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“You wanna try fucking me this time?”
Carson feels the words breathed against her lips more than she hears them, and she’s not entirely convinced she understood Greta correctly. “Um. Uh. Sorry?”
Her left hand’s been on Greta’s hip since they started kissing, anchoring her to Carson while her other hand latches onto her shoulder, her hair, her neck. Greta covers it with her own and slides it down to her thigh. “Do you. Want to try. Fucking me?”
Fucking her. They haven’t put words to what they do yet. Carson wasn’t sure there even was a word. But, wow, apparently there is, and Greta’s just said it twice in a row and it is really, really doing something to her. She blinks a few times, staring at her hand, and just above it, at the crease of Greta’s thigh where her dress is folded into it.
“Only if you want,” Greta adds, and Carson realizes she forgot to respond or even actually consider the question because her brain short-circuited as soon as she pictured it. “You don’t have to.”
“No, yeah, um — yeah. Yeah. I want to, uh…” She can’t say it. “Do… that.” Well — maybe she can. “Fuck you.”
“Great,” says Greta, doing that friendly little head-tilt smile that makes Carson want to kiss her. So she does.
She’s nervous about it but it’s not the same kind of nervous as before, in the convent, when she knew she was uncomfortable and forced herself to power through anyway. Greta stopped her then, told her it was okay to go slow, that they didn’t have to do anything that first night. Or any night. And as much as she wishes she didn’t have to take it bit by bit, inch by inch of skin being revealed and touched and worshiped, she’s grateful that Greta forced her to.
They’ve been savoring it. It’s all so new, new feelings and new touches that she didn’t know existed before Greta Gill flew into her life with her devilish smiles and her smooth voice and her perfect fucking fingers. It’s been fun, Carson thinks, figuring out what she likes. What kinds of touches she doesn’t care for and which ones make her hips buck and her mouth drop open in ecstasy. More than fun, actually. It’s been the greatest month of Carson’s entire life. Seriously. And she knows it’ll be just as mind-blowing to learn about Greta, too, but…
“Hey.” Her thoughts are interrupted by Greta gently pulling away to look Carson in the eye. She rests a hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Where’d you go just now?”
“Nowhere. Uh…” Carson wants to pretend she wasn’t spiraling. But Greta doesn’t like it when she does that, and anyway she can always tell when Carson’s mind is wandering, so she leans back into the seat and lets Greta’s hand slide down her arm until they’re holding hands. “I want to do this,” she says. “I do. I’m excited. It sounds”—what word could possibly describe it?—“awesome.”
“But?”
“But,” she agrees. “I haven’t done anything like this before. I don’t know — I don’t even know what it is you’re doing, really. When you. Um.”
“When I fuck you,” Greta supplies, and Carson feels her face get hot.
“When you — yeah. So I’m worried about not doing it right. I’m worried about hurting you.”
“Oh, darling,” coos Greta, “you could never hurt —”
“I don’t mean, like, emotionally.” Carson shakes her head and laughs. “I don’t know. What if I scratch your vagina or something?”
“Your nails aren’t nearly long enough for that.” Greta raises her eyebrows, amused, and bounces their joined hands on her thigh. And yeah, actually — Greta’s nails are longer than Carson’s and, well, she’s never had a problem with that. “You’ll be fine, Carson. It’s easier than you think. And I’ll show you.”
It’s exactly the answer Carson was hoping for. “Thank you,” she breathes, and she means it. She feels a rush of warmth and gratitude for this goddess of a creature in front of her, not just willing to put up with her but wanting her, finding her attractive and desirable and even sexy. “How should I…”
“Usually I’d say to start by kissing me,” Greta begins. “But I’ve had enough of that, honestly. You wanna touch my tits?”
“Oh.” If Greta keeps just saying shit like that, like it’s nothing, Carson’s gonna melt into a puddle on the floor before she even gets her hand up Greta’s dress. “Can I?” She reaches a hand towards Greta’s chest like a kid in a toy store.
Greta stifles a laugh at Carson’s enthusiasm. “Yeah, Carson. You can.”
It feels weird to just grope her like that, so she leans in to put her mouth on Greta’s neck. Greta’s been doing this to her lately and it feels fucking incredible, and she hums in satisfaction when Greta moans softly. She can smell Greta’s perfume from here, spicy and fruity and heavier than Carson would have expected from her. Her skin is so smooth, and she’s so soft, and she’s — oh shit — she’s pushing her breasts up into Carson’s hands like she can’t get enough.
Carson’s heart is pounding, a frantic drumbeat that echoes between her legs and throughout her whole body. She’s so fucking turned on it hurts and just from having her face buried in Greta’s neck and her hands on her tits. She feels Greta shift beneath her, parting her thighs for Carson. Fuck. Okay. It’s happening.
“You still wanna do this?” asks Greta, voice a little strained. “We can stop.”
“I’m not stopping,” she grits out so automatically it scares her. “I mean. Unless you want me to.”
“Don’t stop,” Greta breathes, one hand holding Carson’s head in place and the other pulling Carson’s hand to her thigh, and oh boy that is a-okay with Carson. She lets herself be led, lets Greta pull up her dress so she can slide underneath it. There’s some awkward shifting around while they get the angle right, but soon enough Greta ends up lying down on the car seat with Carson mostly on top of her. Their faces are close like this, Greta’s mouth right by Carson’s ear so she can hear every short little breath, their legs intertwined. It’s just an all-around knockout of a sexy situation, and Carson gives herself a little pat on the back in her mind for putting it together. She’s got this. She can do this.
Her hand travels higher, over Greta’s underwear, and then inside them. She watches Greta’s face and Greta watches her right back, their eyes locking as she feels Greta’s pubic hair rough beneath her fingers, and then — and then — oh. Hmm.
“What’s wrong?” Greta asks, noticing her furrowed brow. “You want to stop?”
No, she doesn’t want to stop, it’s just — “Sorry. I thought you’d be, uh…”
“Thought I’d be more wet?” Greta gives a wry smile and scoffs. “This always happens. It’s so inconvenient.”
“Am I doing something wrong?” Is she fucking it up? Is she ruining it?
“Not at all. Not at all, Carson.” Her eyes go dark for a moment, making Carson’s stomach do a little swoop, and then turn kind again. “It’s pretty common, actually. For your body to not really match how you’re feeling.”
“Really?”
“Really. Well, you never have that problem. You’re probably wet just from touching me,” she whispers directly in Carson’s ear, and Carson checks in with herself and, yep, Greta’s right. Fuck. That’s hot.
But anyway. This isn’t about her. She takes her hand out of Greta’s panties and asks, “But then — how do I know if you like what I’m doing?”
“You ask me,” Greta replies, only a little condescending.
Direct communication is usually more Greta’s thing, but okay, Carson can do that. “Is there something I can do? To get you… ready?”
Greta smirks at her. “There is. If you’re interested.”
“What?”
Greta lifts an eyebrow.
“Oh.” Oh. Carson imagines it and it makes her head spin a little. “I don’t know — I’m not —”
“I’ll guide you through it,” Greta offers, and God she is so sweet but Carson literally just put her hand in a girl’s underpants for the first time and she’s just. Not ready.
“Yeah, I don’t —” Fuck. She can’t do it. “Sorry, Greta. I can’t.”
“That’s okay!” She shrugs one shoulder and beams at Carson.
“It is?” Carson asks, unsure. She knows Greta’s down for whatever Carson’s down for, in general, but there’s no way she can be this fucking chipper about it.
“Totally.”
“It’s not that I don’t — I mean — I never even do that with my husband, like —”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Greta reassures. “Spit works fine, too.”
“Spit…?” Greta’s wrapped her hand around Carson’s, bringing her fingers to her mouth and parting her sweet lips and ohhhhh shit. God. Wow. Is there no end to Carson’s torment? It shouldn’t be possible, really, for her to look this good with two of Carson’s fingers in her mouth, gazing up at her with these wide doe-eyes that make her look so innocent and so sexy at the same time. Her tongue is like velvet, like silk, and then she slides it between Carson’s fingers, splitting them open, and Carson just breathes, “Holy fuck,” and Greta laughs and draws her hand out of her mouth.
She uses her ring and pinky finger to lift up Greta’s waistband so she doesn’t get spit all over her panties. Carson lets her hand hover over her for a moment. She’s got to get this part right.
“Don’t worry about getting it right,” says Greta, and Carson curses herself for being so damn obvious about it. “Just… touch me.”
So Carson does, and — god damn. If she thought Greta’s mouth felt good, the feeling of her vulva is fucking incredible. She takes a moment to explore, gently, feeling resistance as she pushes against Greta’s pubic bone, softness as she feels Greta’s — “What’s this called again?”
“Clitoris,” Greta reminds her.
Clitoris. She trails her fingers up it, watching Greta’s mouth curl into a wide, lazy smile. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Mm, thank you,” she giggles. It’s adorable, everything Greta does is, but Carson wants to get her to a place where she can’t respond so easily.
“Should I, uh — inside?” It’s what Greta always does with her, but she doesn’t know when she should do it or how. She’s not sure she could even find it without pulling off her panties and looking.
“I usually like just outside,” says Greta. “Inside never did much for me.”
Carson nods. “Like this?” she asks, slowly rubbing circles on Greta’s clit.
“Like that.” Greta’s eyes are dark. “Fuck, that feels nice.”
Touching Greta is intoxicating. She’s so warm and soft and it gets easier as she goes, Greta growing wet and a little desperate, hips rolling into Carson’s hand. She keeps her eyes trained on Carson for as long as she can before they flutter shut in pleasure. Carson studies the way each touch makes her lips part and her hands clutch at Carson’s arms, at her back. She wants to memorize it all, to sort and categorize and analyze all the data she’s gathering and come back next time (there will be a next time) armed with a winning strategy and the right kind of warmup.
It’s a lot like baseball, weirdly enough.
She can’t linger too long on that absolutely cursed thought because Greta is pulling her into a filthy kiss and moaning into her mouth, a high and reedy sound that makes Carson’s whole body light up. “Faster, Carson.”
But Carson doesn’t want to give her faster. She wants to tease, and she’s not sure where the instinct comes from, but she trusts it. She pulls back a little to watch Greta’s face as she keeps the same pace — once slow and languid, now agonizing.
“Did you hear me?” Greta pants. “I said faster.”
“You’re so used to getting what you want.” Carson scarcely recognizes her own voice. “Have some fucking patience.”
“God,” Greta groans.
“Coach,” Carson corrects.
“Fuck you.”
“Thought you said it was my turn.”
Greta opens her eyes to marvel at Carson. “Where did all of this come from, Shaw?” She’s proud of Carson, maybe even a little surprised, and Carson feels herself break into a grin.
“Dunno,” she says. “You’re hot like this.” Wanting. Submitting.
“Fucking hell. You’re hot like this. Taking charge.”
The flattery works. Carson gives her what she wants, moving her hand faster and faster, delighting in the short moans that tumble out of Greta’s mouth. “Careful,” she warns, deciding to try out a line Charlie used one time. “Someone could hear us.”
Greta shakes her head. “They won’t.”
“They might.”
“You think so?” She opens her eyes to look at Carson again and — whoops. She’s afraid, not turned on. Miscalculated that one.
“No, no. You’re right. We’re safe.”
“Okay,” Greta sighs, already forgetting her fear and slipping back into pleasure. Carson sends a quick thank-you to God for not letting her fuck this up again.
“I’ve got you, Greta,” says Carson. She knows Greta likes it when she’s an asshole but she wants Greta to know she likes this, likes doing the fucking just as much as getting fucked. Greta moans again and her eyes fall shut and actually, Carson thinks she might love it.
She finds a rhythm and Greta’s noises get higher and breathier. “Fuck, just like that.” Her hand finds purchase on Carson’s forearm just below her elbow, holding her in place. “Don’t fucking stop.”
“Wasn’t planning to.” Her brain is a broken record chanting she’s so fucking hot like this and Carson’s torn between never wanting it to end and wanting to watch Greta come apart beneath her right fucking now. Greta’s a wreck, hair all mussed up and eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. It’s so good. It’s so different than how they usually do things. Carson might be the one to initiate things but Greta always ends up on top in the end, looking deep into Carson’s eyes while she comes undone. It’s her favorite part, knowing Greta’s watching her, knowing Greta thinks she looks sexy, and she wants to know how it feels from the other end.
“Look at me,” she commands. “Look at me when you come.”
Greta obeys immediately, eyes flying open, it’s fucking awesome, Carson’s never felt so powerful before. Her eyes are so beautiful, desperate and wild and a little unfocused. “Fuck, Carson, please — shit. So good. Please. Please. Please.”
She keeps whispering like that, rambling about how good Carson feels and how close she is to coming. It’s perfect. She did it. She’s almost there, almost ready to congratulate herself on a job well done, and then… there’s a twinge in her arm and her hand starts slowing down without her permission. Fuck.
“Sorry,” she grimaces. “My arm.”
“That’s okay,” Greta breathes. “Just means you get to fuck me a little longer.”
Carson has to laugh. What a gracious interpretation of things.
It takes another minute or two, at this slower pace, but Greta gets there. She releases Carson’s arm in favor of clutching at her back. Her hips are going haywire, bucking up with such force that Carson barely has to move her hand, just lets Greta rut against it. She’s so wet now, coating Carson’s palm and wrist in it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Greta chants under her breath, each repetition ghosting over Carson’s ear. “Oh — Carson — oh —” And she’s coming, moaning long and low and sweet, hands digging into Carson’s shoulders. Her whole body surges up once, twice, three times, her clit pulsing in time with it. Her jaw slacks and her eyebrows draw together and she keeps fucking looking at Carson, eyes losing every trace of defiance and cockiness as she melts under Carson’s fingers. Carson fucks her through it, and then a little after just to be sure, and also cause she can’t fucking stop.
Eventually Greta shifts her hips up and away, oversensitive. Carson removes her hand from under Greta’s dress. She wipes it on the side of the car seat, a little guilty, and sends a silent apology to Beverly.
You told me to feel my power, though, she thinks. So really this is your fault.
Greta lets out a little “hooooh” sound, pushing herself back into a sitting position.
“Was that good?” Carson asks.
She cocks her head. “For a first time? Ehh… seven.” But she’s smiling that impish little smile, and Carson just laughs. How she can be so confident, so quick-witted, just moments after coming is beyond her.
“Seven?” she repeats.
“Okay, I’m kidding,” says Greta, drawing Carson into her arms. “Perfect ten, baby.”