"We don't have to wait anymore," Bridgette went on, then smiled. "You don't have to dream about it and hide it anymore. You can touch me."
Wren could barely make sense of what was happening. After so long, it was like she was waiting to wake up.
But there wasn't any dissonance here—no record scratch sensation to tell her this wasn't real.
Her lips fell open, then pulled into a grin. She brought her hands to the sides of Bridgette's neck the way she'd longed to do so many times. She opened her mouth to say something—something loving, something romantic—but no words would come, only a disbelieving breath of a laugh.
Bridgette tipped her chin up and Wren dipped hers down, and then they were kissing.
Kissing in a way they never had before.
Wren took Bridgette's hands in hers, interlacing their fingers and squeezing back when Bridgette squeezed them tight. She drew her lips away just far enough to speak, so they brushed Bridgette's when she asked, "Are you sure?"
It was a million questions in one: Are you sure you understood what the doctors told you? Are you sure you heard them right? Are you sure you want to do this?
"Yes. I'm sure."
And Wren was flying.
Her hands shook as she slid Bridgette's top over her shoulders and down her arms, but whether they shook with nerves or with the effort she was having to put into keeping herself from going too fast, she couldn't be certain.
Both were real possibilities.
Bridgette's lips were so soft, her tongue so warm when it slipped across Wren's lips.
Wren couldn't help but groan as she let Bridge's shirt fall to the floor behind her.
Then Bridgette's fingers were grasping the hem of Wren's shirt and pushing it upward. Wren met her there, grabbing and pulling her own shirt up and over her head, then letting it fall to the floor.
For a moment, Bridgette pulled back and Wren wondered what she was thinking—wondered if she was having second thoughts, or was nervous—but when Bridgette's eyes met hers, there wasn't an ounce of fear in them.
No, it definitely wasn't fear that made her lips part like that.
With a grin pulling at her own mouth, Wren stepped into her. She let her fingers sink into the soft, smooth hair at the nape of Bridgette's neck as she guided their mouths together.
"You're in control," she said, letting their lips brush, keeping her lips just out of reach of Bridgette's. "What do you want to do?"
Bridgette's breath went shallow, her searching lips falling open. "Bed," she breathed simply.
So, without letting her go, Wren gently pushed Bridgette backward, following her command. She took Bridgette in her arms and slowly lowered her onto the mattress. Then she lowered herself down alongside her, so close that when Bridge turned onto her side, they were touching again, front-to-front.
"Kiss me."
Wren felt it when the kiss sparked into something new between them. Bridgette's breath changed, pulling deep into her lungs before exhaling long and slow as she wrapped her arms around Wren's chest and pulled her closer.
Wren let Bridgette roll onto her back but held herself up to keep her full weight from resting on Bridge's tiny frame.
"I want you against me," Bridgette breathed between their mouths, tugging at her.
"I don't want to hurt you," Wren mumbled in response, searching for her mouth again.
"My rules," Bridgette said with more volume than breath this time. "Don't hold back from me, Wren."
For one weightless moment, Wren stared down her. Then, she gave in, gave herself over to their passion—to Bridgette's desire.
And was rewarded when Bridgette's fingers pressed hard into her back and her tongue licked between Wren's lips.
She tasted like wintergreen toothpaste and vanilla lip gloss.
Wren pulled her lips away, but only far enough to drag them over Bridgette's jaw, to her neck, then to her collarbone.
"Where do you want me next?" she murmured against her skin.
"Touch me."
Wren pulled back enough to prop herself up onto one elbow and look down at her as she asked, "Where should I touch you?"
"Everywhere."
So Wren did exactly that.
Sliding to Bridgette's side, she started at her neck and, with light fingers, she ran her touch downward, over to her shoulder, then down her arm where she drew a circle in the palm of Bridgette's hand. Then back up, to her shoulder, and down again, between her breasts, over the scar that sat pink against her alabaster skin. Then left, where she circled Bridgette's small, pert breast, around and around—then back down and across to the other.
By the time she was trailing her fingers down Bridgette's stomach, she was panting, writhing slowly under Wren's touch.
"Wren," she breathed.
"Where now?"
Bridgette's foot slid along the comforter beneath them, her knee drawing up—then falling open. "Please," she whined.
Wren could have made her beg for it, but she didn't. Instead, she slid her hand down Bridgette's smooth, flat stomach.
"Here?" she murmured as her hand continued down.
"Yes," Bridgette breathed, her back arching as she writhed under Wren's hands. "God, yes."
Wren's heartrate fluttered as her fingers dipped beneath the waistband of Bridgette's yoga pants, gently brushing against the soft hairs at the top of her sex.
"Are you commando?" Wren mused, stealing a peak by tenting her hand.
"Yes."
Wren chuckled low in her chest. She pushed her hand down and her torso up against Bridgette's as she brought their lips together. Then she slipped her fingers between the slick folds.
Bridgette gasped through their kiss.
So Wren went lower.
She wanted to draw this out, to take it slow, so she, and more importantly, so Bridgette could savor every moment.
Every touch.
Every sound, and scent, and sensation.
So it was with gentle pressure that Wren slipped her index finger inside.
Immediately, Bridgette moaned.
Wren turned her hand so she could run the pad of her finger along the top of Bridgette's tight core. She stroked slowly, in and out, in and out, keeping pressure, watching and listening for the signs that she was finding the right place, the right speed.
In: Bridgette drew a hard breath. Out: she moaned. In. Out.
Wren felt it the first time she came. Bridgette's core tightened around her finger, coating it in slickness as Bridgette moaned again.
Wren picked up the pace then, to a medium speed in sync with the way Bridgette's body had begun to rock.
"You're so beautiful," Wren said, her voice low, as she stared down at Bridgette. At her flushed cheeks, her light hair spilling across the pillow.
Bridge's eyes opened enough to meet Wren's gaze. She smiled as she gasped. "I feel like I'm gonna shatter apart."
Wren smiled, something like pride intermingling with the love and desire that was already filling her up. This was better than any dream she could have come up with. "Shatter for me," she said. "I'll hold you together."
She brought her thumb to Bridgette's swollen clit.
"Oh god!" Two short, gasping breaths, then Bridgette's back arched up off the mattress.
Wren rode the climax with her, coaxing it onward, rubbing and teasing and touching to make it last. Until her hand was slick with Bridgette's come and Bridge's body was limp on the mattress.
"You okay?" Wren asked as she brought her hand up onto Bridgette's stomach, still flexing as she recovered her breath.
Bridgette looked at her with hooded eyes and breathed a gentle laugh. "It's like I just had two years’ worth of orgasms all at once."
Wren laughed. That's not what she'd expected her to say, but she was honored nonetheless. Honored to have been the one to deliver them—all two years’ worth.
She kissed her girlfriend gently on the mouth and pushed her hair back from her face.
"I love you, Bridge."
/> "I love you, Wren. So much. I don't deserve you."
Wren felt her brows furrow. "You've got that backwards." Then she pushed herself up and pulled back the covers. Well, pulled them back as much as she could with Bridge laying across them.
"Let's get in bed," she said.
"But then how will I reciprocate?" Bridgette asked, lifting her head with a smile.
Wren's chuckle was low. "There'll be time for that later."
It was only mid-day, after all.
⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸
Cecily sighed happily with the harsh hiss of the steam before muffling it with the milk pitcher in her hand. She moved the pitcher for a moment, then angled the spigot downward and let the pitcher sit on the tray of the expansive espresso machine before turning to the shots of espresso that had just been pulled.
Grab, grab. Pour, pour.
The strong, dark shots of black coffee filled the bottom of the mug.
She kicked off the steam, grabbed the clean, long handled spoon beside her and stirred the espresso for the initial pour of steamed whole milk. She continued to pour, but removed the spoon, letting the swirling coffee stir itself. As the pouring milk became primarily foam, she moved the pitcher, creating swirls of coffee colored foam in the bright white. With one last flourish, she sent a final line through the swirls, turning them into a fern with a central stem.
Truth be told, Cecily was more of a tea drinker than a coffee lover, but she loved her job as a barista because when she was in the zone, working with muscle memory as much as critical thought, making drinks both familiar and new, she lost track of time and space. She became a machine. It was like meditating; her mind was clear of everything except the drinks she was preparing.
Which was something she needed right now.
The coffee shop she worked at was on campus, so the student employees got first bid on weekend shifts. Having "graduated" in the spring, Cecily wasn't a student anymore, which meant her schedule had shifted to weekday times when most students were in class. Not that she minded. She'd had the entire weekend off—Friday night through Sunday night—and she'd planned to spend the time playing video games and binge-watching TV. Plus hanging with Trevor whenever she was otherwise alone.
They'd all been great plans. And they'd all been destroyed.
The shadowy figure that had shown up Friday night had hung around almost all weekend. Lurking, rarely out of sight, it had stationed itself in every room Cecily moved to. The only silver lining had been that neither Alyssa nor their mom appeared to be able to see it.
Which meant whatever made it possible for her to see Trevor was the same thing that made her able to see the Shadow. Unfortunately, whenever the Shadow was around, Trevor wasn’t.
By Sunday night, she was crawling out of her skin. So, out of a special kind of desperation, she’d searched the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen for the bundle of sage she’d seen her mom burn.
She'd always thought it was such a strange thing. Her mother, a nurse practitioner, who'd forgotten more science than Cecily would ever know, burned sage to clear their apartment of negative energy at least once a month.
But whatever. Wasn't that just one more reason to do it?
So, sage in hand, she’d lit the thing, then let it smoke while she walked around the apartment, pushing the smoke through the rooms, focusing on corners where she’d seen the Shadow lurk.
And for a second, she thought it might have worked.
The temperature had returned to normal in the apartment and Cecily's skin had stopped crawling.
But twenty minutes later, the apartment was an icebox and Cecily's skin was lined with invisible ants once again.
Defeated, she'd gone to bed early, trying to log a high quantity of hours since the quality of them would be shit—like every other night since the Shadow had appeared. And sure enough, she’d tossed and turned and barely slept. She'd gotten up early and come in to work like a zombie. She was so exhausted, it wasn't until about twenty minutes into her shift she realized the Shadow was nowhere to be seen when Trevor popped into sight beside her.
"Where did you go?" he asked as soon as he appeared.
She was with a customer so she'd had to ignore him.
"Shit, you're at work." Trey had been her silent companion after that, which Cecily didn't mind in the slightest. Even if she couldn't talk to him, it was nice to have him back..
Now she was halfway through her shift as she sat the drink she'd just finished on the counter. "Sixteen-ounce almond milk latte with two raw sugars for Jen!"
Then she moved on to the next cup waiting in line to be made.
"I've never watched you at work before," Trevor remarked. "You're pretty impressive."
Cecily smiled as she dispensed grounds into each basket and pressed them onto the machine. "Not my first rodeo."
"Clearly," Trey replied, his tone all dry humor.
Cecily turned to smile at him, taking advantage of her place behind the machine where nobody was likely to see her.
But Trey was gone.
She turned to her other side, hoping he was over her other shoulder—but he wasn't there either.
Cecily's chest got tight. A shiver ran up her spine.
No. No, no, no. Please not here.
"What is it with coffee shops?" a deep, gravelly voice hissed behind her.
Cecily spun around.
Needles of freezing pain speared through her chest, her arms, her stomach and back.
Everything went black.
"Cecily? Cecily? Can you hear me?"
Cecily came to with a gasp. She was lying on the floor, her co-worker kneeling beside her, cradling her head and shoulders in her arm.
Cecily pushed herself up so she was sitting instead of lying. Her head was pounding. "What happened?"
"You screamed," her co-worker said. "Then you fainted."
"Fainted?" That didn't make sense. She couldn't remember what she'd been doing the moments before she woke up.
"How long have I been out?" she asked.
"A few seconds, at most," her co-worker replied. "You came to as soon as I said your name."
Cecily looked up to find her other co-workers looking on. Some were working with customers, but throwing her concerned glances. Others had abandoned their work altogether and were staring on with worry.
A shiver bowed Cecily's shoulders as a wash of cold rushed down from the top of her head until her whole body was freezing.
"Are you shivering?" her co-worker asked. "Maybe you have the flu."
Movement just over her co-worker's shoulder caught Cecily's attention.
It was the Shadow, lurking, bobbing gently up and down.
Memories of the moments before she passed out lit in Cecily's mind.
She shook her head and got herself up onto her feet. Her pounding head swam, and she was shaking with cold. The Shadow had done this.
She had to get home. She couldn't be here, not with the Shadow. She had to get away from people. She had to be alone.
Alone was safe. Somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wren crouched beside the bed and put a gentle hand on Bridgette's shoulder. "Bridge? Baby, I'm going to work."
Bridgette stirred, her eyes pulling open by millimeters as she hummed a sigh. "Okay. How long is your shift?"
"Twelve hours," Wren replied, smiling at the sleepiness of her voice and remembering all the reasons she was so tired. "How are you feeling?"
Her eyes opened a little more and her lips turned into a smirk, then a grin. "I've never felt better."
Wren smiled.
They'd done nothing but make love, and eat, and make love again since yesterday afternoon. Over and over. Now it was almost six a.m. on Tuesday, which meant Wren had to return to the real world. But Bridgette didn't. Which felt right. She deserved to linger in Eden a little longer.
"I get off at six—"
"Yeah you will," Bridgette cut in, and it took a second for Wr
en to realize she was flirting with her.
Wren chuckled. "Oh really?" Then she pressed on. "I'll be home by 6:30."
Bridgette gave a nod. She started to roll over to go back to sleep, but stopped and turned back before Wren could stand fully again. "Do you mind if I borrow your car?" Bridge asked. "I want to go to the mall."
Wren gave a shrug as she stood, looping her bag over her shoulder. "Sure. Just be careful. You know how it sticks in fourth gear sometimes."
Bridgette gave a nod and rolled over for real this time.
With a smirk, Wren bent and kissed her temple. "I love you."
"Love you," Bridgette replied blearily. "I'll be here tonight when you get home."
"I'm counting on it," Wren mumbled, her voice low and private between them. Then she pushed herself up and headed for the door.
She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard Bridgette say something about being naked as she locked the door behind her.
It was amazing the way physical connection with someone you love could change everything, Wren thought as she walked into the hospital.
She'd been attracted to Bridgette since the first time they'd met. She'd dreamed of making love to her more times than she could count. But she never would have said their relationship was lacking, before. She never would have said they needed sex to make their relationship strong.
Now, though... they were rock solid. She felt like she understood Bridgette with a depth she never had before. Like she could see through her eyes. In those hours, she'd memorized her body, the way she moved, her voice, the pressure of her touch. She'd spoken to her in a language without words, and received Bridgette's wordless messages in turn. Messages of love and desire, caring, passion, and commitment.
Wren had been committed to Bridgette before. Now there was nothing that could stand in the way of her devotion. Only Bridgette herself could sever those ties—and, even then, Wren knew she wouldn't give them up without a fight.
"Hey, how were your days off?" Wren's work-bestie, Lindsey, asked when she badged into the nurses' station.
This was one of those moments when Wren was especially thankful that her brown skin hid the heat that was creeping up the back of her neck. If she'd been fair, she'd sure as hell have been blushing.
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