“Sunny…”
“I’m late, Grant. And a rideshare will just make me later.”
“Fine. But call me when you’re done. Please.”
“You’re being awfully bossy for someone I’m not in a relationship with.”
“You’re my sub.”
I sigh.
“I’m a protective bastard, okay?”
“I’m getting that. But it’s Paint and Sip, not a dive bar.”
“Please?”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll call.”
“Thank you. Have fun.”
“Bye.” I hang up and race off to meet my sisters.
An hour later, halfway through our wine flight and elbows deep in a floral still life that is pretty cute, if I do say so myself, I feel a tickle between my legs.
Oh, crap.
I glance up to where Otty’s got her tongue out as she tapsbrush to canvas, easel dancing with each pointillist strike. Beside me, Hannah’s given up on the painting entirely. She and half a dozen women—and one man—of varying ages, including our instructor, Jazz, are recounting their birth experiences. I tuned out when they started getting into the nitty-gritty of afterbirth.
Another vibration, this one stronger, has me curling in on myself. Checking to make sure no one’s looking, I put my brush down and pull out my phone to see a message notification.
Grant: One.
Oh my god.
Me: This isn’t fair.
Grant: Are you safe-wording?
A look around shows absolutely no one paying the slightest bit of attention to me.
Me: Green
The second I hit Send, it buzzes again.
“Nice, Amy!” Jazz calls from the other side of the room. “The shapes are really gaining dimension with that shadowing there.”
Me: Let me go to the restroom at least.
Grant: Stay where you are, Sunny. And be very, very quiet.
My mouth drops open at the next vibration, and I take a frantic look around. Can they hear the slight buzz?
The music’s loud, so maybe not. And Hannah too, with her raucous wine laugh and that stage voice. Another longer, harder vibe and all I do is turn to my canvas, shut my eyes, and take it.
I collapse back onto my stool and pant, much the way Hannah’s new friend is panting through a description of her wife’s twenty-four-hour home birth marathon. I block them out, pick up my brush, and focus on the feeling. Oh, oh, it’s good. Uncomfortable, strange, and also really, really hot, but oh my god, if he doesn’t stop soon, I’m going… to…
My hand squeezes the brush, my eyes shuthard, every muscle tightens up, and I climax.
