About Jordan Everwood.
In the dream, they’d been in the Andromeda, sitting in the red velvet seats. Just like the night before, Astrid tied a cherry stem into a knot—seriously, what the hell had she been thinking?—but in the dream, instead of Jordan slipping the stem into her pocket, she’d continued to twirl it between her fingers, her eyes on Astrid’s mouth. And Astrid had... well... something otherworldly must’ve taken over her body, because she—Astrid Isabella Parker—had climbed onto Jordan’s lap.
Straddled her.
As in, one leg on each side of Jordan’s hips.
She had no clue what happened to the cherry stem. Jordan couldn’t possibly be holding on to it, because she’d drawn Astrid closer, gliding her hands around Astrid’s ribs and under her shirt. Jordan hadn’t gone straight for her breasts though. No, she’d taken her time, fingertips ghosting down Astrid’s back, cupping her ass, then sliding around to her hips. Dream-Astrid panted—panted, for god’s sake—desperate for Jordan to touch her.
In fact, that’s what she’d said in the dream.
Touch me.
And Jordan had obliged. Her thumbs swept over Astrid’s already hardened nipples, and Astrid had moaned, tossing her head back.
Astrid nevermoaned.
Jordan licked a stripe from her neck to her ear before kissing her properly, tongue and teeth and rosebud mouth closing around Astrid’s bottom lip and tugging. Then Jordan had unbuttoned Astrid’s jeans and—
“Oh shit,” Astrid said now, staring down at the vibrator.
She remembered waking up in a daze, hornier than she’d been in a long time, ripping off her undergarments before grabbing the California Dreaming from her drawer and turning it on. Then she’d pressed it to her clit and... well, she’d come. She remembered that very clearly now. Harder than she had in months.
“Oh shit,” she said again.
She didn’t think. Couldn’t. Panic was filling her up like water in her lungs. She simply dropped all the evidence of last night’s Jordan Everwood–fueled orgasm and tripped into a clean bra, underwear, a pair of yoga pants, and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Her head pounded, her stomach still considered rebelling, but she couldn’t stop to take care of them right now. Iris was probably on her way over here, and Astrid needed to talk to someone.
Someone else.
The only someone else she trusted to treat this whole experience with the dispassionate who-gives-a-shit attitude she needed right now.
DELILAH GREEN OPENEDher apartment door with a quintessential greeting.
“What the fuck, Ass?”
“I’m sorry,” Astrid said. “I know it’s early.”
“Early?” Delilah said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“It’s seven-thirty.”
Delilah’s eyes narrowed. Her curly hair was piled on top of her head, tendrils sneaking out of the silk scrunchie and looping around her neck. “Oh. Well, that’s practically the middle of the night.”
Astrid’s stepsister was not a morning person, to say the least.
“God, you look like shit,” Delilah said.
Astrid touched her hair, a total rat’s nest after all her tossing and turning. While she hadn’t dared look in a mirror that morning, she had no recollection of washing off her makeup last night, which meant she probably looked like a hungover raccoon.
“Yeah, well, rough night,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
Astrid nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she was being truthful or not. “Claire’s not here, is she?”
Delilah frowned. “She and Josh have a conference with Ruby’s teachers before school, so we slept at our own places last night. Why?”
“I just... I need to talk to you.”
