Page 92 of Scorpio Season

“I . . .” Luca stops, cheeks warming. “I like it when you decide.”

Florence considers her. She’s looking at Luca like she wants to pick her brain apart, or study her under a microscope like some kind of specimen. Luca just barely withstands the urge to hide her face against Florence’s thigh. “You do, don’t you?” Her fingers tighten a fraction where they’re still in Luca’s hair. The sting of it sends a pleasant prickle down the back of Luca’s neck.

“Yeah,” she says dumbly.

Florence’s thumb sweeps gently across her forehead. “Your mouth.”

Luca immediately nods. “Do you want to use a dental dam, or . . . ?”

“I got tested only a few weeks ago,” Florence says. “Unless you prefer it with?”

Luca is already dropping to her stomach. After a moment’s consideration, she grips Florence’s legs and hooks them over her shoulders. Looking up at Florence through her lashes, she asks, “All right?”

“Very,” Florence says.

The next noise she makes is a breathy moan that makes heat curl in Luca’s belly. She answers with a quiet sound of her own. It’s so good: Florence’s taste, the warm weight of her legs on Luca’s shoulders, the hand in her hair, alternating between petting and pulling. This time, Luca has the advantage of knowing how Florence likes it—firm and rhythmical and almost painfully drawn out. She can rely on her muscle memory. She doesn’t have to think at all.

“God,” Florence says. The word sounds punched out as her hips buck instinctively. “You’re so good, sweetheart. So lovely for me.”

Luca whimpers quietly. Florence’s words only make her head swim more. All her thoughts are honey, sticky and slow. She would do this forever if she could.

“Luca,” Florence whispers, and Luca can hear the smile in her voice, can feel it directed at her like the warmth of a second sun. “Luca, fuck. I love how much you love this. You should, ah—you should see yourself. Your—your arms and the muscles in your back and—”

She’s cut off by another moan. Luca can tell that she’s close from the way her breathing changes, turning shallow and quick.

“Don’t stop,” Florence gasps, and then she’s coming, shaking through her orgasm. Luca keeps going, drawing it out, until Florence pulls her back by her hair.

Luca blinks up at her, dazed. Her voice comes out slightly slurred as she asks, “D’you want another?”

Florence laughs. Her fingers tug again, more gently this time. “Come here.”

Luca presses a kiss to the inside of her knee before she shifts, bracing herself with her hands bracketing Florence’s head. The kiss Florence pulls her into is hot and deep and filthy. Forehead resting against Luca’s, Florence murmurs, “The strap-on in your nightstand. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

Luca’s heart does something strange, then. She almost forgot it was there. It was a very optimistic impulse purchase she made during her first week in London. It’s only been used once, with a girl Luca picked up in a bar last autumn. Back then, Luca was the one who wore it. She only realized afterward that it wasn’t at all what she had wanted when she’d added it to her basket. There hadn’t been any discussion about it—Emma, a femme with long nails and an intimidating confidence, had taken one look at Luca and determined that was the way to go. It wasn’t bad, and if Florence wants it, Luca knows that she’ll enjoy it too. It’s just . . .

“I, um,” she says. “When I bought it, I thought . . .”

“Yeah?” Florence presses a kiss to her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “What were you thinking when you bought it?”

Luca tries to say it and fails. She does the next best thing; she reaches over, opens her drawer, and pulls out the strap-on tucked away in the very back. Holding Florence’s gaze, she gently deposits it on Florence’s bare tummy.

“Oh,” Florence says. There’s an unmistakable hunger in her voice as she asks, “It’s going to be like that?”

Luca nods mutely. Her heart is hammering like it’s trying to evacuate her chest.

“All right.” Florence’s fingers curl around the harness, possessive. “Let me just figure this thing out.”

They switch places, Luca moving to lie against the headboard while Florence familiarizes herself with the contraption. At Florence’s instruction, Luca touches herself while she watches, getting herself ready. The sight of Florence sitting up on her knees, the straps of the harness digging into the pale skin of her hips, is almost too much. Her fingers are curled in a loose, confident circle as she coats the black silicone of the toy in lube.

“Flo,” Luca says helplessly.

“Shhh.” With her free hand, Florence reaches out to pet her hair. The gesture—soothing, gentle, a little distracted—somehow only stokes the need coiling tight in Luca’s belly. “Almost there. You’re being so patient.”

It’s an obvious lie. Luca is squirming and gasping and most definitely not patient. She feels like she’s spent her entire life waiting for this exact moment, which is insane, because ten minutes ago she wasn’t even aware this was something she wanted. It’s like she’s borrowing Florence’s hunger, like she’s learning how to want from her.

Or . . . no. That’s not right. Obviously, Luca has wanted things before—it’s just that, before she met Florence, wanting was a passive thing, like watching a cloud pass by in the sky. Most of the time, she could see its vague shape, but she usually got distracted by something else before she could put a name to it, and the desire moved on. Now, wanting feels like something she participates in, conscious and deliberate. Wanting to be with Florence. Wanting to play music. Wanting this, now, Florence inside of her, heady and impossible.

She wonders if this is what Florence feels like all the time. She wonders how she hasn’t lost her mind yet.