I pull back the blankets and strip down to nothing but my socks before getting on the bed. I’ve barely slept in here, but I changed the sheets this morning, and they feel incredible against my bare skin. Cool and silky, my body sinks into them, the mattress enveloping me.
Reading has given me a vivid imagination, so it’s easy to pretend it’s Nico’s fingers skating over my skin. I run my fingertips over my collarbone, down my stomach, brushing my thumb over my belly button since Nico seemed to like it so much. My skin warms beneath my touch, more sensitive with every pass of my hands. I avoid touching any of the most sensitive spots until I’m panting for it, just like I know Nico would. And when I finally pinch my nipple hard between my thumb and forefinger, I imagine it’s his teeth.
My back bows off the bed, a cry I don’t expect fallingfrom my mouth. I’m so on edge that I think I could come just by playing with my nipples, but Nico wouldn’t stop here, so neither do I.
I trail my fingers down my stomach and let my legs fall apart, whimpering at the tiny bit of friction the movement causes. Nothing prepares me for how good it feels to finally brush my middle finger over my clit. I choke out a gasp, my pussy clenching around thin air, wishing Nico was inside me.
My fingers don’t feel half as good as he would as I press two inside of me and push the heel of my palm against my clit. It’s both not enough and too much all at once. I twist in the sheets, grinding against my hand, fucking myself with my fingers and dreaming, wishing it was him instead.
I’m bite my lip. I’m doing a shitty job of staying quiet, but Nico’s in his workshop, and—creak.
My head snaps toward the door. Nico built this place so well that the floorboards don’t make noise. Not when I step on them, anyway, and certainly not when the dogs do. There’s only one person here whose footsteps are heavy enough. And he’s right outside my door.
I hold my breath, listening for the sound of his footsteps walking away in either direction. But they don’t. Picturing him is easy—I’ve spent every second with him lately, memorizing every detail of him. He’s probably leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, that tortured look I’ve become so familiar with on his face. His fists are probably clenched because he’s desperate to touch himself, and even more desperate to touch me, but he won’t let himself have either. He’s probably trying to talk himself into walkingaway, but he knows as well as I do that he’s not going anywhere.
So, it’s only polite of me to put on a show for him.
I let go of my breath in a long, louder-than-usual sigh. My fingers are tentative as I run them over my clit. I’ve never done this in front of someone before. Over the phone or a video call, sure, but somehow, knowing Nico is listening through the door feels more intense than it would if he were thousands of miles away with his phone pressed to his ear.
All he has to do is turn the handle and push, and he could be on me in seconds. God, I wish he would.
I’ve done scarier things and survived, so I move my fingers harder over my clit, faster, and I don’t hold back the moan that makes its way out of my mouth. I hear the softest groan through the wall, and it’s enough to wipe away any reservations I have. Like he isn’t there, I bring myself to the brink of shattering. It’s not as strong as it would be if Nico were the one touching me, but he’s still playing a part in this.
Small shockwaves of pleasure roll over me, one after the other, but I can feel them building. I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining his weight on top of me, pressing me into the bed, trapping me here to do whatever he wants to…
I lose it, my whole body shaking as I fall apart. I’m not totally sure, but I think I cry his name as I come, my pussy tightening around my fingers, wishing they were his fingers. Wishing they were his cock.
By the time I stop shaking, my wrist is aching, and mybody is barely satiated. There’s no world in which my fingers could be enough when Nico is a few feet away.
I pant, glancing at the door, wondering if he’s going to break. I almost open my mouth to call him in, but that feels like it would ruin the moment, somehow.
So, I keep my mouth closed, and I shut out the crushing disappointment when I hear his footsteps walk away.
15
NICO
Shay would be so disappointed in me. The whole point of me putting myself out there, trying to live a fuller life again, is to rebuild our relationship. That’s the only reason I even invited Bryan to come visit. And now, first chance I get, I’m fucking it all up.
For someone who possessed enough self-control to withdraw completely from society for twenty years, I sure do lack it when it comes to Este. All I had to do was say, “Yes, Este. I do want you to stop,” even if I didn’t mean it. All I had to do was walk away from her bedroom door instead of pressing my forehead to the wood and savoring every sound I know she was making just for me.
But I didn’t do either of those things. Este’s made her feelings and wants perfectly clear—I’m the one muddying the waters here. It’s not fair to her. I’m telling her we can’t, while making it obvious I want to, and giving in every time just enough to stop her from giving up. If I were her, I’d be losing my mind. She’s being remarkably patient.
There have been so many times over the past three days that I’ve almost broken. When she was rinsing out her teacup yesterday morning, and I wanted to grab her andpush her up against a wall. When she was playing fetch with the dogs, and I wanted to grab her and tackle her in the snow. When we were reading together last night, and I wanted to grab her and pin her down on the couch.
There’s certainly a theme going on with my fantasies, and it’s not just out of character because the object of said fantasies is a woman twenty-one years my junior. Though I’ve always erred on the dominant side when it comes to sex, it’s never been like this. “Complete control,” Este said, when talking about what she wanted to surrender. That’s never something that’s held any appeal for me before. But now? I want it. I want to give that to her, to be the person who helps her turn her brain off.
I want to kiss her. The fact that I haven’t yet is a miracle and a curse all at once. I’ve come close so many times, outside of the moments where she’s flirting and teasing, even. But somehow, I know that’s a line I won’t be able to come back from. Already, I’m worried about how quiet, how lonely it’s going to be up here when the snow melts, and Este goes back to her life. I know she can’t stay; I don’t want her to be stuck up here a second longer than she has to be, but I’m going to miss her. And I just feel it in my bones that it would be harder to say goodbye if I kissed her.
Stars appear behind my eyelids as I press my palms into my eyes. I drop onto my bed and lie down, resting my head on my hand and staring at the three little mice carved into the side of my nightstand. For years, I shied away from thinking about my sister, but if I look closely, there are touches of her all over the house. From the mice carved in many of the furniture pieces I’ve made myself, to theeucalyptus and lavender bubble bath I still use because she gave it to me for Christmas one year.
I know Shay’s feelings on Este and me, but I can’t help but wonder how Georgie would’ve reacted. She was always honest when she liked or disliked someone I was seeing. Usually disliked—of all of us, she always had the highest standards. No one was ever good enough for me or for Shay.
She would have loved Noelle, though. And I think she would have liked Este, even if she would’ve agreed that it was entirely inappropriate. But Georgie liked a little chaos, and I imagine she would’ve encouraged me to see how things turned out, just for the plot.
Este reminds me of her a little. Not in a weird way, considering my feelings for Este. But she has a brightness in her so similar to how Georgie moved through the world. An energy that radiates and makes everything around her a little better. I get the feeling that if I told her that, she wouldn’t believe me. Maybe if I’d known her before the crash she would have, but now, she’s consumed by her shadows, the same as I am.
When I make it downstairs a couple of hours later, Este is dressed (including pants), curled up on the couch with the boys, and the unmistakable scent of tomato soup is wafting from the kitchen.
