Page 60 of Vengefully Matched

“Be well, Evie.”

The click of the phone felt final, as though the last reverberation of their former love echoed across the Atlantic.

CHAPTER 19 Agatha

Agatha had woken up to the best sort of dream, the one where someone was holding her, her body sluggish and throbbing with wanting. In the dream, she’d been writhing, close. Her eyes had fluttered open, and she’d felt it, the heavy weight of an arm twined with her own, the brush of fingers through the thin cloth of her pajamas. A carefully manicured hand, nails painted a deadly shade of red, just below where she wanted those fingers. She shut her eyes again, breathing carefully. She had told herself if she didn’t move, Priscilla wouldn’t, either, and she concentrated so hard on pretending to be asleep that she had drifted, probably aided by the beginning of a terrific hangover, back out of consciousness.

She awoke a second time, the sunlight brighter through her window, and she was alone.

Rolling over, she sat up, eyes catching on a neatly folded letter propped next to a fancy water bottle. It was the color of cornflowers, a light, purplish blue, one of those brand-name things. When she unscrewed the top, there was still a slight bit of Priscilla’s lipstick around the mouth of it.

Goddess, that made her so hot, thinking about those lips. And about the thoughtful gesture of refilling it. She took a sip. It was cold, and so perfect. Had Priscilla gone through the trouble to put ice in it so she would wake up to a cool bottle of water?

Somehow, this little thing twisted in her chest, threatening to forget that what lay between them had ever been fake.

Agatha knew it was sleazy to shut her eyes for a moment and picture the moment before she was fully awake, when Priscilla’s hand had been on her. If only she’d been bolder and grabbed that hand, dragging it down. Or up. If only she’d been brave enough to roll over and look Priscilla in the eye, tell her everything she wanted in the cold sober light of day. If only.

But instead, she’d faked sleep, fallen back asleep, and woken up alone.

At least the extra hour or so had done something to make her feel less of the impact of drinking. She downed two Advil and the water, stumbled out of bed to refill the bottle, set it back down, and pee, and committed to getting back into bed for an hour or so, until she felt less like death.

Well. Horny death.

There was one thing she could think of. One thing that would certainly take the edge off a hangover. One didn’t get to be thirty-seven years old without noticing the inherent benefits of an orgasm in alleviating the misery of the morning after drinking.

It was dirty, but she wanted to do it thinking about Priscilla, those red lips that begged to have hers on top of them, those long nails and how they might scrape across her skin. How Priscilla would have to be so careful touching her with them in highly sensitive areas.

Or maybe, and this thought nearly destroyed her, maybe she wouldn’t be careful at all. Maybe the firm acrylic edges of them would dig in, tracing patterns on her breasts, around her nipples. Maybe she would leave little indentations, crescent-shaped reminders of the two of them writhing and scraping deliciously against each other.

Agatha moved both hands up and under her shirt, chasing the thought, squeezing her nipples and then pinching, hard enough to make herself squirm under the covers.

Priscilla seemed like the teasing type, and she could picture it, her lush mouth making a mess of Agatha’s favorite pajamas, working her through the fabric, soaking it with her tongue. Agatha pulled her hands out of her shirt and resumed rubbing herself through it, which was much more frustrating, and yet…

The slip of the smooth fabric paired with the relentlessly tight pull of her fingers made her roll her body in anticipation.

She lowered her arm and reached a hand into her shorts, slipping it over her panties, tracing along the edges, drawing circles around her center, figure eights, in an elegant rhythm as close to what she imagined Priscilla’s fingers being like as she could.

Priscilla wouldn’t be soft, though, she thought, and she reached down and pinched, moaning loudly enough at the action, surprisingly hot, edged with pain and yet also with something more, something that she hadn’t ever chased before, not really, or at least not that she could remember.

Agatha released herself, pulling her panties to the side and running her fingers down where she could feel every prickle of sensation.

She wanted to dip her fingers in, but she forced herself to skate around her entrance, to slide up the right instead, legs shaking a little as she circled herself again.

It was not enough to do this quietly and under covers. It was not enough to simulate the silent orgasm of stolen moments in bathrooms after a boyfriend hadn’t done it right.

It was not enough to just lie here, touching herself and thinking about Priscilla.

Agatha threw the covers off and got on all fours, reaching a hand back, shoving aside her underwear, and rubbing her clit with an insistent motion, leaning into her own hand and then rocking back, teasing herself with the other hand.

She remembered what Priscilla had said.

I can make sure you have both the boat and the motion you need.

She wanted it to be Priscilla’s hand, not hers, thrusting a finger in, and then another. She sat up, on her knees, hoping that she could spear into herself from this angle in a way that made her feel satisfied, in a way that matched the fantasy of how Priscilla would do it in her head.

As big as you need.

She had meant for this to be a quick finger-fuck, but now she was sweating, needy, the hangover long forgotten. She had a vibrator—carefully selected to be slightly smaller than Jonathan, with the knowledge that anything else would send him over a metaphorical edge of rage, and not the good kind.