Twenty stories up, a wall made of glass, marble floors. The lights were cool, wisps catching against her cigarette smoke. She pulled it to her lips, taking a drag. The smoke dragged daggers dipped in clover down her throat, threatening a cough. She willed it away, savoring the smoke as it slowly poured from her nose.
She savored all of it while she could. None of this was hers. At least not yet.
But she wanted all of it.
She rubbed her thumb against a strand of hair catching in her eye, ash from the cigarette flicking off onto the floor. Another drag. Its orange glow was caught by the glass, the embers playing against the night sky, ripped and refracted ever so slightly by the window. Her hazel eyes pulled down, looking at the other reflection in the room.
God, she wanted it.
She turned, the soles of her feet making no sound against the polished marble. The tile was cool, but not overly so. Enough to send a shiver. Or at least, maybe it was. Could’ve been a whole number of things doing that.
She walked forward, toward a white leather couch that was entirely too modern for her tastes. A slim arm hung off the back, fingers tilted up ever so slightly. The fingertips tapped against the air to an unknown rhythm, taunting her. She could make out the curve of her neck, the artificially, oh-so-obviously dyed black hair dancing against the top of the couch. A metallic blue dress sat halfway down her shoulder, exposing her in a way that was far too fucking coy to be accidental.
“Sam,” the woman said, voice so quiet it might’ve come from twenty stories down. “I can feel your eyes, you know.”
Two steps forward, and she was behind her. Sam let a fingertip meet the back of her hand, taking care to make sure it danced across the surface. Up it went, from her wrist to her shoulder, dragging against her skin just enough for a trail of goosebumps to follow in her wake. She dropped down behind the couch, lips just behind her ear.
“Just my eyes?”
There was a tiny gasp — or would’ve been, had it not been immediately caught in her throat. If there was any protest, it was being smothered away.
“We know each other, we always have,” Sam said. The heat of her breath buffeted against her ear. She watched as it twitched — just enough. Just enough to know she was getting somewhere. Sam shifted slightly behind the couch. Felt like she was getting herself somewhere, at least.
Sam traced her finger back, trailing it down from her shoulder, toward her chest, her middle finger following behind.
“You mean I won’t have to beg this time?”
Sam caught the back of Emily’s ear in her mouth, pressing her lips against it, letting the edge of her teeth follow — gently. Down she went, her free hand brushing Emily’s hair away. She traced the curve of her neck to under her hairline, daring to inch forward. Her neck tilted to the side, inviting the advance.
It’d be rude if she didn’t take that, right? Her lips etched forward, eager to find the curve of her jaw. The two fingers making their way down her chest turned to three, then to four, then to her palms sliding over her skin, brushing the outside of her breast.
With that, her hand snapped up to Emily’s throat, thumb pressing just against her jaw, her other fingers testing her sinew — and her grip.
She savored the moment. Let time itself drip out into the room, let it flow around both of them. Let it hold them tight. Her fingers squeezed against Emily’s throat, just enough. Wait a moment. She could feel Emily’s pulse under her fingertips.
Sam’s mouth met her ear again, teeth pressed against it.
Her fingers tightened.