Page 85 of In What World

I tuck my hand under her chin to pull her gaze to mine. “You’re wrong, by the way,” I whisper sweetly, my thumb stroking her cheek. “I knewyou’dwant to be in charge, but I had to make sure you really wanted the job.”

“Oh yeah? How badly do you think I want it?” Sheunbuttons my jeans and slides her hand into my underwear until her finger finds my clit.

I let out a sharp gasp, and I turn my head toward the cushion to stifle the sound.

“Ah-ah. That’s not an answer,” she says in a chiding tone. Her fingers move faster, and I become all sensation, writhing along with the speed of her hand. “Tell me, Marlowe Jenkins, how long do you think I’ve been waiting to hear what it sounds like when you come?”

There’s no way for me to speak words. I can only make sounds, ones I hardly recognize as my own. Ones I have to muffle with my own palm.

Priscilla lowers herself until we’re chest to chest, her free hand moving mine so she’s the one covering my mouth now. “I’ll keep you quiet,” she says. “But you have to letmehear.”

I nod in compliance.

“Yes,” she says, encouraging me to go even further as she increases her own pace, to let her take me all the way over the edge. As if there’s anywhere else for me to go. As if my whole life hasn’t been leading me toward this exact cliff.

When I fall apart, I gasp into her hand. She stays with me through my free fall, holding her palm tightly over my mouth until my body has regulated.

“That was everything I wanted and more,” she says with her wicked little grin, pulling her other hand from my underwear. She moves to get off me, but I catch her wrist before she can stand.

“Not so fast,” I say. “This isn’t over yet.”

“I thought I was in charge.”

“Then you should know how much I want to please.” I feel her thighs clench around me. “That’s what I thought. Now liedown.” We reposition ourselves until she’s on her back once more. “No moving this time.”

“I’m yours,” she tells me, tucking her hands behind her head.

I grab her dress and hike it up. “You’re not wearing any underwear,” I say, momentarily dazed.

“Of course not,” she says. “Did you think I’d miss an opportunity to feel every last bit of the multiverse?”

We laugh, but it doesn’t last long, because my hands have gripped the soft flesh of her thighs, and her words halt as I put my mouth on her wetness.

The first sound she makes is a delicate gasp of shock. I keep going, licking and sucking, enjoying the driver’s seat just as much as I liked being the passenger.

“God, I want you,” I purr. “So fucking much. In every way I can have you.”

This is all it takes to make Priscilla Covington-French unravel.

32

Priscilla

Upon returning toSeptember 2, 1995, we don’t have to go far to find our Dallas. He’s sitting on a folding chair that he’s dragged center stage. Everything is dark, save for a single spotlight shining on him.

“You’re going back home,” he says. He doesn’t look at us as he speaks, instead keeping his gaze on the empty seats in front of him, playing the moment to a crowd that doesn’t exist.

“We are,” I confirm.

“And we’d like you to come with us,” Marlowe adds.

Dallas waits. And waits.

And waits.

The art of expectation. His favorite.

I don’t know how long it goes on before he whispers, “You know I can’t.”