by Sarah Kuhn
Oh. My flimsy nightgown was clinging to my chest, the soaked fabric perfectly outlining every aspect of my breasts. I flushed, warmth flashing through my freezing body as I realized that Rose Rorick was totally staring at my nipples.
“Rose,” I whispered.
Her palms stilled against my arms.
“Lucy.” Her voice shook, and I felt a stab of desire so potent, I was inspired to cut my prepared speech short. Quite short.
“Right,” I said. I reached out and cupped her face, gently lifting her chin so our gazes met. “The thing is just this, darling: I’m desperately in love with you. I’m also terrified of really feeling anything because I’m scared of getting hurt thanks to my myriad of issues, which I’m happy to detail for you at a later time. Although the truth is, even without that information, you already seem to know me better than anyone ever has. And you still seem to care for me. Which is perhaps the most terrifying thing of all. But I guess the long and short of it is—I’m ready to be terrified.”
And with that, I slid my non-injured hand to the nape of her neck—that soft, sweet spot I’d fantasized about touching for so long—and pulled her to me.
Our lips met and her arms went around me, bringing us even closer. Our moment in the back room had been one, long, sustained kiss—both of us unsure, neither of us wanting to end it. Now we were kissing over and over, kissing with purpose. I nibbled at her lower lip and slid my tongue into her mouth, a thrill surging through me when she moaned. My fingertips skated down her back and underneath her tank top, her skin so warm and gorgeous and silken—
“Lucy.” She broke our kiss, both of us breathless. “I . . . god.” She looked like she was trying to school her features into their usual stoic expression and failing miserably. “We still need to get you warm.”
“That’s what we’re doing,” I said, giving her a pert look.
“Why . . .” She shook her head, and I could tell she was trying her hardest not to let her gaze wander to my (increasingly stiff) nipples. I thrust my chest out, trying to entice her. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”
“That’s also what you’re doing,” I insisted. “And I want to take care of you, too.” I brought my palm to her face again, running my fingertips down her cheek, trying to soothe her worry away. “You can let yourself be as soft and vulnerable and real as you want with me. I want to see all of you.” I pulled her closer, my breasts brushing against hers, and was gratified to hear her groan low in her throat. “But . . .” I frowned, a thread of uncertainty worming through me. “Rose, I just said something quite important to you. Do you feel the same?”
I don’t know if I can properly put into words the expression that overtook my beloved Rose Rorick’s face just then. It was like every single emotion—those deep, beautiful feelings she never showed—came rushing to the forefront all at once. Her eyes sparked with shock and exasperation and joy and it was the best thing ever.
No matter what happened next, finally telling her how I truly felt was worth it, just to see that marvel of an expression on her face.
“Oh, Lucy,” she said, her voice coming out like the longest and sweetest of sighs. “Of course I love you.”
Then she pulled me tight against her and kissed the living daylights out of me.
She urged me back toward the bed, her hands sliding over the wet fabric of my nightgown and sending tingles dancing across the flushed skin underneath. We fell on top of the immaculate covers in a tangle. I managed to kick off my galoshes.
“Is this what you wear to bed,” she murmured against my mouth, plucking at my nightgown’s lacy neckline.
“Sometimes.” I pulled back and arched an eyebrow. “And sometimes I wear nothing.”
“Jesus Christ.” She braced herself on her elbows, looking down at me. “You’re going to kill me.”
I smiled, really taking her in. Her tank top was somehow still pristine, not a wrinkle on it. But I could now see that it was also very thin and her full breasts—so round and soft and glorious, tipped with beautiful dark nipples—were on tantalizing display.
“For now, I’ll settle for mussing you a bit,” I said, reaching up and pulling her neckline down. Her breast slipped free and I took her nipple in my mouth, swirling my tongue around it. I couldn’t stop marveling at how soft her skin was. I was certain I would never be able to get enough of it, of touching her everywhere.
She moaned, her fingers tangling in my hair, and I drew her more deeply into my mouth. I put my hands on her hips and shifted her onto her side, so we were facing each other. I kept my mouth on her and slid my hand lower, slowly tracing the muscles of her stomach, and finally slipping underneath the waistband of her boxer shorts.
She was more than ready for me.
I stroked her with my tongue and my fingers, thrills racing through me at every cry that escaped her. I still couldn’t quite believe it was Rose, my buttoned-up Rose, making all those needy little sounds in the back of her throat. I couldn’t believe I was making her react that way.
When she finally came apart against me, it was superlative.
“Woooow,” she breathed afterward, melting into the bed. She gave me an amused look and touched my cheek. “And somehow, I still haven’t succeeded in my task of getting you out of those wet clothes.”
“Do it now.” I parted my lips, fluttered my eyelashes at her coquettishly, and tried to subtly push my chest out again. The wet material of my nightgown shifted against my aching nipples and I gasped.
Rose gave me the most wicked smile then—full and sly and loaded with meaning. My heart skipped a beat and heat flashed low in my belly. There were certain expressions, I realized, certain smiles, that she saved just for me.
She eased the covers of her bed down, and we both slid under them. Despite her desire to get me out of my clothes, I managed to get her naked first, then buried my face in her neck, luxuriating in her vanilla-citrus scent. She pulled back and kissed me—long and slow and delicious. Her mouth moved to my neck and she nibbled her way down, her fingertips brushing lightly over my collarbone. She eased my wet nightgown down my shoulders and off my body. My skin felt flushed and tingly all over—alive.
“God,” she murmured, her lips finally moving to my nipple. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”
Her tongue slid over my delicate tip and I cried out, my voice hoarse and needy.
“Sensitive,” she whispered against my skin.
“Wait,” I said, pulling her back up. She met my gaze, her eyes searching. There were things I wanted to tell her, but the words got caught in my throat.
With sex, I’d always been so determined to show off my prowess, to give my conquests more pleasure than they could handle. But I tended to shy away from letting them reciprocate too much. I told myself it was because I was so focused on showing them a good time, but maybe . . . maybe it was because I simply couldn’t bear the thought of being that intimate with someone. Of allowing them to see me at my most vulnerable, losing control.
“Lucy.” She brushed a thumb over my lips, a gesture so tender it brought tears to my eyes. “I’ve got you—I’ve really got you. Okay?”
It was something we said to each other all the time. But now, her looking at me with that super serious Rose Rorick gaze . . . I saw that she truly meant it. In every possible way.
We gazed at each other for a long moment, telling each other everything we needed to without saying a word. Just as I’d told her she could be real with me . . . I could be real with her, too.
I could let her see all of me.
“Okay,” I finally whispered back.
She kissed me again, then allowed her mouth to move lower, planting gentle kisses on every single bruise the rogue mic cord had inflicted on my body. My cries grew more desperate as she moved lower still, and the tears in my eyes threatened to overflow.
I couldn’
t wait to give her more pleasure, to draw even more of those sounds from her throat. To feel Rose Rorick coming apart against me over and over again. But as she smoothed her hands over my thighs and stroked her tongue between my legs, finding that perfect spot that drove me wild, I realized how incredible it was to be with someone who wanted to do that for you, too. Who you let do that for you, too. Who you trusted with your body and soul.
And when I finally came apart against her, tears streaming down my cheeks, it was one of the sweetest things I’d ever felt.
Chapter Ten
We spent all night getting to know every inch of each other’s skin, talking softly between glorious bouts of not talking. Dozing off here and there. When the sun started to glint through the windows and Calliope started making distressed mrows from her windowsill perch, I realized it was finally happening—we were going to have brunch!
Or at least we would have if my phone hadn’t started making the most irritating buzzing sounds from deep within the folds of my puffy coat, which was still lying where we’d discarded it the night before.
“Don’t get it,” Rose suggested, her lips trailing over my collarbone.
“Would you be able to not get it?” I said, arching an eyebrow.
She groaned and rolled off of me. I slid out of bed, crossed the room to my coat, and found my phone.
“Yes?” I said, holding it to my ear.
“Hey, Luce, sorry,” Evie said, her words coming out in a rush. “Can you come down to The Gutter? We think we’ve figured out the cause of the snag opening up. Well, part of the cause. We’re about to do some experiments and—”
“Yes, yes, darling,” I said. “Of course. I’ll be right there.” I turned and smiled at Rose, who was sitting up in bed. Her gaze swept over my body. And she looked about as far from stoic as you can get. I realized then that I was totally naked, having not bothered with any kind of cover-up on my mission to answer the phone. “Um, Evie,” I said hastily. “How urgent is this? Surely these experiments need some kind of set-up before my presence is required?”
There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line, but I swore I could hear the wheels turning in her head.
“You have about twenty minutes,” she finally said, then whispered: “And you have to tell me everything later.”
“Of course. Ta.” I hung up and tossed my phone back on my coat. Then I sauntered back to bed, giving Rose a nice view. She pulled me close and returned to the pressing business with my collarbone. I sighed, happiness pulsing through my every cell.
This, I decided, was even better than brunch.
* * *
• • •
When I finally arrived at The Gutter, everyone was yelling.
“Goddamning dammit!” Evie yelled into the air. “Motherfucker!”
“I’m so mad!” Aveda growled, shaking her fist. “Furious!”
“Guys.” Bea Tanaka, Evie’s eighteen-year-old sister, gave them both a look. “Just let me project. I’ve got enough bad feelings for all of us.”
“Beatrice is right,” Nate said, holding up a hand. “The extra, ah, aggression may be unnecessary until we get the snag to re-open.”
“Dare I ask what’s going on?” I said, walking up to them. I’d zipped by HQ to change, and was back in my uniform of lacy dress, heels, and weapons garter.
“Luce!” Evie yelped. She and Aveda were at my side immediately, their eyes full of questions. Bea just shook her head and turned to stare at a spot on the stage, her brow furrowed.
“Everything is good,” I said, giving them a slight smile. “Better than good. Absolutely spectacular. And I’ll tell you all about it later. But for now—” I gestured toward Bea and the stage.
“We had a few revelations last night,” Nate said, turning to us. “Beatrice stopped by to, ah . . .”
“To catch a shower and a nap before big plans to stay out all night yet again,” Evie muttered, frowning. It had been . . . well, tense, to say the least, between Bea and Evie the last couple months, ever since Bea had declared she wasn’t going to college and gotten a job at a bookstore. She also seemed to be drifting away from working with Team Tanaka/Jupiter, assisting Nate with his research and such. So her presence was a bit of a surprise.
“In any case,” Nate said hastily, trying to route us around the awkwardness, “I asked Bea to look at our research and the supernatural energy that was still present in the mic pieces and she had a thought . . .” He nodded at Bea.
“It was more like an instinct,” Bea said, toying with the ends of her wavy purple-blue hair. “I was thinking back to Evie’s karaoke battle with Maisy, how Evie’s fire power was totally connected to her feelings before she got a better handle on it. I dunno if this is how it happened, but—if supernaturally enhanced feelings caused the Otherworld snag here at The Gutter, maybe they can shut it down, too. So I used my emotional projection power to totally flood the mic with all my bad feelings. I have an excess of them at the moment.” She side-eyed Evie.
“And it worked,” Nate said, giving her a slight smile. “The supernatural energy in the mic evaporated. It was like, ah . . .” He turned to Bea. “What was the musical metaphor you used?”
“Like feedback blowing out an amp,” she said.
“So now you’re thinking an excess of toxic emotions can close the snag for good?” I said, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that why you’re all shouting into the air?”
“At the moment, we’re actually trying to re-open the snag—so we can then thoroughly shut it down,” Nate said. “We still don’t know what the exact trigger is—”
“So we’re trying the bad feelings thing,” Bea said. “And I’m also attempting to use my emotional projection power to, like, enhance everyone’s bad feelings.”
“The recent karaoke championship may have created just the right mix of bad feelings,” Aveda said.
“What with all the competition and jealousy and Kevin stressing everyone out,” I mused.
“Back to it!” Bea called out, turning to the stage once more. Everyone started yelling again.
I frowned, studying the dingy Gutter space. I was still stuck on the whole trigger thing, why the snag had opened up now. My brain cycled back to the very first attack, to that chandelier careening toward Celine. To the tear sliding down my cheek right before, so moved by her amazing performance, by . . . by . . .
I frowned, took my phone out of my pocket, and opened Instagram. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was doing, I was just trying to follow my intuition, the tiny thing I couldn’t grasp that was poking at the back of my brain. I pulled up Celine’s Insta, getting stuck yet again on the photo of her singing the G-sharp. I narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing it. It wasn’t just striking because her face was so intense and emotive, I realized—it was the way her face was intense. It was . . .
My brow furrowed further as I clicked on the photo, then clicked on the profile of the random daisy avatar—the one that appeared to have commented on all of Celine’s pictures. It took me back to the odd gallery of the child pageant queen, to that top photo of her scowling so hard . . .
Wait. How did I not see it . . .
I clicked back to Celine’s profile and saw that she’d just posted something: an extreme close-up of a dingy surface with a simple “C” carved in it. The caption said: “Thank you for the opportunity.”
I checked the timestamp. Five minutes ago. And I’d recognize that dingy surface anywhere.
I opened my mouth to say something to the team—but they were all still screaming into the air.
Well. Never mind. I could handle this part.
I found her outside, next to The Gutter’s wall of fame, which she had just finished defacing with her initial. Wearing a “disguise” of gigantic sunglasses and a furry leopard-print coat. Trying to scuttle away.
“Celine!” I darted in front of her. S
he tried to go around me, and I danced in front of her again, blocking her way. I tried to meet her eyes, but the sunglasses were impenetrable. “Tell me the truth,” I said. “You hate singing that G-sharp, don’t you?”
She stopped her scuttling and gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. I reached for her sunglasses, then hesitated.
“May I?” I said, my voice gentle. Another tiny nod. I removed the sunglasses to find her eyes red-rimmed and teary.
“I . . . I never came here as a child,” she blurted out, waving her hand at The Gutter. “My mother never sang here. My mother is still alive.”
“I know,” I said. I brandished my phone, the account with all the pageant pics pulled up on the screen. “This is you, isn’t it?” I tapped my nail against the wee beauty queen’s photo. “And I’m guessing this account belongs to your mother, with whom you perhaps do not have the most pleasant of relationships?”
“No.” She shook her head and hugged her leopard coat more tightly against her body. “I mean, yes, that is me. And no, we don’t have a relationship that’s at all pleasant. She put me in pageants when I was younger. Every weekend. I always had a good voice, but when she found out I could hit that note, that’s when it got really bad . . .” Celine frowned and scraped a hand over her eyes. “I was just this . . . this thing to her.”
I winced. That sounded so much like how I’d felt with my father—him looking at me with those glazed eyes.
“I understand that was all very traumatic, but why make up such an elaborate backstory?” I asked.
“I moved here a couple months ago,” Celine said. “From Texas, which I’d never left before. I finally set a, you know, boundary with my mom. I only had to move out of state to do it. But I hadn’t anticipated how lonely it would be—I guess that’s what happens when you impulsively escape to a place where you don’t know a single soul.”
“Is that what brought you to The Gutter—you were looking to make friends?” I asked.
She nodded. “Pathetic, huh? I saw all these pictures and videos of people singing. It looked so cool.” Her gaze met mine. “Especially you.”
