Chapter 33 #2
Christine nodded as if the words were just a formality. She already knew.
Then, she moved.
Not away. Closer.
Her fingers slid down Oakland’s wrist, threading gently through hers. She gave her hand a soft squeeze, then stepped back, tugging her forward with the quiet certainty of someone who knew when to lead and when to wait.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t let the moment break.
She just guided.
Step by step, until the backs of Oakland’s knees hit the bed.
And then, Christine’s hands found her waist, steady and sure, and pressed her gently down into the mattress.
She settled over her, their bodies aligning in a way that made Oakland’s breath stutter.
For a long moment, Christine just looked at her.
Like she wanted her to feel this. To know this was real.
Then, her voice low, her lips brushing Oakland’s jaw?—
“Can I take this off?”
Her fingers skimmed the hem of Oakland’s shirt, waiting, soft, patient.
She nodded.
Christine smiled—something warm, something devastating— and then she pulled Oakland’s shirt over her head, slow, careful, like she was unwrapping something delicate.
Oakland’s skin prickled with heat, every nerve hypersensitive.
Christine’s eyes traced over her—appreciative, reverent, wrecking.
And then, voice barely more than a whisper—a confession, a promise, a hunger?—
“God, you’re beautiful.”
Oakland’s heart fluttered so hard she had to rub a palm against her chest to soothe the ache.
She wanted to act. To give something back.
Guided more by instinct than confidence, she let her hand slip down between Christine’s thighs—drawn by the warmth, the softness, the overwhelming need to make her feel wanted. To make her feel good.
She wanted to do it right. She meant to do it right.
But her angle was off. Way off.
Christine’s hips twitched suddenly, and then she giggled—an actual, adorable giggle—and shifted with a startled little gasp.
“Oh—okay!” she said, biting back a laugh. “So, uh… not off the table, but probably not the hole you meant to go for.”
Oakland froze.
Her eyes went wide as panic flooded in, and she jerked her hand back like she’d accidentally touched an electric fence. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I’m a disaster, I’m literally the worst?—”
Christine was already laughing, warm, breathless, and totally unbothered. She caught Oakland’s face in her hands, gently brushing her thumbs over her cheeks and pressing a kiss to her forehead like it might settle her spinning brain.
“Hey. Hey.” She grinned, lips grazing her temple. “You’re fine. You’re more than fine. That was… bold. Hot. Slightly miscalculated, but very hot.”
Oakland groaned and covered her face. “I’m going to die.”
“Nope,” Christine whispered, pulling her hands away just enough to see her flushed, horrified expression. “You’re going to try again.”
She laced their fingers together, guiding Oakland’s hand back—slower this time, gentler.
“This part,” Christine whispered, guiding Oakland’s fingers to the slick, swollen bundle of nerves, her breath catching as she moved, “this is what you’re looking for.”
Oakland swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly, as Christine helped her find her rhythm, coaching her with every shift of her hips and every breathless sound. Oakland obeyed without thinking.
She moved with purpose now, pressing firmer, testing, learning—each stroke through Christine’s slick heat pulling a new reaction, a new sound, a new plea.
Her fingers settled into a confident rhythm, circling, teasing, and pressing with what seemed like the correct pressure.
Christine’s breath hitched, her thighs tightening.
Oakland grinned against her skin. “How’s that?”
Christine sighed, pressing harder into her hand.
“Just like that, baby,” she murmured, her voice thick.
Oakland’s pulse pounded.
Christine was falling apart in her hands.
And she—she was the reason.
She moved her fingers lower, hesitating the moment she found Christine’s entrance—soft, hot, dripping for her, slick enough to coat her fingers all over again.
Should she?
Her breath hitched, pulse hammering, uncertainty curling tight in her stomach. Was this right? Was she?—
Christine gasped, thighs trembling around her, hips shifting like she was waiting. Like she needed more.
Oakland froze, hovering between hesitation and want.
Then Christine’s hand covered hers, warm, steady—guiding, not forcing.
Her fingers curled around Oakland’s, pressing them forward, showing her.
“Two fingers, baby.”
Oakland swallowed. Nodded.
And then, she did it.
She pressed inside—Christine clenched around her immediately, gasping, hips bucking forward.
Oakland felt all of it.
The heat. The slick, tight pulse around her fingers. The way Christine took her in, welcomed her, held her there.
Christine moaned, rolling her hips, taking more.
“Fuck, Oaks?—”
Oakland’s brain short-circuited.
She curled her fingers just slightly, searching?—
Christine’s head snapped back, a sharp gasp breaking from her lips.
There.
Oakland did it again.
And again.
Christine was unraveling.
Her breath came faster, sharper, thighs trembling, hands gripping Oakland like she was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
Oakland had no idea how the hell she was doing this right, but Christine was shaking, gasping her name, rocking into her hand like she needed this more than air.
And God, Oakland wanted to watch her fall.
Christine’s voice broke against her skin, ragged and shaking.
“You’re gonna make me come,” she gasped, hips stuttering into Oakland’s hand.
Oakland’s vision blurred, the world narrowing to heat and heartbeat and her. She pressed harder, curled deeper, driving Christine right to the edge—every gasp and tremble winding tighter beneath her fingers.
Then—Christine’s hand caught her wrist, not to stop her, but to ground herself.
“Don’t pull away,” she breathed, voice thick with need. “I want you to feel how hard I come for you.”
Oakland barely managed to breathe. Just hearing it—feeling it—being wanted like that made her dizzy.
Christine’s other hand slid down her own stomach, fingers finding herself, moving in rhythm with Oakland’s touch. The sight of it—of Christine open and desperate and reaching for more—nearly undid her.
Christine let out a wrecked moan, her body tensing, thighs shaking, her head dropping back?—
And then, she shattered.
Her body clenched and pulsed around Oakland’s fingers, pleasure slamming through her in sharp, powerful waves.
She rode it out, hips jerking forward, taking everything Oakland gave her.
Oakland kept moving, slowing only when Christine collapsed against her, completely spent.
The only sound was their breathing, the slow hum of the air purifier in the background, and the quiet pulsing in Oakland’s own body that she could no longer ignore.
And then—Christine laughed.
Breathless. Ruined. Beautiful.
“Holy fuck.”
Oakland’s stomach fluttered. Her hand was still between Christine’s thighs, soaked with the proof of what she’d just done. She could feel the aftershocks pulsing around her fingers. She did that. She made Christine come apart like that.
Christine lifted her head and kissed her—slow and deep, all tongue and gratitude and heat. A kiss that said stay exactly where you are.
Then she pulled back just far enough to look into Oakland’s eyes.
“Did you feel that?” she whispered, voice like silk over a flame.
Oakland’s breath caught. Her body was still trembling, arousal wound tight and throbbing. “Yeah,” she said, barely a voice. “I can still feel it?—”
Christine cut her off with another kiss, then dragged her lips to her ear.
“You were perfect,” she murmured, each word a hot breath against her skin. “So fucking perfect.”
Her mouth trailed lower—down Oakland’s jaw, her neck, the swell of her chest—before she eased her backward, guiding her down onto the bed.
Then she looked up, voice low, velvet-smooth and devastating.
“I’m going to kiss you,” she murmured, “until your whole body forgets how to do anything but come for me.”
* * *
Christine moved with purpose.
Not rushed. Not rough.
Just… inevitable.
The mattress dipped beneath them, the weight of Christine settling over her, warmth pressing into every inch of Oakland’s bare skin.
She felt lightheaded and dizzy, but Christine was so sure, her touch so steady.
And then—Christine’s hands were at her waistband.
Her fingertips skimmed just under the fabric, teasing, waiting, watching.
“These are coming off now.”
Not a question.
Not a demand.
A simple promise, delivered with soft, ruinous patience—enough to make Oakland clench around nothing.
Oakland’s breath hitched.
She should say something—anything—but Christine looked at her like she was already gone. Like she was waiting for Oakland to surrender completely.
Not just to this. To her.
Oakland swallowed hard, shaking, aching, and nodded.
Christine smirked. And then—she moved.
Her hands slid under the waistband of Oakland’s jeans, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips, her grip just firm enough to make Oakland’s breath hitch.
Slowly, she began to peel them down.
She didn’t stop when she reached the dip of Oakland’s stomach.
She didn’t stop when her thumbs traced the sharp jut of her hip bones.
She didn’t stop when she slid past Oakland’s soaked panties—only lingered for a breath, eyes dark, then pressed on.
Christine exhaled, voice rough, pleased.
“Fuck, baby…”
Oakland squeezed her eyes shut, hands fisting in the sheets, her body completely betraying her.
She was soaked.
Christine could feel the heat between Oakland’s thighs before she even touched her. Her scent hit Christine like a drug. All she could think about was tasting it.
Oakland wriggled beneath her, a soft, restless motion fueled by anticipation—and just a hint of self-consciousness under Christine’s gaze. She could feel those eyes on her, hot and unblinking, tracing every inch like they were memorizing her.
It made her squirm. It made her throb.
Sitting back on her heels between Oakland’s thighs, hands braced against her knees, spreading her open just slightly, just enough.