Page 37 of Run To You
Then I remember how her hands, soft and warm, bracketed my shoulders like I might float away if she gave me any space. I remember the shock of her thigh between mine, then the ache and the friction and—
I don’t breathe for a long time because my mind is soaking it all in, waiting for the images to dissolve. But they don’t. If anything, they sharpen. Oh, Jesus, I can smell the musk of her deodorant and the sound of the headboard tapping the wall as she took me higher and higher. Oh, god, the way she said my name!
The whole thing is so intensely physical, I half expect to roll over and see her there, limbs tangled in my disaster ofa comforter, hair sticking out in all directions. Of course it’s just me. My body…my sweat…my regret. Not discounting the bitter aftertaste of wanting something I told myself I’d never have again.
There is a moment, half a breath, maybe less, where I think about getting up, dousing myself in ice water, putting on my running shoes, and being the version of Sloane Bishop who has her shit together. The one I’ve been fighting for all these months. But the ache in my stomach and the wetness between my legs are so intense and so involuntary that it’s almost cruel to pretend I can do anything but relieve myself of the building pressure.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the pool’s reflection. I feel my pulse thundering in my wrists, my throat, and my pussy. I press a hand to my chest, as if I can force my heart back to its resting rhythm.
I can’t.
All last night, as I tried to unwind in front of garbage TV shows, I told myself that how Eden and I had acted was just nostalgia, adrenaline, and carbohydrates. Nothing more. But that’s a lie, and I’m so over lying to myself. Dr. Chen would be proud.
I slip my left hand down under the elastic waistband of my pajama shorts, the cotton already slick with morningsweat and something more desperate. My fingers graze my lips and the noise that comes out of me is more of a whimper than anything else.
I clamp my jaw shut. The walls are thin, and while my parents are in a separate building, I’m not ready for the conversation where my mom asks if I could close my windows. Or worse, where she wants to tell me how proud of me she is that my sex drive is back.
I move slowly at first, just tracing the outline of myself. But the feeling is ramping up, and I’m already surging toward the place where thought and sensation fuse together. I close my eyes, and the dream picks up where it left off: Eden’s tongue licking her bottom lip as her hands knead my thighs.
I picture her above me, knees nudging themselves between my legs until I’m spread wide. In my dream, Eden is just as cocky as she was—is—in real-life. She knows exactly what I want, and she gives it to me with this infuriating patience that makes me insane. She doesn’t say anything at first, just looks down at me, her goddamn smirk tugging at the side of her mouth.
“You want me to stop?”she asks, already knowing the answer. My brain recreating her in perfect detail.
“No,” I breathe, barely audible. My hand moves faster, two fingers slipping easily over swollen, wet folds. The shudder it sends through me nearly has me arching off the bed.
I think about the first time. How nervous I was, even though I’d been ready for that part of our relationship to happen before Eden. I remember how Eden was so perfect with my body. I remember how I nearly melted into a puddle of overwhelming love and sensation.
The memory hits me so hard I have to bite down on my fist to keep from crying out. The hand in my shorts is frantic now, palm grinding into my clit as I enter myself roughly with two fingers. There’s a tension in my back, my thighs, my jaw, like I’m holding on to the edge of a cliff and can’t decide if I want to hang on for dear life or let go.
“Let go,” Eden says. “I’ve got you, baby.”
Her voice is so real that I almost answer her. Instead I gasp, and my body tightens almost painfully. My legs snap together like I’m trying to trap the feeling and never let it out. The orgasm is powerful, formidable, like it wants to punish me for not thinking of her sooner. My eyes sting, and I realize I’m crying. Silent tears leak into the pillowcase as I ride out the aftershocks. A buildup of longing, guilt and regret bursting to the surface with my excitement.
When it’s over I just lie there, hand sticky and heart racing. The birds outside are louder now, and somewhere in the main house my mom has started banging pans for breakfast. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and for a second I dare to hope it’s Eden.
It’s not. Just a calendar notification about my therapy session at 10 a.m.
I start to laugh hysterically until I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying. Probably both, that’s sort of my brand nowadays.
Dragging myself out of bed, I wipe my face and try to arrange my features into something that won’t set off any parental alarms. In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what Eden would see if she looked at me now. I smirk as I picture her smug grin, because she would absolutely be proud as a peacock for what dream Eden just did to me.
I brush my teeth with more force than necessary, and take an extra-cold shower. There’s no point pretending this isn’t going to happen again, so I don’t bother vowing to stop. I just hope next time I can have her for real.
Back in my room, I find a clean set of running clothes folded neatly on my bedroom chair. I really need to talk toMom about my laundry. I don’t want her thinking I can’t look after myself.
As soon as I’m dressed, I check my phone again. Nothing from Eden. I almost text her something dumb and offhand, but I don’t. We’re still in a precarious stage of our relationship, and I don’t want to push her. It’s best I wait for Eden to come to me.
I make my bed, flushing at the wet patch I created. I open the window wider to let in some fresh air. If Mom is prone to coming in here, I don’t want it smelling of sex.
At exactly 9:55 a.m., I’m in my computer chair, legs bouncing with adrenaline…or the aftershocks of unresolved horniness. I kind of hoped Dr. Chen would be early because I’m almost bursting to talk.
Dr. Chen appears a few minutes later, her smile warm. “Good morning, Sloane.” Her dark eyes crinkling as she sips from a mug. It’s herbal tea, which I know because I asked her once. I was concerned that she spent all day in sessions drinking coffee. She told me she only drinks herbal tea, so there was nothing for me to worry about.
“Good morning. Although it feels like I’ve been up for half a day already. I…um…I had trouble sleeping so I thought, why fight it? It kind of sucks,” I reply with a laugh.
She laughs along with me. “Sleep issues have a habit of resolving when the mind is in motion. Have you been busy?”
“Uh,” I say, weighing how much of my morning to disclose. “I’ve been productive, if that’s what you mean?”
