Chapter 25 #2
Christine turned her head slightly, breathless, lips curling.
“You want me to?” she murmured, voice low, teasing, cruel.
Oakland let out a shaky exhale.
Christine let her fingers circle more slowly, dragging them out and making herself wait.
“Say it again.”
Oakland’s breath hitched, her restraint cracking, her fingers twitching against Christine’s hip like she wanted to grab her, to force her to finish.
But Christine wasn’t giving it up that easily.
“Tell me how bad you want me to come.”
Oakland swallowed hard. “Christine.”
Christine moaned, louder this time, just to wreck her.
“Almost there—” she gasped, trembling, barely holding herself together.
Oakland’s voice dropped into something raw, demanding.
“Yes. Yes. Please. Come for me.”
At that, Christine let herself shatter.
Her body tensed, thighs tightening, hips jolting as pleasure tore through her—blinding, overwhelming, like fire under her skin.
A deep, broken moan spilled from her lips, raw and unrestrained.
She pressed her free hand to her mouth, trying to smother the sounds, but Oakland was right there, breathless, her body trembling.
“No,” Oakland whispered, her voice thick and pleading. “Don’t hide from me.”
Christine’s control snapped.
The sound that escaped her was raw, broken, and unforgettable—a moment neither of them could ever erase.
Oakland’s grip on her tightened as if she were holding Christine together as she fell apart.
For a moment, nothing existed but the aftershocks, the heat, and the space between them.
Christine couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
And Oakland was still there. Watching. Waiting.
Christine swallowed hard, chest heaving, pulse racing.
Her voice came out shaky, teasing, wicked.
“You liked that, didn’t you?”
Oakland let out a low, breathless laugh, but Christine could feel it—she was barely holding it together.
Then, slowly, she reached down—dragging two fingers across the slick, warm wetness that Oakland left on her thigh.
She lifted them just slightly, tilting her head as if studying the evidence. As if Oakland wasn’t already barely hanging on.
Then she looked up, smirk curling.
“One day, I will taste you, and you’ll never recover from it.”
* * *
When she woke that morning, the first thing Oakland registered was the warmth: Christine’s body still pressed against hers, the heat between them settling into something languid.
The second was the golden morning light spilling across the loft, stretching over the exposed brick and worn wooden floors, catching in the dust notes that drifted lazily in the air.
And the third was the way her body moved against Christine’s before she even fully woke up.
A slow, involuntary press of her hips. A quiet sigh against the back of Christine’s neck.
Her fingers curled where they rested against Christine’s stomach, pulling her closer and molding herself into every inch of heat between them.
Christine shifted, her body responding in the most minor ways—the faintest arch of her spine, the barely-there sound that slipped from her lips.
For a moment, she toyed with the thought of slipping her hand between her own thighs, easing the ache, the unbearable pressure building there.
A lazy, fleeting thought—quickly turning desperate.
Her fingers twitched, the need almost too much to ignore.
And then reality slammed into Oakland like a fist to the chest.
Her breath hitched, and she froze.
Christine was still half-asleep beneath her, her breathing steady, unaware of Oakland’s body betraying her in the worst way possible. Heat licked at the edges of Oakland’s skin, a slow, creeping flush crawling up her neck, spreading to her ears and face.
She swallowed hard, mouth dry.
She needed to stop.
She willed herself to be still, to stay quiet—but her body betrayed her, trembling with restrained desire, every inch aching with the effort not to give in.
Carefully, she untangled herself from Christine’s body, forcing herself to ignore the loss of warmth, the way her skin prickled at the absence.
Christine grumbled in protest, but Oakland barely let herself register it as she climbed over and stepped onto the cool floor.
She needed water. And space. And maybe to dunk her whole body into a snowbank.
She padded toward the kitchen, drawn more by the need to reset herself than anything else. The scent of coffee lingered in the air—warm, rich, and oddly soothing in how it made the space feel lived in.
But any illusion of peace shattered the moment she stepped inside.
Silver was already there, perched on the kitchen counter like it was the most natural place in the world—one leg bent, the other swinging lazily.
She wore almost nothing: tight men’s cut briefs and a worn sports bra.
Her hands loosely held a bowl of cereal, perfectly at ease in her kitchen.
She didn’t even look up. The tattoos scattered across her skin stood out in the morning light—sharp lines and bold shapes etched into her arms, chest, and ribs.
A coiled snake. A jagged design that looked like it could use a touch-up.
Words along her forearm that Oakland couldn’t quite make out.
She didn’t stare.
But it was hard to look away.
Silver stirred her cereal absently, not eating it, just watching the milk swirl. When she finally looked up, her smirk was already in place, like she’d been waiting for Oakland to walk in.
“Well, if it isn’t the good little Mormon girl,” Silver crooned, her eyes flicking to Oakland’s sleep-rumpled clothes. More specifically, to the way she wasn’t wearing a bra. “You weren’t very good last night, were you?”
Oakland’s stomach turned, heat creeping into her cheeks—a little from embarrassment but mainly from the sharp edge in Silver’s voice.
She hated it when people trivialized her faith like that, even if they were right.
Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to exhale, to keep her voice even. “Good morning,” she said, moving past her to the sink.
She turned on the faucet, letting the cold water rush over her hands before cupping some to her lips. The crisp chill sent a shiver down her body, jolting her fully awake.
Silver was still watching her when she turned back around, eyes calculating.
“Look,” Silver said, setting her bowl down. “I don’t have beef with you. But you should know that Christine is my best friend.”
Oakland straightened, unsure of where this was going. “Okay?”
Silver snorted, shaking her head like Oakland completely missed the point.
“So what’s the plan? You gonna make her your little secret?” She leveled Oakland with a sharp look. “You do realize how fucked up that is, right?”
Oakland swallowed but said nothing. Silver was right. Last night was completely inappropriate. She let things go too far.
“Christine is out. Proud. She refuses to hide.” Silver’s voice was sharp, unwavering. “And you want to drag her into the dark with you? Reduce her to secret, stolen moments?”
She shook her head, eyes burning with something close to anger.