7. House of Books and Friends #3
As Greta walked towards the bathroom, her fingers skimmed almost every surface she passed.
The bookshop hummed around her; conversations drifted from neighbouring tables, cups clinked against saucers, and customers murmured as they browsed the shelves.
Nobody appeared to be paying them any attention; her conversation with Dylan must have been much louder in her own head.
Behind her, the wooden feet of a chair shrieked along the weathered hardwood floor.
Greta flinched at the noise but didn’t look back.
With her hands wrapped around the edge of the sink, Greta stared at her fingers that were blanched white.
What the fuck was she doing? Why was she entertaining Dylan?
She could, and should, have stopped all of this with a text message.
Cursing herself for yet another lapse in judgement, she was startled by three slow knocks on the door.
‘Just a second,’ Greta said loudly, running a fingertip over a smudge under her lashes in the mirror.
A beat. Three more slow, steady knocks. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she muttered under her breath.
Greta turned to face the door. Her elegant fingers reached for the lock.
The moment she slid back the latch, she was forced to stand back from the door, pushed open from the other side as Dylan quickly entered the small space. ‘What in God’s fucking—’
‘Don’t ruin this by speaking, Doctor Vincent,’ Dylan said with a knowing look.
Greta’s sharp gasp landed between them. Her breaths immediately quickened, her chest heaving as her anger surged into a fierce desire.
A desire she was utterly powerless against. Completely consumed by the sight of Dylan, Greta lunged, forcing her hard against the door with both hands on her chest. Slamming into the wood, a smile tugged at Dylan’s lips as she searched Greta’s face.
While Dylan’s breaths were deep and controlled, her chest rising and falling slowly, Greta’s were the opposite.
Her breaths had become ragged, loud and desperate.
As the air grew thick, Greta raked her gaze over Dylan’s chest, over her stomach and down her thighs.
Dylan didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just looked at Greta and waited.
Time stood still as Dylan watched the rise and fall of Greta’s blouse, the weight of her longing obvious with every breath.
Her dark gaze rested on Greta’s slightly parted lips, just as Greta decimated the space between them, her body crashing into Dylan.
‘Fuuuck!’ Dylan breathed, the single-syllable word unfurling slowly. Greta responded by pressing her whole hand sideways over Dylan’s mouth.
‘Don’t make any noise,’ she ordered in a whisper.
As her other hand began slowly pushing up Dylan’s T-shirt, Greta looked down, watching as she forced it under the elastic band of her sports bra, keeping her stomach exposed.
Dragging her hand back down, she pressed firmly as she moved over the contours of Dylan’s toned belly.
Dylan’s breathing changed dramatically as Greta kicked at her feet to widen her stance and began roughly pulling at her leather belt.
Dylan’s hips shifted with every shove and pull, her eyes never leaving Greta’s as she moaned loudly onto Greta’s hand.
‘I said, don’t make a fucking sound, Dylan. ’
Dylan drew in a long stuttered breath through flared nostrils as the pulse in Greta’s fingertips throbbed against her cheek.
With her gaze remaining fixed on Dylan’s, Greta’s unfettered hand worked quickly and impressively at Dylan’s belt.
The sound of stretched leather and the jangle of the metal buckle as it was freed reverberated in the small space.
Greta moved to Dylan’s button and zip, quickly opening them and forcing the two sides apart, yanking down one side and then the other, making them sit lower on her hips.
A sharp gasp fell from Greta, her mouth sliding open as she forced her hand into Dylan’s already soaked underwear.
Almost completely overcome by the warm, wet feeling of Dylan as she moved over her, Greta rested her forehead on the hand still clasped over Dylan’s mouth.
‘Fucking hell,’ Greta breathed, looking up just in time to see Dylan’s eyes rolled to the back of her head; whimpering as Greta slid effortlessly through her slick arousal, slowly coating her fingers and hand.
Widening her stance even more, Dylan clenched a groan in her jaw while offering herself with a tilt of her pelvis.
With their eyes now almost level, Greta lifted her head to find Dylan’s gaze.
Hot breaths pushing into her fingers as they were forced from Dylan’s nose.
Dipping her shoulder, Greta slowly pushed a finger inside, earning another loud whimper.
The moan that spilled from Greta wasn’t bitten back or suppressed, it was a raw, unguarded sound, and it said more than she had wanted to.
Dylan was so wet and turned on there was no resistance at all; Greta didn’t hesitate before pulling back and sliding two fingers back inside.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, you feel so—’ Greta stopped herself, swallowing the adjective.