Daphne didn’t dare ask any questions. She didn’t trust a thing that might come out of her mouth. Instead, she focused on taking in oxygen correctly and keeping her eyes off April’s butt.
April, for her part, continued to shimmy her hips back and forth. “Show me whatcha got,” she said as Sasha approached the table.
Sasha smirked for the twentieth time in the last hour, then locked gazes with Daphne.
Daphne blinked.
April looked back and forth between the two of them, her brow furrowed.
“What?” Daphne finally managed to ask.
Sasha didn’t say anything. She simply held the crop and feather over the bench, offering them to Daphne.
“Madame,” Sasha said with a flourish of her hand. “Or perhaps Ms.Love? Oh, that’s got a certain ring to it, I have to admit.”
“Wait, what?” Daphne said.
“Sasha,” April said warningly.
“Remember when I said you two need to go ahead and fu—”
“Yes, Sasha, we remember,” April said. Her butt wasn’t wiggling now.
“Well,” Sasha said, reaching over April to grab Daphne’s hand. She smacked the toys into her palm, then closed her fingers around them. “Work it out. I’m going to get acquainted with some new friends.”
And with that, Sasha turned and headed back upstairs, her boots stomping emphatically on every step.
Daphne stared after her for a second, her hand still held out over April, the feather and crop barely secured in her fist.
April was still on the bench and resting on her forearms. She turned her head toward Daphne, but didn’t quite look at her. “We don’t have to do anything,” she said.
Daphne remained silent. She ran her fingers over the feather, feeling every individual barb, soft and silky. She needed a beat for her brain to catch up to her libido, if she was being honest. Sasha had said play wasn’t always about sex—it was about sensation and communication and exploration too. It was about experimenting with certain roles, certain words, certain feelings.
Daphne set the crop on the floor, but kept hold of the feather.
“Daphne,” April said. “We can just—”
“Shh,” Daphne said, and pressed the very tip of the feather against April’s cheek.
April’s gaze flew to hers then, her eyes wide.
Daphne didn’t look away this time as she trailed the feather down April’s throat and around to the back of her neck.
“Okay?” Daphne asked.
April swallowed hard. Her eyes looked black in the dim light, completely pupilless, and her “Yes” was raspy and breathless.
Daphne stepped closer, her free hand resting on the bench while she flitted the feather down April’s back. She had a top on, of course, but it was lacy, peeks of skin showing through, and Aprilshivered, her eyes fluttering closed. She rested her forehead on her arms.
Daphne swirled the feather over her back, up and down, then side to side, her movements mostly languid, but she’d flick it quickly here and there, enjoying the control she had over this tiny little thing in her hands.
This woman on the bench.
She reached the small of April’s back, the hem of her shirt riding up a little and revealing a strip of skin. She danced the feather over the sensitive spot, and April released a quiet sound. Half moan, half hum. Whatever it was, it made Daphne clench her legs together. She still felt a little dizzy, but she felt something else too—a steadiness she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
A safety.
“Is this okay?” she asked softly, slipping a finger under April’s shirt and lifting, just an inch before pausing.
