29. Eden
Eden
Sloane is driving me insane. Her palm smothers my needy clit with just the right amount of pressure, but before I can peak, she hops off my lap, pulling me off the bed, reversing our positions.
I’m in her lap now, legs splayed, my hips anchored by her left hand, and my entire universe narrows to the two fingers she’s got buried inside me.
She works me, slow at first—just enough to torture, barely moving, like she’s savouring the way my muscles quiver every time she pulses her fingers.
The room is quiet except for my breathing, which is embarrassingly loud, but Sloane’s never been turned off by my noises.
If anything, she seems to collect them, hoarding every gasp and shudder.
She tightens her other arm around my waist and guides me with a rhythm that’s not hurried, but insistent. Like she’s got all the time in the world to make me fall apart. I can already feel the inside of my pussy tighten, and the way she smirks up at me when she notices makes my toes curl.
“Is that good?” she whispers, mouth grazing the skin just under my ear. Her lips are so soft and then, suddenly, biting, nipping at the spot she knows will echo straight through my gut.
I arch and grind down, desperate for more friction, and she rewards me by adding a third finger, stretching me wide and full and deliciously helpless.
I want to repeat how much I missed it, missed her, over the past months, but the words snag on my tongue, and all that comes out is a moan, low and startled, like I’m shocked by how completely she owns me.
I swear she takes it as a challenge. Her thumb brushes over my clit in tight, controlled circles until I can’t remember a single thing except her smell, her hands, the wild need in my own body.
I rock against her, shameless, head thrown back.
The ceiling fan stutters above us, and the sound is white noise, nothing compared to the wet, obscene pulse of Sloane’s fingers inside me.
She’s murmuring something, maybe my name, maybe just a string of encouragements, but it’s all lost in the rushing heat behind my eyes.
She pushes in deeper, and I swear I see stars. My hips jerk, and she holds me tighter, not letting me escape, not letting me go, until the need is a knife in my belly and I’m begging, actually begging her to finish me.
She does of course. She always does.
When I come, it’s like tripping down a set of stairs: sudden, brutal, and ungraceful.
Sloane rides it out with me, holding me through every convulsion, every aftershock, until I finally collapse forward and rest my face against the damp curve of her neck.
I can feel her smiling. She kisses my temple, soft and proud.
We stay tangled together, my hands still clutching at her shoulders, my breath coming in ragged little bursts. She lets her fingers glide out, slow and careful, and I hiss because the sensitivity is almost too much.
“Missed that, huh?” she smirks, sucking on her drenched fingers.
I want to pretend I’m cool, unaffected, but my entire body is still trembling. “You’re a fucking goddess,” I mumble.
“I’m your goddess,” she replies.
Burying my face in her hair, I inhale the smell of baby powder, sweat, and a little trace of coconut shower gel. I could stay here forever, in this perfect, post-orgasmic bubble, but I know Olivia won’t nap for long and we have maybe five minutes before the rest of real life comes clawing back.
Running my hand down the length of Sloane’s thigh, I bask in the feel of how solid she feels under my palm. She’s still worked up, still hungry for me. I can tell by the way her eyes flick to my mouth, then away again, like she’s trying to be polite but absolutely is not.
I reach down and skim her folds. “Again?” I ask, grinning into the space between us.
She nods frantically, watching as I slide off her lap, tugging her down until her legs hang over the end of the bed. When she’s situated, I just look at her for a second, drinking it in—the flush on her skin, the way she’s already wet and glistening.
“You’re perfect,” I say. I mean it so deeply it’s almost a prayer.
She makes a noise, embarrassed but pleased, and then I lean in and run my tongue up the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate.
She shivers, legs tensing around my shoulders, and I bite gently at the spot just above her knee, then follow the line of her muscle up and up, until I’m where she wants me most.
I lick her slowly, flattening my tongue and savouring the taste of her.
She lets out a gasp, hands flying to my hair, threading through the strands and guiding me, but never forcing.
I take my time, circling her clit, teasing the edges, dipping my tongue inside her and then back out, wanting to make her wait for it the way she made me wait.
She tries to muffle her moans, but I love every sound. She’s always so controlled, so careful, but when she falls apart, it’s only for me, and it’s like nothing else in the world exists. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right. She jerks, squeezing my head between her thighs.
“Eden, fuck—don’t stop,” she begs.
I don’t. I fuck her with my fingers, mouth never leaving her clit, working her up and up until she’s shaking, the muscles in her legs twitching under my arms. I can feel when she’s close, the way her hands clench at my scalp, the way her breath goes high and thin.
I press harder, faster, and she comes almost violently, hips bucking against my mouth.
I keep licking her, gently now, until the tremors fade and her entire body goes slack. She’s panting, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, beautiful and bright.
I crawl back up into her lap, kissing her again. We sit there, messy and spent, until the sound of Olivia wailing on the baby monitor shatters the silence.
Sloane groans, but she’s smiling. “Duty calls.”
I stand and pull on a pair of sweats, then hand Sloane her shirt. She catches my wrist as I pass and pulls me in for one more kiss.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and I know she means for everything, not just the sex, but for the whole wild, impossible mess of our life.
“Anytime,” I whisper back.
The rest of the day is a blur of snacks, diapers, and the kind of small disasters that would have wrecked me last year but now just feel like background noise.
After dinner, when the house is finally quiet, Sloane and I lie on the couch, tangled together, watching some trashy reality show and drinking cheap wine.
“Are you sure you’re happy to think about moving?” she asks after a while, soft and serious.
I think about it, really think about it. About the cottage by the sea, about my parents and Jenna and the way the air tastes in Northumberland. About Olivia stomping around in rubber boots, about Sloane starting her own practice, about being scared and doing it anyway.
“Yeah. I really am.”
She pulls me in close, burying her face in my neck. “Good.”
I think we’ve finally dealt with all the drama one day could possibly hold, but of course I’m wrong.
The doorbell rings, causing Olivia to wake and deafen the entire neighbourhood.
Growling, I stalk to the door, but it’s already opening. Pia steps through, hands on hips.
“When were you going to tell me?” she snaps. I can barely hear her through Liv’s war cry.
Sloane bolts out of the living room, waves to Pia and heads up the stairs. After a good sixty seconds, I can finally hear myself think. Pia hasn’t moved in all that time, hands still wedged on her hips in anger.
I shut the door and lean against it, staring at Pia and her knitted-together eyebrows. She’s in full storm mode—hair in a messy braid, eyeliner smudged like war paint, a turquoise sports jacket over a graphic tee.
“Becca told you?”
She scoffs. “Of course she fucking told me. You know she can’t keep her mouth shut for a single nanosecond. What the hell, Eden? I have to find out from your wife’s best friend that you’re moving to England? Are you even going to tell me before you leave, or just text a selfie from Heathrow?”
She says it too loud, and my cheeks go hot. “It’s not…we’re not actually moving. Not yet. We just talked about it last night. I haven’t even told my parents we’re considering it—”
“But you told Becca?”
“Becca was at Sloane’s mom’s house when Sloane mentioned it, okay? It’s not some big secret, Pia. Jesus.” I cross my arms, “I was going to tell you.”
She narrows her eyes. “When? After you’d rented the cottage and gotten Sloane British citizenship?”
I want to laugh, and then I want to scream. “I don’t even know if we’re moving. Sloane just wants me to be happy, and she thinks that means moving closer to my family. That’s it.”
Pia doesn’t budge. “You’re my best friend,” she says, and her voice cracks. “You can’t just drop this on me via grapevine.”
I sigh, shoulders sagging. She’s right, and we both know it. I flop onto the arm of the couch and motion for her to sit, but she refuses, pacing a line across my carpet like she’s wearing a groove.
“You know what gets me?” she says. “I always figured we’d end up old and crusty together, chasing grandkids on the same street, doing book club and pretending to know something about wine.”
I bite my lip. “You can visit. The kids love Gran’s house.”
She stops, hands on her hips again. “It’s not the same, E. It’s never the same, and you know it.”
There’s an ache in my chest I don’t want to admit to. For all my “I’m not codependent” bullshit, Pia has been my anchor for a very long time. If I leave, really leave, I’m not sure what I’ll become on the other side.
I pat the couch harder. “Sit down before you wear out my floor. Please.”
She does, but only after a dramatic sigh that could power a wind farm. I sit beside her, close enough that our knees bump.
“I’m sorry. I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want to make it real if it wasn’t. It’s just…Sloane’s being wonderful, and my parents are over there, and Jenna and Gran, and Olivia would grow up with all this family—” My voice falters, and Pia jumps in.
“And I’m just chopped liver, huh?”
I want to tell her she’s being dramatic, but that would be the pot calling the kettle black. “You’re not chopped anything. You’re my person, Pia. I can’t even function if you’re not around to judge all my bad decisions.”
She sniffs, pretending not to care. “Well, if you move, you better FaceTime me every day. And don’t you dare get a new best friend.”
I grin. “You’re on. But you’re going to have to approve all my future friends, just in case they’re secretly TERFs or Tories or like, people who put ketchup on eggs.”
She brightens a little and punches my shoulder. “You know, I could always move with you.”
The idea is so absurd I laugh. “You? Permanently on the moors, with the sheep? You’d last five minutes.”
She shrugs, then softens. “I’d do it for you, E. If you really wanted me to.”
And that’s when I know, really know, that I can do it—move across the ocean, start again—because even if I’m a world away, the people I love aren’t going anywhere. Not really.
I throw my arm around her and squeeze. “Thanks, Pia.”
She hugs me back, tight. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
She pulls away, wipes her nose on my sleeve. “So, when do you tell the others?”
I groan. “When we’ve made a decision ourselves.”
We sit in silence, both pretending not to be emotional.
From upstairs, Sloane yells, “Can someone bring up a diaper? It’s the big one—code brown!”
Pia snorts, and all at once the tension breaks. “Some things never change,” she says, then stands and chucks a box of wipes at my head.
“Let’s go save your wife from the poopocalypse.”
As per my life, everything seems to happen all at once. Sloane has only just talked to me, and now I’m having to decide if I want to tell the rest of my friends and family we’re moving.
Are we moving? Is it already set in motion? Will it be one of those things I wake up to one morning and it’s already happened?
At least Pia knows now. That’s one headache out of the way.
I need some major studio time to paint through this shitstorm of thoughts. On the positive side, all this emotional bullshit will give me enough material for my next gallery show.