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The Thought That Counts

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“Wow, the cookies, they’re, uh -”

“They’re a disaster,” Jane groans, barely resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands. “I should have done a practice batch, I don’t know, I just thought ‘hey, I spend all day dealing with quantum physics, how hard can a simple recipe be’, and now they look like that and I’m so sorry!”

“Chill,” Darcy grins, bumping her shoulder against Jane’s. “Okay, so they look a little like they’ve turned to cannibalism and eaten each other.”

“Oh God, I am so sorry.”

“And then the cookies threw up the other cookies that they’d eaten.”

“I am seriously so sorry.”

“Heh, cookies tossing cookies.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“And then they started eating the piles of cookie vom-”

“Darcy,” Jane whines. “I’ll buy you some real cookies, I’ll buy you a whole cake, just please stop talking.”

“Uh uh,” Darcy admonishes, breaking off a piece of the sad-looking cookie-mush pile. “This year’s presents have to be homemade, remember? That was the deal.”

Which is true, and it had seemed like a good deal at the time, what with Darcy still living with a student budget and Jane pretty much hating shopping. Making their own gifts just made sense.

Okay, so Jane may have gotten the idea during a marathon of Friends reruns, but that’s neither here nor there.

Unfortunately, Jane had been labouring under the mistaken impression she could bake when she made the deal, and now the proof of just how wrong she was is sitting in a crumbling heap of brown mess in front of her.

“Mmm, s’not bad,” Darcy hums thoughtfully as she chews. “Looks like death, but it’s actually pretty nice. Double chocolate chip, right?”

“Yeah, your favourite,” Jane sighs, still dejected. “You don’t have to eat that, you know.”

“I like it, Jane,” Darcy insists like she’s talking to a misbehaving child, popping another piece of cookie into her mouth. “Besides,” she continues around her mouthful. “It’s time for your present now!”

She raises her hands to Jane’s shoulders, giving Jane a gentle push that sends her stepping back and flopping on to the couch. Darcy just laughs at the undignified noise she makes, practically skipping across the room to fiddle with her iPod while Jane settles against the old, scratchy couch cushions, waiting patiently for whatever Darcy has in store.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

Darcy’s been acting weirdly secretive about that iPod lately, scooping it up and hiding it whenever Jane walks into the room. She’d kind of suspected Darcy was making her a playlist, since that’s probably the modern day equivalent of giving somebody mixtape.

Turns out it’s not a playlist, it’s just one song, and the music isn’t even important anyway.

What is important is the way Darcy turns on her heels, slow and purposeful, and fixes Jane with a look that makes her mouth dry.

The beat starts, the lyrics, but Jane’s barely aware of it. Darcy sashays across the room towards her, lips curled in a knowing smirk, hips swinging as hypnotic as a pendulum. She stops with less than an inch between their toes, lifts her arms above her head, wrists crossing, legs spreading slightly and putting a bend of her knees into the sway.

Jane feels herself start to sweat.

Darcy smiles at her, sultry and with hooded eyes. She lowers her hands slow, letting her fingers trail through her hair and over her collarbone. They settle over her chest, and then she begins to undo the buttons of her shirt, one by one, revealing the curves of her cleavage, the deep red lace of her bra, the smooth skin of her stomach. Keeps going even when her fingers reach the last button of the shirt, continuing on to the button fly of her jeans, spreading it open to reveal a slither of blue and purple striped panties.

It’s entirely possible Jane’s forgotten how to blink.

The shirt slides off and down Darcy’s arms with a casual shrug of her shoulders, and she lets it fall to the floor behind her. The bra is definitely new, Jane’s never seen it before, she’d remember if she’d seen it before. It’s lacy and sheer, and Jane can see the darker pink of Darcy’s areola through the pattern, peaked nipples pressing against the fabric.

She wants to reach out and touch but her fingers have a death-grip on the cushions that she isn’t sure she can break.

Darcy turns again, her back to Jane, and Jane’s swallow is audible even over the thrum of the music as Darcy bends at the waist, sliding her jeans down her legs in one long, smooth movement. Her panties are bikini-cut, the swell of her ass obvious where they’ve ridden up a little, and she shimmies playfully as she kicks the denim down and off her ankles before straightening with a flick of her hair.

She spins around again, raising her leg to kneel over Jane, shins pressing into the couch either side of Jane’s thighs. Straddling her, leaning forward until their lips almost touch, and Jane leans in for a kiss like a puppet on a string, but Darcy smirks and pulls back again. She slips her glasses down her nose, turns them and puts them on Jane’s face, pushes them up into her hair where they’ll be safe, and then her hands are reaching back and up so she can toy with the clasp of her bra.

If Jane doesn’t close her mouth soon she’s going to start drooling all over herself.

Darcy wriggles a little, teasing, like maybe she won’t take this any further, like maybe she’ll stop, even if Jane might implode if she does. But then she grins, wrist flicking, and the bra unclasps, cups falling from her chest and straps falling down her arms, letting it land across Jane’s thighs.

God, she’s so beautiful.

She arches her back, hips rolling like she’s imagining fucking herself on Jane’s lap, muscles in her thighs flexing with the motion. Her fingernails scratch slightly over her own stomach before moving up so she can palm at her breasts, cup them, stroke her thumb over her nipples. Tossing her hair and biting at her bottom lip as she stares down into Jane’s eyes, breathing a little heavy.

“You like your present, right?” she murmurs, and her hips are still rocking up and down, ridiculously distracting. “It totally counts, you know, ‘cause I made up the choreography myself and all.”

Jane just nods mutely.

“Okay, so it mainly involved shaking my tits at you, but you liked it, right?”

Jane nods hard enough that her neck’s starting to hurt.

“Cool,” Darcy chirps, and she reaches for Jane’s hands, pulls them away from their grip on the couch, moves them towards her hips and curls Jane’s fingers over the hem of her underwear. “Wanna unwrap the rest of your gift?” She tugs Jane’s fingers suggestively, making them pull slightly at her panties.

“I am definitely buying you a cake,” Jane manages to whimper.

Making me a cake,” Darcy corrects.

“Whatever,” Jane mutters, preoccupied with pushing Darcy’s panties down her legs, and Darcy giggles and buries her hands in Jane’s hair.

Jane wants to take her time getting her mouth on all that skin, she really does, but she doesn’t have the patience right now. Her lips smear over Darcy’s stomach when she presses them there, gets her hands on Darcy’s hips and pushes her up so she’s kneeling higher, so Jane can nuzzle at that stripe of soft, dark hair beneath her navel.

She feels Darcy’s arms bracket her head, hands holding on to the back of the couch.

Darcy’s already swollen and wet, and Jane moans softly at the thought of Darcy being so turned on to dance like that, to dance for her like that. Her clit is flushed and Jane presses her lips against it, kisses at it over and over, hearing Darcy’s gasps above her. She holds Darcy’s thigh with one hand, gets the other between her legs, and Darcy opens up so easy for her fingers, groaning throatily.

The music is still playing, the same song on repeat, and Jane lets it fill her head. Using the beat to build her rhythm, fingers thrusting in and out, steady and slippery, sucking lightly at Darcy’s clit just to hear the way it makes her babble nonsense and start rolling her hips. Trying to fuck herself against Jane’s mouth, and Jane gives it to her exactly as fast and hard as she wants. Bobbing her head and working another finger into Darcy’s cunt, stroking all over those velvet smooth insides.

She’s so wet, taste of sex on Jane’s tongue, and she crooks her fingers, starts giving a twist of her wrist on every thrust. Feeling Darcy cry out above her, feeling her clench and spasm and fucking her through her orgasm, mouth sliding messy over her labia as Darcy’s legs shake, as she starts to slide down on to Jane’s lap, fingers still inside her.

Darcy’s flushed, panting, but she manages a broad smile. “Guess you really did like the gift.”

Jane responds with a playful quirk of her fingers, just to see Darcy yelp and laugh, wriggling her hips and getting them a little deeper inside. “I did,” she replies, tilting her head for kiss, impatient to get Darcy’s lips against her mouth, between her own legs. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You too,” Darcy whispers and kisses her deep.