It was the same replica of her apartment bedroom she’d first woken up in when she came to the Society. There was the hamper of dirty clothes, the wallpaper of posters and out-of-date calendars. And—what she needed most—a familiar bed.
At once, Jo jumped onto the sheets and let out a mighty groan of frustration. She felt like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. Basically, that was what she was. But it was a cathartic outlet for her frustrations; better than letting them stew and risk taking them out on someone else in the Society.
Her initial agony unleashed, Jo gave a hefty sigh.
“Why?” she asked to the silence in the room. “Why am I like this?”
There was a fire in her stomach that shed light on a vacant ache between her thighs. Jo closed her eyes, letting a hand trail down her chest, absently rubbing against her stomach.
He’d been so close; the smell of cloves still lingered on each soft inhale. Whether it actually clung to her clothes or was instead a psychosomatic memory, she didn’t know. What shedidknow what that all he did was touch her, the lightest and simplest of gestures, and she’d nearly drowned. And she wanted to, she realized. She wanted to drown in him, wanted to feel the crash of his waves beneath her skin and further, deep, deep within.
She wanted him to fill her completely.
She wanted him to erode away the haze of confusion that surrounded them and finally relinquish the truth.
Without really giving it much thought, Jo slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her jeans. Her breath caught in her throat as her fingertips skimmed the line of her underwear, a teasing implication. The frustration from earlier was still palpable, her fingers coming away damp when she reached further between her thighs.
Part of her tried not to think about Snow, desperately reaching for any other fantasy, any other face that might get her to where she wanted to be. But another part of her knew it was pointless. When she finally gave in to the sensation she’d been longing for, relaxed into the rhythmic friction she’d been craving, it was with an unavoidable fantasy behind her eyes.
Snow’s hands on her bare skin, his lips grazing her jaw, her collarbone, her chest. His body pressed against hers, as hot and needy as she was, grasping for the same release.
Snow’s tongue instead of her fingers.
She wanted to breathe nothing but that damned scent of cloves.
It didn’t take long before Jo was arching off the comforter, mouth slack with panting breaths and barely concealed moans. When she finally slumped, heart clamoring up into her throat and hammering away, it was with an even more frustrating thought: despite the urge that had hurried her hand, she still felt supremely unsatisfied. In fact, the aftermath mostly just left her feeling slightly hollow, her hands cold even as her face grew hot. She was either very sick, or she might be—
Jo groaned again, a sound which turned into a loud proclamation of, “No!”
She refused. Feelings of any sort beyond the carnal would only complicate everything. Especially feelings for the one member of the Society who had the emotional aptitude of a toddler. Then again, she wasn’t really in a position to judge someone else on their ability to express emotions.
What she needed was to scratch this itch and be done with it—that’s all it was, she insisted,an itch. Her head would clear and she’d be back to normal, of that Jo was certain. But Snow refused to help and her own attempts hadn’t done the trick, so that left one last option. Pulling herself up, Jo yanked open the door, grabbed her watch, and went in search of a worthy distraction.
Hands in the pockets of her hoodie, Jo descended the stairs to the Four-Way. Her feet moved on instinct, pulling her toward the common area. She could hear the sound of Takako’s voice echoing towards her and Jo’s heart skipped a beat. As if by some act of kismet, she and Wayne were back. Her feet picked up speed, and Jo sprinted into the living room to find the Society—sans Pan and Snow—all gathered around the large island in the kitchen.
Takako and Wayne stood, while the other three men sat.
“. . . they seemed receptive to the machine,” Takako was reporting to Samson. “There was little issue once it was hooked up and they saw it working.”
Jo’s eyes switched from one member of her team to the next. Wayne stood, hands in his pockets, looking every inch the epitome of self-satisfied smugness. He was in more modern clothes than he usually wore, no doubt fresh off his mission to Japan. It was a simple black suit, clean-cut as usual, but with a 2057 flare—no pocket square, pencil-thin tie, his usually gaudy cufflinks replaced by simple silver ones that arced over the hem of the cuffs.
He looked. . . good. Really good. Good enough to satisfy the needs of any hot-blooded female.
She couldn’t really say if what she was about to do was necessarily a positive decision, but it was certainly better than sulking.
Without a word, Jo crossed the room in wide steps.
“. . . preliminary tests came back—oh, hello, Jo.” Takako was the first to notice her.
Jo gave the woman a nod, hoping things didn’t come off as too rude. She was on a mission, and didn’t have time for anything else. This was the distraction from the wish (among other things) that she’d needed.
“Hey, dollface, wh—” Wayne was cut off with a soft“oof”as Jo grabbed him by the wrist, tugging him away from the room. “I guess the lady needs a word with me,” he called over his shoulder.
Jo didn’t even listen for any comment or reactions. She was too focused on the one thing that was certain to finally clear her head.
“Everything jazzy?” Wayne asked.
No, everything wasn’t. Her stomach was in knots, her head hurt, her chest ached, and all she wanted wasrelief.
