27. Lucky dip fucking? #2
She added a fire extinguished emoji and a phew face
Dylan slowly pushed the tips of her fingers through her warm, slick labia, dipping slightly, blowing out a long breath at the wetness already pooling.
She pulsed and throbbed at the thought of her next move.
Wiping her fingers on her lower belly, she pushed her boxers down with the back of her hand and took another picture.
Her fingers and belly glistened just as she’d hoped. She sent it with a short message.
Dylan:
‘Lick this off me. I’ll be quick, I promise. Dx’
Greta:
‘Oh my Christ, Dyl!’
Dylan:
‘I’m close just at the thought of you, G. Come finish me off. Dx’
Greta:
‘Give me a few minutes. DO NOT come. Gx’
Dylan:
‘Margot? Give Greta her phone back!’
She signed off with three laughing emojis and rested the phone on her chest.
A few minutes passed as Dylan lazily pushed her fingers in long wet strokes, avoiding her clit, the mere thought of Greta already had her wildly turned on.
Greta’s mouth, her fingers, her hands, imagining her strapped.
The images alone were enough to bring Dylan close, and they were.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming FaceTime.
Dylan slid her thumb over the glass and held the screen up, showing Greta her flushed face and already heaving chest.
‘You took your time. I nearly finished without you,’ Dylan whispered, her eyes searching the screen. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in a fucking cupboard, Dylan,’ Greta said, her voice low and tight.
‘What?’
‘I’m in a—’
‘No, I heard you. I meant why?’
‘My hotel is miles away, and I couldn’t very well watch you while the canapés were being passed around and I chatted about biobanking, could I?’
Dylan blew out a long breath at the sight of Greta.
Her hair was loosely tied up, her blue blouse fastened with a bow at the neck.
A single earphone pushed in one ear, the other hanging from the wire around her neck.
Dylan smiled to herself at Greta’s refusal to use wireless AirPods, having watched them through the round glass of the washing machine door once too often.
‘I miss you so much,’ Dylan whispered, her breathing already shallow.
‘Fucking hell, Dylan.’ Greta sighed, eyes locked on the suggestive movement of Dylan’s shoulder.
As Dylan pushed her fingers in long, wet strokes over herself, she knew Greta was watching the snug fit of her T-shirt over the taut curve of her bicep; her biceps being a particular favourite of Greta’s. ‘Are you wet?’ Greta whispered.
Dylan angled the phone, allowing Greta to see the ease with which her hand slid and hear the slick sound of her fingers effortlessly gliding over her.
‘I’m soaked,’ Dylan breathed. ‘I’ve been thinking about your mouth.’
‘Prop your phone up. Let me see all of you.’ Dylan grabbed a pillow and fiddled with the angle of the phone until Greta had the perfect view. ‘My God, Dylan, you look…’ Greta huffed out a sigh. ‘Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.’
With her head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on the screen, Dylan exhaled loudly through her nose. Two fingers moving in wet circles around the soft pink skin of her clit. Greta let out a low groan, shifting her weight heavily onto one leg.
‘Does the door lock?’ Dylan asked quietly.
‘It’s locked. It’s a cleaner's cupboard, it’s—'
‘Are you wearing a skirt?’ Dylan interrupted, her tone impatient as the mere question caused the heat under her fingers to burn.
‘Yes,’ Greta sighed. ‘Yes, I’m—’
‘Pull it up.’
‘Dyl, I— ’
‘Pull your fucking skirt up, Greta. Fuck, I’m already so close, G.
Please… Pull it up and show me. I need to see you.
’ Greta angled the phone down. Even fully clothed, the sight of her elicited a frustrated whimper from Dylan’s throat.
‘God, I miss you,’ Dylan sighed as Greta pulled the sides of her skirt over the curves of her hips with one hand.
‘I miss you too,’ Greta replied, her breath hitched and tight before she’d even touched herself.
‘Put your phone down somewhere. Let me see you.’ Dylan ordered breathlessly.
Greta propped her phone on a shelf next to huge bottles of American cleaning products, giving Dylan her full profile.
Pressing her back against the wall, Dylan watched carefully as Greta widened her stance and slowly slid her hand into her knickers.
The sight of her fingers pushing against the inside of the fabric deepened Dylan’s moans as she moved over herself.
‘Tell me what you’ve been thinking about,’ Greta whispered.
Dylan’s hips continued to undulate against her own hand. ‘Your mouth,’ she managed quietly.
Greta’s hand slowly began to move. ‘Keep talking.’
‘Fuck, my clit is so swollen.’ Dylan’s words were becoming harder to form, the last syllables fracturing. ‘Your mouth. I can feel it on me, sucking my—’
‘Oh my fucking God… You’re making me so wet.’
‘Can you feel me in your mouth?’
‘I can. I can taste you… Jesus, Dyl, I’m so fucking turned on.’
Head turned to the side, Dylan watched, as Greta thrust her pelvis into her own hand in slow, rhythmic circles, her shoulder blades and head pressed hard into the wall.
‘You look so good,’ Dylan sighed, the intensity of her own touch making her arch off the bed. She pushed her head back into the pillow with a deep groan. ‘Can you come like that?’
‘I think so, I don’t—’
‘You can come against a wall when I fuck you—’
‘Fuck, Dylan.’
‘Close your eyes. Imagine your fingers are mine.’
‘Ohhh, God.’
‘Imagine my hand over your throat…my other hand inside your knickers,’ Dylan encouraged softly. The deep hum of Greta’s moans started to fill the tiny cupboard. ‘Quietly, G. Don’t make any noise.’
‘Fucking hell, Dyl, I can’t—’
‘Slide two fingers just inside yourself. The way I do.’
Dylan’s eyes stayed locked on the small screen as Greta reached for herself, imagining the tips of her fingers inside her, the heat of her slick arousal warming her skin.
Dylan couldn’t see everything she wanted to, but the sight of Greta—skirt pulled up, heels on, fucking herself—was all she needed.
‘Mmhmm,’ Greta hummed, the upturn of the sound a request for more instruction.
‘Push your fingers over the spot you beg me to touch when you’re close.’
‘Oh my—fuck!’ Greta gasped. Dylan watched as Greta tried hard to keep her eyes on the screen, her gaze faltering as her arm moved faster.
‘I want to suck your clit, Dylan.’ Dylan moaned deeply at the image.
She pushed her fingers over the epicentre of her clit, cresting her climax immediately.
Her eyes flickered shut as Greta rasped, ‘Come in my mouth.’
Dylan’s body shook and stiffened as the orgasm tore through her.
On the screen, Greta gasped, as if pushed over the edge by the quiet sounds of Dylan coming.
With Dylan watching, and imagining her fingers moving to the spot she always found without question, Greta softly repeated, ‘I’m coming’ and Dylan’s name as she rode out her orgasm as quietly as she could.
In a hotel cleaner’s cupboard.
In San Diego.
5377 miles away.
‘Fuck, I love you,’ Greta said quietly, breaking through the sound of their heavy breathing.
***
The crackle of tannoy announcements filled the air as Dylan’s thigh bounced restlessly, earning her an annoyed glance from the man sitting next to her.
Huffing out a frustrated breath, she glanced at the digital clock on the flight information board, and then checked her watch.
The need to close the agonising distance between her and Greta had become so overwhelming she had arrived at the airport far too early and had already been sitting in arrivals for an hour.
Leaning forward, she pushed her sweaty palms over her thighs, letting the denim of her Levi’s absorb the moisture.
Her fingers picked at the label of her water bottle, unable to tell if she was excited, nervous, or both.
A week without Greta had been too long, and she was more than ready to hold her again.
The vibration of her phone in the pocket of her brown Carhartt jacket, sent a thrill through her diaphragm.
She thumbed the notification, taking her straight to WhatsApp.
Greta:
‘Just landed. A group clapped. I’m dying of second hand embarrassment and the guy next to me has BO so strong it would bring a chateaubriand back to life. Get me home! Gx’
Dylan:
‘Eww. I’ll let the ground staff know so they can be arrested as they leave the plane and thrown in chav jail…and sprayed with deodorant. Hurry up. Dx’
Dylan:
‘In fact, forget about your luggage. We can get you new things. Dx’
Greta:
‘30 minutes max (hopefully). Gx’
Dylan:
‘I’ll be dead by then. RIP Dyl’
She added a headstone emoji and a ghost.
Greta:
‘Epitaph?’
Dylan:
‘Here lies The Dylan of the House. Twas the yearning what took her. Perished at Manchester Airport, waiting for the love of her life. Dx’
Dylan:
That’s you btw x
Greta:
‘I’m the love of your life?’
Dylan:
‘Shit! Wrong thread! No, you’re just a bird I’m shagging’
She added a winking emoji and a taco.
Greta:
‘A bird you won’t be shagging later. Gx’
Dylan:
‘Why are you still texting? Hurry the fuck up Dr Vincent. Dx’
***
Tugging her grey suitcase behind her—hand luggage wobbling precariously on top—Greta emerged through the arrivals gate, the weight of the fourteen-hour flight evident in the exhausted slump of her shoulders.
Hovering for a moment, Dylan watched Greta move in her olive-green jumpsuit and crisp white Lacoste trainers that looked super bright against the dull airport floor.
Greta stopped to adjust her bag, pushing her hair behind her ear as she struggled to secure it.
Before Greta knew what was happening, Dylan had lifted her into the air and nuzzled her face into her neck, making Greta shriek and giggle.
‘Fuck me, I’ve missed you,’ Dylan whispered emphatically. ‘You’re never going away again.’