“I am now.” Sarah shifted back into her, pulling the sheet up even though the room was already warm.
“Good.” Lizzie’s hand drifted lower, skating across her hip, her fingertips brushing the crease of her thigh. Sarah’s breath caught. She could feel Lizzie smile against her shoulder.
“We should get up,” Sarah said, though she was already tilting her hips into Lizzie’s touch.
“We should stay right here.” Lizzie’s mouth was on her neck now, warm and unhurried, pressing slow, open kisses along the curve of her shoulder while her hand moved between Sarah’s thighs. “Your mom and Jasper don’t get here until tomorrow.”
“That’s true.”
“And we don’t have a single thing we need to do today.”
Sarah couldn’t argue with that. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into it—Lizzie’s mouth on her neck, Lizzie’s hand between her legs, the slow build of heat in her belly. Two yearsof mornings like this and she still felt a pull of disbelief every time, that this was her life now, that she was allowed to have this. She’d spent fifteen years in a marriage built on friendship and mutual respect, and she wouldn’t trade those years with Billy for anything, but this was something else entirely. This was the kind of want that didn’t fade with familiarity. It only got sharper because she knew exactly what was coming and wanted it anyway.
“You’re already so wet,” Lizzie whispered against her ear.
“I was dreaming about you.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll show you later. Right now just—” Sarah’s breath hitched as Lizzie’s touch found exactly the right spot. “Right now just keep doing that.”
Lizzie knew her body. That was what two years gave you—not routine but fluency, the difference between reading from a phrasebook and thinking in the language. Lizzie knew that Sarah liked to be touched slowly at first, liked the build more than the rush, liked being held from behind where she could close her eyes and just feel without worrying about what her face was doing. Sarah had spent so many years keeping her expression controlled, keeping every reaction measured and professional. In bed with Lizzie she didn’t have to perform anything. She could just let go.
Lizzie’s touch was slow and deliberate, circling Sarah’s clit with a pressure that was just enough to make her hips rock forward but not enough to take her over. Sarah reached back and gripped Lizzie’s thigh, pulling her closer, needing the full length of Lizzie’s body against her back.
“More,” she breathed.
Lizzie gave her more. She shifted the angle, pressed harder, and Sarah heard herself make a sound that would have embarrassed her in any other context. Lizzie’s free arm slid under her, wrapping around her chest and holding her close while her other hand kept working between her legs. Sarah felt held in a way that went beyond the physical—contained, safe, like she could fall as hard as she wanted and Lizzie would catch her.
She came like that, on her side, with Lizzie’s arm around her and Lizzie’s mouth on her neck and the morning sun warm on her face. It was slow and rolling and it went on and on, spreading through her body in waves rather than hitting all at once, and Lizzie held her through the whole thing, whispering words Sarah couldn’t quite make out but that she felt in her chest.
When it was over, she turned in Lizzie’s arms and kissed her, long and deep and grateful. Lizzie’s cheeks were flushed and her breathing was unsteady, and Sarah recognized that look—the one that said touching Sarah had wound her up just as much.
“Come here,” Sarah said, and rolled Lizzie onto her back.
Lizzie let herself be moved, her hair fanning across the pillow, her arms going above her head in that unconscious way she had that always made Sarah’s mouth go dry. Sarah didn’t rush. She kissed Lizzie’s throat, the dip of her collarbone, the freckle on her left breast that she’d memorized the first time they slept together in Key West and could still find with her eyes closed.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Lizzie said, her voice already thick.
“What thing?”
“Where you kiss every single part of me like you’re trying to catalogue me.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’ve had two years to catalogue me. You could do it in your sleep.”
“I still like the research.” Sarah kissed down Lizzie’s stomach and felt the muscles contract under her lips. Lizzie’s hand came to her hair, not pulling, just resting there, fingertips moving against her scalp.
Sarah pressed her mouth to the inside of her thigh. Lizzie’s breath stuttered. Sarah loved this part—the anticipation, the tension, the way Lizzie’s whole body went taut and still, waiting. She kissed the other thigh, then higher, and when she finally put her mouth where Lizzie wanted it, the sound Lizzie made was worth every second of the wait.
She took her time. She knew what Lizzie liked—the broad, flat strokes first, slow and thorough, building sensation in layers before narrowing down to focus on her clit. She knew the exact moment Lizzie’s body shifted from lazy pleasure to urgent need because her hand tightened in Sarah’s hair and her hips started moving in small, involuntary circles.
Sarah could have taken her over the edge right then. She knew how. Two years of practice had given her a map of this body as detailed as any blueprint she’d ever studied for a hotel renovation. But she eased off instead, moved her mouth to Lizzie’s inner thigh, kissed the soft skin there while Lizzie made a frustrated sound above her.
“Sarah, I swear to God—”
“Patience.”
