tight. “It’s prime entertainment. A channeling of my energy. The?—”
Oakland groaned, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. “Okay, okay, I got it. No more puns. I’ll just lie here and fall asleep from boredom while you do your flippies.”
Christine tossed the remote aside and shifted, sliding down until she was stretched out beside Oakland. Their bodies pressed together, warm and easy, as the blanket she’d grabbed slipped over them.
“Don’t go to sleep, Oaks.” Her voice was softer now, lower. “Stay awake with me.”
Oakland’s gaze flicked up and met hers, and Christine forgot how to breathe for a second.
She should move. She knew she should. Should shift back to her side of the couch, crack a joke, give them both a way out. But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Because Oakland wasn’t moving either.
The storm was screaming outside like the whole world was begging to be let in—but in here, in this impossible little pocket of warmth and tension and soft light, Christine was still. And Oakland was watching her like she wanted to do something dangerous.
Christine’s pulse tripped over itself.
There was something different in the way Oakland looked at her now. Not skittish. Not overwhelmed. Not folding under the pressure of being watched.
She looked dangerous.
And maybe Christine should’ve been scared of that. Or at least wary. But instead, heat bloomed low and deep inside her, curling through her stomach, settling behind her ribs.
She watched as Oakland’s mouth curved—slow, knowing, full of something lazy and wicked.
“Maybe you should give me a reason to stay awake.”
Christine smirked, tilting her head, all flirty confidence, easy and knowing. “Yeah? And what would entertain you, princess?”
Oakland didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she shifted just enough for her thigh to slide gingerly between Christine’s legs. Her body was all languid grace. Casual, effortless, unavoidable.
Christine felt it. Heat moved through her body, slow and insidious, pooling low in her stomach.
Oakland smirked, voice a lazy drawl, thick with amusement. “Hmmm.”
Christine’s pulse stuttered.
She exhaled, trying for nonchalance, but her voice came out lower, rougher, betraying her.
“Oh, I get it now.” Her lips curled, wicked and knowing. “You want to tease me.”
Oakland didn’t look away. Her blue eyes darkened, the shift palpable, a slow, steady pull that Christine felt—tight and hot, coiling deep in her stomach.
“Chris,” Oakland said, voice careful. “Just because I can’t touch you… doesn’t mean you can’t touch yourself.”
Christine’s breath hitched. Her body went still.
Slowly, she swallowed. “What exactly are you asking?”
Oakland leaned in, close enough that Christine could feel the ghost of her breath against her skin—warm, teasing, setting every nerve alight.
“I’m telling you,” she murmured, her voice low, honey-slow, rich with intent. “I want to watch you.”
Christine exhaled sharply, her pulse hammering.
Then Oakland’s lips brushed her jaw—soft, fleeting, barely there. A promise. A fucking dare.
Christine’s entire body reacted.
Heat flashed through her, pooling low, thick, and consuming, every ounce of reason drowning beneath it.
She shouldn’t.
This wasn’t the deal. This wasn’t what they agreed on. Was it allowed? Would it change things? Would it mean something?
She should say no.
She should.
But then Oakland’s breath ghosted against her skin, and Christine knew—knew—that she’d do anything this woman asked of her.
Without question. Without hesitation.
Before Christine could form a response, Oakland shifted, her core pressing against Christine’s thigh, and Christine felt it—impossible to ignore, impossible to resist.
Heat. Wetness. The undeniable, devastating proof of just how fucking turned on Oakland was.
And underneath it all, Christine could feel it— the heavy, intoxicating presence of Oakland’s desire, thick in the air between them.
Rich. Warm. Addictive.
The scent of her—thick with want, rolling off her in waves, filling Christine’s lungs, making her head spin in the best fucking way.
Slowly, Christine’s hand drifted downward, hovering at the waistband of her boxers—one last scrap of restraint holding on by a thread.
Oakland didn’t move at first. Didn’t breathe.
Her gaze dropped, locked onto where Christine lingered, waiting, hesitating—where the decision hovered on the edge of now or never.
Then she leaned in.
Her lips brushed Christine’s ear, breath warm—watching, waiting, but pushing all the same.
“Don’t stop.”
That was it.
Christine’s resolve shattered. She slid her hand beneath the waistband, fingertips grazing over slick, aching heat, a quiet gasp catching in her throat.
Another breath from Oakland—sharp, uneven—ghosted over her skin, her restraint fraying at the edges.
Christine bit back a moan, her thighs tensing, breath shuddering as she dragged her fingers through the mess of it, spreading wetness, teasing herself just to make it worse.
She was soaked.
Christine could feel her everywhere. Her presence, her stare, the heat pressing in, the weight of her watching.
Then, Oakland spoke.
Her voice was low, husky, barely controlled.
“Keep going,” she commanded. “Show me how you’d want me to do it.”
Christine let out a soft, wrecked whimper, her fingers pressing harder, building a slow, torturous rhythm.
And then she moved faster.
No teasing now—just pure, slick desperation, her fingers working her clit in fast, needy strokes, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the space between them.
Christine moaned, breathless, wrecked.
Then she turned her head slightly, just enough to make sure Oakland saw her lips part when she whispered. “Can you hear that?”
A deliberate slide of her fingers, another slick, perfect sound, filled the room.
“Can you hear how much I want you?”
Oakland made a sound she probably didn’t mean to make.
A sharp inhale, a rough exhale, something torturous, strangled, and barely contained.
Christine smirked, dragging her fingers through the mess of it again, louder this time, letting the sound taunt her.
“Bet you’re imagining how it’d feel on your fingers instead.”
Oakland’s hand twitched at her hip.
Christine did it again. Faster. Louder. Worse.
Oakland let out a low, rough noise in her throat, fingers digging into the blanket, her body so tense it looked like she might actually snap.
Christine bit her lip and pushed two fingers inside herself, gasping at the stretch, at the way her body clenched, so tight, so ready.
Oakland sounded destroyed.
“You’re gonna kill me,” she ground out, voice hoarse, desperate, raw.
Christine’s lips curled, breathless, teasing, dangerous.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Oakland exhaled sharply, a low, ragged sound like she was losing the battle against herself.
Christine groaned, fingers moving faster, hips rolling harder against her own hand.
She was so fucking close.
Her body burned with it, the pressure winding tight, the pleasure cresting higher, higher?—
And then her voice broke.
“Fuck, I wish it was you.”
Oakland sighed, a desperate, exasperated sound. And Christine could feel her restraint shattering.
The way Oakland’s fingers twitched against her hip. The sharp inhale through clenched teeth. The way her grip tightened, like she was one second away from yanking Christine’s boxers down and taking what she wanted.
Instead, she leaned in, her lips grazing Christine’s neck, her breath hot, shaky, wrecked.
Her voice was low, desperate, almost a plea.
“Will you come for me?”
Christine let out a choked breath, her fingers stuttering, her body so fucking close she could barely think.
Her thighs clenched, her hips jerking, her breath hitching.
But she didn’t let go just yet.
Instead, she forced herself to slow down, just enough to make it hurt, just enough to keep herself on the edge.
Oakland’s fingers tightened on her hip like she knew exactly what Christine was doing.