Page 82 of When the Smoke Clears

I inhale, then push gently, my body opening like it’s been waiting all day for this exact command. My inner muscles flutter around the intrusion, a spill of warmth meeting my hand. Luke lives in my head, a steady, low hum. Luke, Luke, Luke.

LUKE: Deeper. Nice and slow. Feel how ready you are for me.

I sink that finger deeper, and the relief is immediate, a pressure easing into pleasure. Heat spreads through my hips, up my spine.

LUKE: Add a second. I want you full.

I bite my bottom lip and do it, a near-silent gasp breaking when my body stretches around my own hand. I move tentatively at first, then with more confidence, finding a rhythm that draws my breath into short, uneven pulls.

LUKE: Don’t touch your clit. Not yet. Make me wait with you.

I almost protest. I don’t. Something in me—something stubborn and hungry—likes obeying him. Likes the discipline of it. The ache builds into a sweet, almost painful knot. My toes curl against the porcelain.

ISLA: Luke

LUKE: I know. Hold the line.

A laugh escapes me that is not a laugh at all. A broken sound I don’t recognize. Water sloshes higher against the sides of the tub with each slow thrust of my fingers.

LUKE: Tell me what you want.

My cheeks flame, even alone in an empty house.

ISLA: You. Your mouth. Your hands on my hips. Your weight.

LUKE: Good. Now imagine my palm flat on your belly, holding you down while I take my time.

I can see it—too clearly. The sheer, inexorable patience of him. The way he would work me open with his mouth until I forgot every reason I ever had for leaving.

LUKE: Now circle your clit. Barely there. Just brush. Count to five. Stop. Do it again.

I whimper. The first pass almost undoes me. I count like I’m hanging off a cliff, and the numbers are my rope. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I stop. My body riots. I do it again, smaller circles, lighter pressure. The knot tightens, tightens, becomes a star burning white-hot behind my ribs.

LUKE: More pressure. Faster. I want to hear you.

I fumble the phone onto the edge of the tub and tap the little microphone, the red line marching across the screen like a pulse. My breath fills the bathroom. The soft, wet sounds of my fingers mingle with it. Somewhere in the house, wood settles with a quiet sigh, but the world has narrowed to heat and friction, and the edge that keeps skittering away when I reach for it.

LUKE: Say my name when you come.

His words are a match. I tilt my hips, change the angle, and the star inside me explodes. Pleasure floods through my body in bright, unstoppable waves. My head snaps back. I hear myself—hear the sound I make—low and desperate and his, and I don’t care that he can hear it too. “Oh, God—Luke.”

The last pulses leave me trembling, fingers gone slack, water lapping at the sides of the tub in lazy aftershocks. I blink up at the ceiling, freckles of condensation dotting the paint like a new sky.

LUKE: Send it.

I stare at the message, mortified and somehow emboldened at once. My thumb hovers. I send it.

Seconds stretch, drunk and slow. The bubbles pop in tiny, effervescent snaps against my skin. I press my free hand to my sternum, feeling the wildbird beat gradually settle.

LUKE: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

A flush rises over my chest. I can picture him too vividly: jaw tight, eyes darker than the hospital lights can account for, monitors tattling on his pulse.

ISLA: Is there anything else I can do for you this evening, Sheriff?

LUKE: No. Good girl. Finish your bath. I’ll text later.

Three dots appear again.