London’s mouth moved to her hairline behind her ear, their hands traveling up the outside of her thighs. Dahlia gazed over their shoulder at the hazy sky, orange hues blasting through the purple and pink. A picture-perfect smog-enhanced twilight. It blanketed the courtyard in warm light, making even London’s pale skin look golden. Their hair shone like fizzy champagne.
“London,” she said, her voice strained. “Can you fuck me hard and dirty? Right here?”
They lifted their head to look down at her.
“Yeah,” they said after a moment. “I can do that.”
The breeze kissed the skin of her thighs as London shifted up her dress with their palms. It was still warm, even though the sun was almost gone, that warmer-than-it-should-be late-summer evening feeling, heavy and intoxicating.
Dahlia sighed as London’s fingers smoothed over her underwear once before yanking them down completely, and Dahlia barely had a second to kick them off before London was pushing her back against the wall again, pushing their lips into hers with bruising force, while their hand slipped back under her dress and found her clit.
She moaned against their lips. She wanted this to last forever, hoped against hope that if London just fucked her hard enough, this sensation could somehow solve things. Sex felt easier than talking, than telling the truth.
Because the real truth, Dahlia knew, hiding right underneath the surface like a sad, slow song, was that no matter what happened next, one of them would be leaving soon.
And maybe they were both too scared to talk about it.
Dahlia preferred this truth: the way London’s hands always knew exactly where to go, the way their mouth always unlocked her favorite sacred spaces.
As if hearing her thoughts, London moved their lips to her neck and shifted their fingers until they were inside of her, two digits sharp and deep. Dahlia sank down onto them, shoving her body closer to their hands.
“I love how wet you always are for me,” London breathed into her neck, while their thumb found its way back to her clit.
She groaned, head falling on to their shoulder. “That’s good. Keep talking like that.”
Dahlia tried to focus on how exciting this was. They were outside, in public, the sounds of the street just beyond the courtyard walls loud in her ears, the unlocked door back to the ballroom and the hotel literal inches away. Dahlia had never done anything like this before. There was also the fact that London was fully clothed. While her dress was hitched up around her waist at the moment, Dahlia essentially was, too. She knew London was going to get her off and that it was going to be good, all while they wore those skinny jeans and that faded lavender T-shirt. Dahlia didn’t quite understand why this was so sexy, but it was.
London paused, withdrawing from her, stepping back an inch.
“Is it possible for you to move up a bit? The angle isn’t right.”
They shifted their stance and Dahlia hooked a leg around their thigh, arching up as much as she could, anchoring her shoulders against the wall. London gripped her hip, securing her against them. Their other hand reached up and tangled in her hair, pulling slightly. The slight pressure on her scalp made her want to scream.
London leaned down and bit her neck.
“Fuck,” Dahlia said, half in surprise, half in pleasure. London’s tongue reached out to massage where their teeth had just marked her, its wet pressure both soothing and increasing the pain.
“Touch me again,” she said, achingly aware that London’s hands were still occupied elsewhere.
“Not until you promise to stop holding back,” London said into her ear. “You’re normally much louder than this.”
“Well.” Dahlia tried to gesture around them with her chin. “The street is, you know, just beyond that wall.”
“Your point is?” London nipped at her jaw. “Let them hear you. Pant for me, Dahlia.”
Their fingers found their way between her legs again, and she did as asked. London was right. It felt better when she was uninhibited. It felt better when she let her body release what it needed to.
London circled around her clit, slow and tortuous, until Dahlia groaned.
“Faster. Two fingers in,” she huffed.
“Like this?”
“Oh,fuck.”
London was correct. The angle was much better this time.
“Ride my hand, Dahlia.” London’s voice was low, rumbly against Dahlia’s cheek. Perfection.
