25. Eden
Eden
Okay, I can absolutely admit I have been a complete drama queen ever since my parents announced they are leaving for my homeland. Instead of trying to understand where they’re coming from, I dived into a pit of self-wallowing, dragging everyone down with me.
I’m in my thirties, for crying out loud!
I should be able to get through life without Mummy and Daddy propping me up!
Hell, in high school, I had every intention of fucking off and living by the ocean, without a spare thought for the ’rents.
I was fine living away through college—except when Sloane disappeared, but that was a different thing.
The truth is, I wasn’t such a needy sap back then.
Not like now, when all I can do is picture my life falling apart as soon as they’re gone.
Now that I’ve had a few days to digest, I can see why they want to go back.
Mum has never been the same since Gran got diagnosed with cancer all those years ago.
I can only assume that it set off some sort of mortality alarm in her brain, so yeah, why wouldn’t she want to be close to her parents?
Hell, I miss the shit out of my grandparents every day.
Plus, Jenna is over there now, settled into a life she clearly loves.
She’s just getting her business off the ground, and I’m sure she’d love to have Mum and Dad closer to lean on.
I have Sloane, Olivia, and the gang. My life is so good, and I wouldn’t change anything. Well, maybe Olivia’s penchant for shitting on me.
If I hadn’t been so in my head about Mum and Dad’s news I might have caught the glaring signs of Sloane’s libido coming back to life. Fuck, I’ve been waiting months, but it’s not something I ever wanted to pressure her about. Her beautiful body has been through a lot, not to mention her emotions.
But now that I have taken my head out of my arse, I can see it.
See her and those smouldering looks. The way she’s started biting her lip again as her eyes trace my body.
I don’t know why tonight is the night I finally noticed, but fuck if I’m not going to dive in headfirst. Liv is asleep, so we only have a limited time to do this. Fuck, I need to do this with her.
Sloane’s mouth is on mine before I can even process the fact that we’re doing this, really doing this, and her fingers are suddenly deep in my hair, pulling just enough to hurt a little, just enough to make my knees go.
I taste the wine on her tongue and something else too—something hot and wild, a kind of hunger that makes my hands shake as I try to find the hem of her shirt.
She beats me to it, yanking her own t-shirt over her head so fast she nearly slaps herself in the face.
I’m laughing as she straddles me, but then she grinds down, through layers of sweatpants and boxer briefs, and it turns into a gasp instead.
She’s heavier now, or maybe I’m just weaker, but it feels incredible, like she could pin me here forever and I’d never complain.
I slide my hands up over her ribs, find the line of her bra, and fumble with the clasp. My hands are useless. She has to reach back and do it herself, which makes her smirk. She flings the offending item somewhere into the kitchen, which is hilarious and hot as hell at the same time.
She leans in, hair falling in my face, and drags her mouth down my jaw, under my ear, biting just enough to make me arch up into her.
I can’t get enough of her skin, the way there are new, unfamiliar curves that weren’t there before the baby.
Her breasts are heavier, full, and I want to touch them, taste them, so I do, finding the tip of one nipple with my tongue while I palm the other, rougher than I mean to be, but she just whimpers and pushes into my hand.
“Oh my god,” she says, voice shaking. “You’re so—shit, Eden, just—”
I don’t let her finish. I pull her closer, my mouth on her chest, sucking until she’s clutching my shoulders, digging her nails in. She’s moaning, soft and breathless, and it spurs me on to bite harder, to press my teeth into the tender flesh until she yelps.
Her hands are under my shirt, nails scraping my sides, and she keeps muttering things like “fuck, I missed you” and “don’t stop, don’t fucking stop,” and I think my brain is going to liquefy.
She’s grinding down so hard I can feel how wet she is through the cotton, and I want her naked, I need her naked, right now.
I tug at her sweatpants, and she helps, lifting up just enough for me to shove them down, and then she’s in my lap in nothing but underwear, her thighs bracketing my hips, skin everywhere. I reach down, cup her ass, kneading, pulling her tight against me until there’s no space left between us.
Sloane fumbles with my waistband, swearing under her breath, and finally manages to get my sweats down enough to expose me, not all the way, but enough to see the evidence of what she’s doing to me through my boxers.
I feel the scrape of her fingers and the heat where she’s pressed against me.
I lose the thread of conversation, of thought, of anything but her hands and her body, right here, now.
She fits her mouth over mine again, tongue urgent, teeth clacking, and then she’s reaching down, sliding her hand between us, palming me through my boxers, knowing exactly how to make me shudder.
I grab her wrist and hold it in place, grinding hard into her palm, the friction almost too much.
I can’t remember the last time I was this desperate for her.
She rips my tee off, nearly taking my septum ring with it, and then we’re skin to skin. Her hands roam everywhere—my back, my chest, my stomach, then lower, under the elastic of my underwear, until she’s got me in her hand and I can’t breathe. I’m gasping, hips jerking up, and she laughs softly.
“Easy, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”
I want to be inside her. Now! I try to tell her this, but it comes out as a groan instead of words.
She gets it, though, because she stands, peels her underwear off, and then yanks mine down in one fluid motion.
She pushes me back down onto the couch, climbs into my lap, and sits, letting me see all of her, everything.
“God, you’re perfect,” I whisper, and she shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
She leans in, grabs my face with both hands, and kisses me, slow this time, deep and sweet. Then she lines us up and sinks down onto my waiting fingers, tip to knuckle, and I almost come right then because it’s been so long, so goddamn long, and she’s so warm, so tight around me I can barely think.
She moves slow, rocking her hips, hands braced on my shoulders. I meet her rhythm, thrusting up, hard and desperate. The back of my hand is resting on my clit just perfectly.
She buries her face in my neck, panting, and I feel her teeth, sharp, then her tongue, soft, and then her voice, trembling in my ear. “I need you. I need you so bad.”
I wrap my other arm around her, crush her to me and pick up the pace, fucking up into her with everything I have.
She claws at my back, moaning, then grabs my free hand and moves it to her clit, guiding my fingers there, pressing down hard.
I rub her, fast, the way she likes, and she comes almost instantly, squeezing around me, breath strangled in her throat.
She doesn’t stop. She keeps riding me, harder now, almost punishing, and I match her, chasing my own finish. When it happens, it’s like falling off a cliff—blinding, total. I bite her shoulder to keep from yelling, and she holds me, shuddering through her own aftershocks.
We collapse, tangled and sticky, our hearts going a thousand miles an hour. I don’t even care that we made a mess of the couch. I don’t care that the baby might wake up any second. All I care about is Sloane, naked and spent in my arms, her face pressed to my chest, her breath evening out.
“You good?” I ask, voice hoarse.
She laughs, weak. “I’m more than good. I’m…Christ, I can’t feel my legs.”
“Success,” I say, and she smacks me in the ribs.
We lie there, catching our breath, until the world creeps back in. The low hum of the fridge, the click of the heater, the faint, angelic snore from the baby monitor.
I run my fingers through Sloane’s hair. We’re still a mess, but we’re a mess together, and that’s all I ever needed.
I wake up the next morning with the suspicious feeling I have been replaced by a better, more responsible version of myself overnight.
Sloane is already up and dressed, hair in a stubby ponytail, mug of coffee in hand, giving me the look of someone who not only managed to sleep but also probably did a load of laundry, paid three bills online, and solved a minor international crisis before eight a.m.
I glance down at my naked body and realise I’m still sprawled across the couch, throw pillow under my ass and a blanket half-eaten by my own feet. The room smells like spent sex, sweat, and baby wipes.
I grin to myself as I revisit last night’s activities. Sloane cocks her eyebrow at me as I replay the best bits. She knows exactly what I’m thinking, and by the way her thighs just clenched together, she’s remembering too. Delicious.
I feel…good. Not just regular good, but clarity-of-purpose, linen-commercial good. Like the air in my head has been replaced with something bright and fresh and not at all marinated in self-pity.
It’s amazing what a few mind-blowing orgasms can do!
Sloane continues watching me with a smirk. “You want coffee or a shower first?”
I yawn, stretch, consider my options. “Can I do both at the same time?”
She pushes herself off the counter and hands me her mug. “Drink. I’ll wrangle the goblin.”
I chug that room-temperature coffee like it’s the elixir of life. I am not above drinking her backwash. The mere taste of caffeine restores about 40% of my IQ points.
Olivia is swaddled on her play mat, making tiny, suspicious grunts at the ceiling fan. I boop her tiny nose as I walk past, which leads to a glare so similar to the one Sloane gives me when I’ve got paint on the carpet that it’s scary.
“I thought you had a work meeting this morning,” I say to Sloane, who is now pumping Liv’s breakfast on the couch like this is a normal household and not the site of last night’s lesbian debauchery.
She shrugs. “Moved it to tomorrow. You seemed like you needed a day.”
“Are you saying I’m a high-maintenance emotional flower?”
She chuckles. “I’m saying your parents are moving to the other side of the planet and you’re allowed to lose your shit for a bit.”
I let myself soak it in—the permission to be a mess, the absence of shame.
Then I take the baby, strap her into her carrier, and let Sloane herd me toward the shower, where the three of us end up for a good fifteen minutes.
Sloane perches on the edge of the tub making faces at Liv while I scrub myself down and rinse off the ghosts of the previous week.
When I’m done, I dry off, put on my oldest hoodie, and settle at the kitchen table. I stare at my phone for a while, waiting for the dread to return, but it doesn’t. Instead, I unlock the screen and start thumbing out a message to my parents.
It’s not an apology, exactly. It’s more of a “Hey, I was an absolute nightmare, oops.” and “I’m really happy for you, actually, and I hope you have the time of your lives in the King’s damp, mossy bosom.”
That one will make Dad laugh.
I send the text before I can overthink it. Instantly, three dots pop up.
Mum
Love you, darling. You’ll always be our favourite disaster. Xx
I’ll need to text Jenna that later. Can’t let her forget who is the favourite.
I smile so hard my face hurts.
Sloane catches me grinning and raises a brow. Liv emits a world-ending fart, then gurgles with joy. I take that as a cue to get back to real life.
The rest of the day is freakishly calm. We watch a documentary about the origins of cheese. We order takeout from the new Ethiopian place. Sloane tries and fails to help Liv master the art of grabbing things without immediately smashing them into her own head.
I work on a new painting: not a moody cityscape or an existential void, but a bright, messy thing that looks like a toddler’s fever dream. Sloane says it might be my best yet, but she says that about everything I make so I can’t trust her for shit.
I keep thinking about my parents, and instead of the usual ache, there’s a weird little spark.
Maybe it’s pride, or relief, or just the knowledge that I can still call them whenever I want.
Or maybe it’s the realisation that, despite the ocean and the jet lag and the new time zone, I am not going to fall apart without them.
“Would you ever consider moving?” I ask Sloane that night, when the baby is finally asleep and we’re curled together in our actual bed for once.
She hums. “I’d be open to talking about it.”
“I’m not saying I want to or anything. Just…I don’t know, wondered if that door was open?”
Sloane kisses the top of my head. “I’d follow you anywhere, Sawyer.”
I close my eyes and imagine it—Olivia stomping through a muddy field, Sloane getting into vegetable-related discussions at the local Tesco, my mum teaching Liv to bake scones.
It’s wild. I never thought I’d want to go back.
The US has been my home for most of my life now, but I admit a spark has ignited in my chest when I think of being in Blighty with my family. Gran would lose her shit!
I drift off with Sloane’s arms around me, Liv snoring gently down the hall, and the knowledge that I am, for the first time in ages, exactly where I want to be.
Tomorrow, I’ll probably paint something terrible, or I’ll cry about Mum and Dad leaving again. Sloane will catch me and make a dumb joke, and the baby will try to eat my hair.
Life will go on, and so will I—happier, and less dramatically, hopefully.