You can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine. You struggle to find a response at first, then; “Well then,” you reply with a wicked grin of your own, “maybe you should come over and give me some of that attention.”
She pokes her tongue out at you, but finally moves close enough that you’re able to pull her up onto your bed. Or, well, try to. You’re able to prompt her into lifting herself up onto your bed and laying down, giving you a teasing look as she lays there, head resting on your pillows.
The joke is on her, though— that’s exactly where you want her. You quickly turn and clamber over to her, climbing up over her legs and settling yourself astride her waist. You look down at her with a smug look, revelling in your slight victory.
Her hands settle on your waist, her hands sliding up and down, occasionally reaching underneath your shirt. You shiver as her hands touch your bare skin, and in revenge, you slide your hands up her shirt and rest them over her sides. She looks up at you, eyes dark and lidded. Both of you wait for the other to move first.
Your lips are dry. You lick them, drawing Victoria’s attention down. The flow of lust that surges down her as her gaze rests on your mouth is strong enough that you feel it even though you’re not actively using your power right now. Still, neither of you say anything. Then, she opens her mouth.
“If you take yours off, I’ll take mine off,” she says huskily.
You consider it, then nod. Her eyes widen slightly as you reach down to the hem of your shirt, accidentally bumping her hands as you do, and draw it up over your head. By the time you’ve lifted it over your head and thrown it on the bed beside you, the surprise has faded from her expression, and her hands are moving down to her own waist, where she begins struggling to take her own shirt off. You help her out, making sure to “accidentally” brush your fingers along her sides as you go.
Disappointingly, she’s wearing a bra. Or maybe not so disappointingly— this is the first time you’ve seen her in a bra, you think. It’s a cute bra, a little frilly pink thing with small white hearts dotting it. You move your hands down as she tugs the shirt up and over her head, then begin tracing one of the little hearts when she finally gets it off and throws it off to the side.
You wait for the reprimand, for the warning not to go any further, but it doesn’t come. She just watches you trace your hands over her bra, breathing steadily through her nose as her nipples rapidly harden, visible through the material of the bra.
Briefly testing your luck, you skim your fingers around the edge of her bra, then slip your index fingers beneath it. Her only reaction is a small gasp, but you check just to be sure—and yes, she’s only restraining impatience, she’s not feeling upset. Emboldened, you slide your fingers back out and reach up to her shoulders, sliding her bra straps down and tugging the whole thing so it rests over her stomach, freeing her bare breasts for you to play with.
After a moment, you lean down, carefully balancing yourself on one arm so you still have a hand free to play with her, and claim her mouth with yours.
Things get a bit hazy after that. Lust pulses through you, your own and Victoria’s, and what awareness you manage to retain is focused on keeping yourself restrained. Several times, when you stroke down her sides and bite her lip, you’re forced to break the kiss and move down to biting her collarbone until the haze fades and you can assert enough control over yourself to stop your hands from wandering down beneath the waistband of her skirt.
The most frustrating part is, you’re pretty sure she wouldn’t stop you right now, if the strength of her lust is any indication—she’d spread her legs at the first indication that you wanted to stray down there.
She just probably wouldn’t ever come back of her own accord. And getting a cheap thrill tonight is not worth that. Could never be worth that.
So it’s with a mixture of frustration and relief that you finally wrench yourself away when Victoria’s phone beeps. She looks disbelievingly at you first, the sound not penetrating the haze surrounding her mind, then finally seems to hear it. When she glances down at it, she swears, surprisingly loudly, and sits up almost hard enough to dislodge you.
“Shit,” she swears again. Her voice is surprisingly low, although maybe it’s not so surprising on reflection—arousal does that to a person. You glance down at her phone, and wow, it’s seven thirty already. She scrubs at her mouth with one hand as she pulls her bra back up with the other, quickly switching hands to pull the second strap up over her shoulder. “Shit, shit! Taylor, I have to go, I’m going to be late-“
“Hold on,” you say calmly, and get off her lap. You have a small, half-empty box of tissues in here from the last time you’d had a cold. Picking it up, you toss it over to her, gesturing for her to use it to wipe the smeared lipstick from around her mouth, and tug your shirt back on. When she’s done with that, you take it back, intending to wipe your own mouth down. She snaps out a hand, though, and stops you.
“Don’t—just use a wet washcloth.” She scowls down at her own tissues, then raises her head, allowing you to see how she’s smeared the lipstick over her chin. “Shit, I’m going to need one too. Do you have one I can borrow really quickly?” As she talks, she scrambles over, floating slightly—god, that has to be cheating somehow, this whole flying business just makes everything look so much simpler, it’s completely unfair—to retrieve her shirt from where she’d thrown it earlier and pull it on.
You think for a moment. “Um, yes,” you say finally. You only have the two, and one’s in the wash, but that’s okay; you’ll just use the towel you used this morning to remove your lipstick. “It’s in the bathroom, I think. Hold on, I’ll go check.”
She rights herself and lands on her feet, padding out of your room and right into Dad. Shit. Why is he getting up and moving around so much tonight of all nights?!
Well, at least Victoria’s not the only one swearing internally now.
Thankfully, he just raises an eyebrow at the two of you, although you’re pretty sure he can see the smeared lipstick over both of your faces, then walks off without comment. Victoria returns your shocked and slightly guilty look as the two of you hurry off to the bathroom.
The interruption broke the tension that had started to build between the two of you, though, and by the time you reach the bathroom and find the washcloth, Victoria is already giving you instructions on how to remove the makeup. “Use baby wipes if you have any,” she informs you quickly. Her voice is muffled through the wet washcloth. “Or baby oil, if you have any of that. Try to avoid scrubbing it off if you can avoid it, it’ll irritate your skin a lot. There’s better ways, but I’m really running late, damn. Don’t forget, Taylor, text me, let me know. We’ll go over this stuff more after book club on Sunday either way.”
You nod. You think there’s some baby wipes in the living room—Dad had bought some a while ago to wipe down the TV screen with, as they’d been on special. Hopefully they’re still good enough to use on your face.
She finishes quickly, then pauses and moves over to you. For a moment, you think she’s going to lean in for one last kiss for the night, but evidently she thinks better of it and pulls you into a hug instead. Probably a good idea. It’d be a waste of time to kiss you and smear your lipstick over her again.
“I’ll see you on Saturday, hopefully,” she says, giving you a quick smile. You can only watch, a little bemused, as she pelts out the door after that.
You catch Dad watching you several times when he thinks you’re not looking later that night. Each time, you eye him off, and he pretends to look elsewhere. You swear, this man would be whistling innocently if it wouldn’t make him look even more suspicious. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything, at least not yet.
Honestly, you were kind of hoping you could just get away with never having the whole “Dad, I’m a lesbian” talk, but that’s looking increasingly unlikely. Ugh. At least you’re back on speaking terms with him now. You can just imagine how this would go otherwise. He’d be glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes for weeks. You’re a little bit irritated just imagining it.
Worse, your session with Victoria left you uncomfortably aroused and gave you no relief. Later that night, when you’re tucked in bed, you get yourself off—three times— but you’re still left feeling unsatisfied when you finish. The physical sensations are there, but the emotional sensations—the heady feeling of someone else’s arousal and affection—aren’t.
You fall asleep that night feeling a little grumpy. This not-getting-any thing sucks. Maybe Madison will be free on the weekend.
The next morning, Dad is waiting for you in the kitchen after you’ve returned from your jog and showered. He’s nursing a cup of coffee in his hands, and he’s looking—well, he’s just looking a bit depressed, but you can feel nervousness roiling out from him. Uh-oh. You thought you’d have more time before he tried to initiate this talk.
“Hey, Dad,” you say cautiously. Tip-toeing around him, you attempt to sneak towards your phone on the bench. It’s almost successful, until you hear Dad let out a tired sigh. Not an annoyed sigh, a tired sigh. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep lately.
There’s a cup waiting for you on the bench. It hasn’t been filled yet, but the coffee machine has freshly boiled. You start making yourself one as you wait for Dad to gather the courage to talk, which he eventually does. “Taylor,” he says, surprisingly firmly for someone feeling that nervous. “I was thinking about inviting Alan over for dinner tonight. Would that be okay with you?”
You’re caught off-guard by that. A little bit of milk sloshes out from the milk jug over your hands as you stop mid-step. It’s cold, but delicious. “That’s fine,” you reply quickly. “You and Alan will both be here? I’ll invite Emma at school if you want.”
He looks at you with a knitted brow. “Only if you’re okay with that,” he says carefully.
“Of course I am,” you say indignantly. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t, duh.” You finish the march over to the kitchen bench and indignantly pour your milk into your mug. Honestly, implying you’d make an offer you’re not completely sure of. Like you’d ever do that!
He blinks. “Okay,” he says cautiously. “We’re just going to have lasagne for dinner. Is that okay?”
“Lasagne?” You peer over the bench at him, raising your coffee up so you can sip at him as you narrow your eyes and stare at him. “Yes, lasagne is fine.”
“Okay then. Is there anything you want for dessert?”
You consider it for a second. “Could we get an apple pie?” you ask uncertainly. “Just a frozen one, I’ll heat it up in the oven.” Unless Emma’s tastes had changed in the past couple of years, she should enjoy that. You don’t feel mean enough to try and deny her a dessert today.
Dad nods. His emotions swell with something you’re not quite sure of—satisfaction, maybe.
He leaves soon after that, claiming he needs to get to work early. You pack for school unhurriedly and slowly make your way to the bus. The bus manages to be on time, today. Traffic must be better than it was yesterday.
During first period, after asking Madison if she’s free this weekend—she isn’t, damn it all—you pull out your phone and sent Emma a text, as casually as you can. Your phone is hidden by your textbook, but you still instinctively flinch when the teacher walks near enough that you’re half-afraid he can see it. For a moment, you think he sees it, but in the end he just looks over at you and sighs before shaking his head and walking away.
Your text is short and simple; “Come over for dinner tonight.” Her response is equally simple; “Okay, what should I wear?”
You consider it for a moment, but—yes, okay, no, it still feels really weird to think about her sexually. Or, well, to imagine her actually doing it, at least. You’ve certainly fantasized about dominating her enough that you can’t claim it feels weird to think about her sexually. In the end, you go for something simple; “Just wear whatever’s comfortable. Your dad’s coming with you.”
Your phone quickly chimes with her reply, a simple “Okay.” that leaves you clenching your teeth, although you’re not quite sure why. She’s complying with what you said. Isn’t that a good thing?
The day goes by alternately quickly and slowly, in a pattern you’re quickly becoming familiar with. Any time you have Madison or Sophia sitting beside you, the lesson seems to end in minutes, while the rest of the day seems to drag on for days. At least it gives you plenty of time to go through your textbooks.
By the time you arrive home, you’ve made it through over three quarters of your first textbook. Damn it.
As soon as you arrive home, the rich smell of a cooking lasagne drifts out at you. You pause, sniffing at the air, then call out, “Dad?” You hear a small curse, then Dad hurries out from in the kitchen.
“Taylor!” He looks at the clock, seeming to only notice the time now. You give him a dubious look, which he counters with his own. “I finished work early so I could come home and prepare dinner,” he explains.
“Alriiight,” you drawl. “Do you need any help?”
He shakes his head. “I just bought two frozen lasagnes,” he admits sheepishly. “They have instructions on their boxes.”
You sigh in disappointment. “It probably would have been cheaper to just buy the ingredients,” you grumble to yourself. “Alright, if you have it all in hand, I’m going to go do some homework.” Dad just waves you off, returning to the kitchen.
