I was in her bed at seven.
No dress performance. The underwear from my purse was already on her floor. Diana kissed me like the asking had been the last polite thing we were going to do. She put her mouth on me until I was shaking and dripping and stupid, then she reached into the drawer for the small bottle and warmed it in her hands.
“Look at me.”
I looked.
She lined two fingers with oil and worked them into me, slow, opening what Elias had been saving for a hotel he had never booked. The stretch burned in a clean line. I breathed through it. She curled and found the place that made my mouth fall open.
“That’s it. You asked. You don’t get to go shy now.”
She replaced her fingers with the blunt, slick pressure of a toy I had not seen her take out — not huge, not kind — and when I no
