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By the end of her intern year, Trinity is well aware of the benefits to dating a surgeon. Not having to explain her insane work schedule for one. Going out for dinner to places she could never afford on her own, another. Being on the receiving end of Yolanda’s precise, clinical touches — well, that one speaks for itself.
That isn’t to say there aren’t downsides, too. An accountant, for example, probably wouldn’t know the first thing about Step 3 and thus would not be spending her Saturday morning getting on Trinity’s case about studying.
“The exam is in three weeks, Trinity,” Yolanda says, hovering behind her as she digs around the hamper. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look at a single practice question yet.”
“It’s fine,” Trinity says, flapping a hand dismissively. If only she had folded the laundry when Yolanda had asked her to, then she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, pawing through a pile of their clothes for the least wrinkled jeans she can find when she’s already late and definitely doesn’t have time for this. Yolanda doesn’t say I told you so — she never would, it’s beneath her — she just sighs and opens her dresser, picking out a pair of pants and tossing them Trinity’s way.
They drop into a heap by her feet and Trinity picks them up to inspect them. They’re her vintage Carhartts, her greatest thrift shop find from college, and they’ve been missing from her closet for so long she assumed that someone stole them from her at the laundromat. When she looks up, Yolanda is having trouble meeting her eyes. The real thief, under her nose all along.
Trinity smirks to herself as she pulls on the pants. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, sensing that Yolanda is not assured by her flippant attitude, “I’m a really good test taker. I scored in like, the 95th percentile for the MCAT. I’ll just listen to a study podcast next week when I’m running or something.” She rifles through the tote bag collection hanging on the closet door before picking one to sling over her shoulder. The brunch place is near a farmer’s market and if she’s lucky, she’ll get there in time to peruse the last of the summer berries.
“Baby, this is serious.” Yolanda steps in front of her, blocking her path out of the bedroom. Trinity rolls her eyes, trying to duck under her arm, but Yolanda knows her too well by now. The arm reaches down to grab Trinity by the tote bag strap and drag her upright. Her toes scrape against the hardwood floor with a squeak. It’s very undignified.
“If you fail Step 3, it’s going to look bad when you start applying for fellowships,” Yolanda says. Her stern look doesn’t waver for a moment, not even with Trinity pulling out her most put upon pout. Damn. Usually that works on her.
She tries a different tack. “I’ve just been so busy lately,” she says, faking a little suppressed yawn for good measure. “I’ll start looking at study materials next week, I promise. I just want to chill this weekend.”
“Chill?” Yolanda raises an eyebrow. “Going to drag brunch with Jessica and her sorority sisters is chill?”
“Chill, relaxing, restorative, you know what I mean.” Yolanda’s grip on the tote bag tightens and Trinity winces as her nails start to dig into her shoulder. “Doing something that’s not work.”
“Doing something that’s not work,” Yolanda repeats, her eyes narrowing.
Her phone buzzes in her hand and she looks down — a text from Jessica, asking where she is. The rest of the girls have beaten her there and they’ve already ordered their first round of mimosas.
She looks up at Yolanda beseechingly, hoping that the light slanting through the curtains is highlighting how exhausted and burnt out she looks. When she’d caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror that morning after getting out of the shower, the dark circles under her eyes had even given herself a fright.
Yolanda’s eyes narrow further but she lets her go after a beat. Trinity breathes a sigh of relief and stands up on her tiptoes to smack a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be back around 1:00!” she calls out on her way out the door. “Let me know if you need me to pick anything up for dinner!”
Later, she’ll look back on this moment and realize immediately that she should have been more suspicious. Yolanda never gives up without a fight like that, not when she so clearly has the upper hand. But right now, the draw of bottomless mimosas and 90’s power ballads is simply too strong and so Trinity barrels down the front steps of the townhouse without so much as a backward glance, blissfully unaware of the punishment that awaits her when she returns.
—
It’s closer to 2:00 than 1:00 when she stumbles out of the Uber and up the front steps to Yolanda’s apartment. Yolanda’s tote bag did not make it home from brunch and Trinity is already spinning a story in her mind that sounds better than I forgot it in the bathroom because I’m irresponsible. It takes her a few seconds to navigate the keys but she pushes open the door eventually and toes off her boots in the entryway.
Cassidy, one of Jessica’s more rambunctious sorority sisters and apparently a newly minted lesbian, had spent the first part of brunch flirting with Trinity. After watching her squirm around with no small amount of delight, Jessica had put an end to it, saying firmly, “She’s taken.” Unfortunately, Trinity’s college reputation must have preceded her because Cassidy responded, “That’s never stopped her before!”
There was an awkward moment of silence, during which they all had to grapple with that truth, before Jessica saved her once again, saying, “It’s different this time.” And Trinity had to concede she was right, because her reaction to hearing Jessica say she’s taken was not panic clawing up her chest and the back of her throat, like it would have been back in college, but instead a warm kind of feeling that fizzled low in her stomach. She’s taken, meaning someone has laid claim to her, that she belongs to someone, that she is Yolanda’s and Yolanda is hers.
In light of that revelation, Step 3 is the furthest thing from her mind when she walks into the living room and finds Yolanda sitting in her armchair by the window, reading a book. She’s mainly thinking about how the mimosas are making the room spin and whether she’ll be able to talk Yolanda into taking her clothes off.
“I’m back,” she says, walking over to the armchair. She braces herself with a hand on either armrest and squints down at the book. The words swim in an upside down alphabet soup in front of her eyes but at least she’s close enough to Yolanda that she can feel the warm puff of air from her light laugh against her lips.
“I can see that.” Yolanda closes her book with a snap. She doesn’t like to dog ear the pages or use bookmarks (too easy to lose, she says) so she just remembers what page she was last reading. It’s one of her more psychopathic behaviors.
Trinity lifts her head slightly so that they can make eye contact and they regard each other in the safe space made by the curtain of Trinity’s hair. She can see every detail of Yolanda’s face from here, which eyelashes are clumped together and the crease of skin between her eyebrows, her nose wrinkled in judgment at what must be the scent of champagne seeping out of Trinity’s pores.
Trinity’s just trying to school her expression so that it’s not so dopey and lovesick. They haven’t been official long enough for her to be acting up in this way but something about the alcohol in her system and the precise way Yolanda tucks Trinity’s hair behind her ears is wearing her defenses down.
“Did you have fun at brunch?”
Yolanda’s breath is sweet like the orange tea cooling in the mug at her elbow. Trinity tries not to make it obvious, how much she inhales as Yolanda is speaking, like she can’t get enough of the scent, like she just wants every part of Yolanda inside of every part of her. But Yolanda’s lips (her infuriating, damnable, kissable lips) curve into a smirk like she knows.
“Lots of fun,” she says, straightening up when Yolanda jerks her chin up at her.
“And how is Jessica?” Yolanda stands up too, folding the blanket neatly and placing it on the seat of the armchair with her book on top. Like something out of Architectural fucking Digest.
“She’s good.” Trinity trails behind as Yolanda walks to the kitchen to place her used mug in the sink, and then follows her again as she walks down the hallway to the bedroom. Not for the first time, she pictures herself as a dog, Yolanda’s loyal shadow, one step behind her wherever she goes. “She’s seeing a new guy, someone she met at work. Seems like this one’s going to last.”
Yolanda hmms a little absentmindedly, like she’s not fully listening, and leaves just enough space in the silence following her response to give Trinity the opportunity to run her mouth. “But it turns out one of her sorority sisters, Cassidy, might be gay now.”
Yolanda, who had crossed the threshold into her bedroom, turns around abruptly with a raised eyebrow. “Is that right,” she says, more of a statement than a question.
The air changes texture around them, suddenly five degrees cooler and tantalizingly fraught. “Yup,” Trinity says, hearing how her voice has jumped an octave with nerves.
“And how do we know that?” Yolanda takes a step closer to Trinity and she gulps.
“Um,” she says, stalling, buying time. Yolanda waits her out — she’s always been the more patient one. “Well, I guess I know because she hit on me.”
“Did she,” Yolanda says.
“Yeah but,” she fumbles for words, “but Jessica told her, and I told her, that we, you know, we both told her that I’m seeing someone. That I’m taken.”
Yolanda tilts her head. The way she’s looking at Trinity right now is a carbon copy of the way she looks at med students when they fail to answer the simplest question during a routine patient exam — supercilious with faint notes of amusement and disgust. The look that always makes her feel like she ought to prostrate at Yolanda’s feet, begging for forgiveness.
But months of being a student of Yolanda Garcia has given Trinity the tools to read the microexpressions on her face. She sees the amusement win out, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips just for an instant, imperceptible to anyone else, but it’s enough to make Trinity’s entire body relax. She’s not actually mad, this is just part of the game that they’re about to play.
“On the bed, Dr. Santos,” Yolanda says, the stern mask settling back on her face, and Trinity nearly trips over herself to obey her command. “Clothes off.”
Trinity’s all thumbs as she navigates the buttons and zipper holding her pants together but finally, the pants land once again on Yolanda’s bedroom floor. The rest of her clothes soon follow and she positions herself on her hands and knees in the middle of the bed expectantly.
Yolanda comes up behind her and taps her hip. “Not like this,” she says. “On your back today. Hands on the headboard.”
On her back? Hands on the headboard? This is different, but Trinity isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She flips over and lays back against the duvet, gripping the headboard with both of her hands. There’s some noise next to her as Yolanda rustles through her nightstand, historically a sign of good things to come. Today is no exception — when she emerges again, she has procured some restraints and a vibrator, the slim blue one, the one designed to feel as good inside her as it does out. She holds up the restraints with a questioning look. Trinity nods eagerly and closes her eyes, letting the anticipation build in her body while Yolanda gently secures her wrists to the headboard and her ankles to the bed posts.
When the last restraint is clicked into place and Trinity is nakedly, deliciously exposed, she waits for the vibrator to follow. She imagines it won’t be long before Yolanda turns it on and starts running it along the instep of her foot and around her kneecap and underneath her ribcage, all the places that make Trinity breathless with delight.
But the sensation never comes. There’s just a series of noises, socked feet on the floor and the scraping of wood against wood, then silence again.
Strange.
When Trinity opens her eyes, it takes a few seconds to process the sight in front of her. Yolanda has dragged her armchair into the bedroom and is sitting next to the bed, fully clothed and with her legs crossed primly in front of her, the glow from the screen of her iPad illuminating her face.
“Baby,” she says with a sinking feeling, “what’s happening?”
“You kept saying you didn’t have time to study,” Yolanda says, her voice sweet as honey, “so I decided to make some time for you.”
“No,” Trinity says, reaching out instinctively with her arms only to be reminded that they’re tied above her head, “okay, no, that’s not what I meant.”
Yolanda stands up from the chair, looming over Trinity’s prone figure on the bed and immobilizes her with a single look. “It’s not?” she asks, rhetorically. “But I’ve been so busy lately,” she mimics Trinity’s words from earlier, trailing her fingers over her chest and leaving goosebumps in their wake, “I just want a chill weekend. I’ll start next week.”
She grasps onto one of Trinity’s nipples and twists, hard, and Trinity gasps, jerking against the restraints. Yolanda’s breath is hot on Trinity’s neck when she leans down to whisper, “And when next week comes around and you’re working doubles, were you going to start studying then?”
“Yeah,” Trinity mumbles lamely, her face flaming red, “with the running podcasts.”
“Right,” Yolanda says with a mocking laugh, “the running podcasts.” She releases Trinity’s nipple and sits back in the chair, taking up the iPad again. She taps the screen with an elegant finger. “Let’s start with a practice test to see where you’re at, then we can switch to Anki if we have time.”
Even as she grumbles in protest, Trinity can’t deny how turned on she is by the whole thing. Really she’s been turned on since the moment Jessica labeled her taken, had, in fact, spent the last half hour of brunch heroically ignoring the growing tacky sensation between her legs. And now, even with her nipple sore from Yolanda’s touch, she finds herself aching for more. Every inch of her is spread open and on display, completely at Yolanda’s mercy, and she would do anything for Yolanda to even look at her, to let her shrewd brown eyes rove over her body, to feel her gaze as if it were a physical sensation, caressing every part of her with voracious intent.
Yolanda doesn’t look up from the screen at all. “A two-year-old girl with sickle cell disease is brought to the emergency department by her parents because of painful swelling of her feet for the past three hours,” she reads. “Her temperature is 37.0°C. Physical examination shows swelling and tenderness of her feet; no other abnormal findings are noted.”
Trinity sighs, sagging in defeat against the restraints. “What are her labs?” she asks, and pretends like she can’t hear the smug smile in Yolanda’s voice when she responds.
—
They work their way through about a third of the practice test.
Trinity hadn’t been lying when she said she was a good test taker; she’s getting most of the questions right and Yolanda even seems begrudgingly impressed. She’s also earned herself a few rewards by this point and Yolanda is administering one now, alternating between using her mouth and the vibrator on Trinity’s cunt. Her clever tongue draws patient circles around Trinity’s clit, a maddening rhythm, not slow enough to build her up nor fast enough to push her over the edge, just keeping her at a frustratingly low simmer. Yolanda had made it clear that she wasn’t going to let Trinity come until they got to at least the halfway point of the test, but Trinity grinds her hips up into Yolanda’s mouth as much as she dares to, like it’s going to make any difference at all.
Then, the doorbell rings.
Trinity wants to ignore it. It could be a delivery worker dropping off a package or a Jehovah’s Witness or her deadbeat father come to find her again, it could be the Pope himself for all she cares, she wouldn’t open the door for anyone right now. But Yolanda lifts her head and shouts, “Who is it?”
There’s a pause before someone responds. It’s too muffled for Trinity to make out the exact words, too muffled, even, for her to discern the gender or age of the speaker, but it’s enough to spark recognition in Yolanda’s eyes.
“Just a minute!” she yells, before pushing herself regrettably away from the welcoming apex of Trinity’s legs.
Her smirk when she looks down at Trinity, spread open like a frog ready for dissection, is wet with the evidence of Trinity’s arousal. She’s still holding the vibrator in one hand when she leans one knee on the bed and then the smirk turns into a predatory smile. “Be a good girl and hold this for me, would you?” she asks, and then she hilts the vibrator inside Trinity’s cunt in one smooth motion, stealing every last bit of breath right out of her lungs.
Jesus Christ. The vibrator shifts inside her when Yolanda lets go, makes obscene, wet noises as her cunt flutters around it, as she tenses every muscle in her body in an effort not to come on the spot. She twists her hands on the restraints, hears herself making undignified, indignant noises as Yolanda turns on her heel to walk to the en suite bathroom, listens to the sound of the sink rushing as she washes off her hands and face.
When she’s done, Yolanda comes back to the side of the bed and stands with her hands on her hips, head tilted and lips pursed, sizing up the situation. Trinity looks up at her pleadingly, at a loss for words — it’s humiliating, being laid out for her like this, so worked up after hours of teasing that her nipples are bright red and puffy, her cunt weeping a dark spot on the duvet, purple bruises starting to form on the insides of her thighs. “Yolanda,” she says, past the point of caring how desperate and whiny she sounds, “who is that, don’t leave me like this, how long are you going to —”
Yolanda is impervious in the face of Trinity’s begging. She’s used to it by now, likes it even, likes to see just how much she can wind Trinity up and still make her ask for more. She takes a single finger and trails it down the centerline of Trinity’s body, starting from her chin, grazing over her breastbone, and ending with a featherlight tap on the swollen, overworked, overstimulated bundle of nerves between her legs. Even with that, the barest of touches, her entire body twitches with a groan.
“Of course I won’t leave you like this, baby,” Yolanda says, “I’m not that mean.” And then she takes the throw blanket from the armchair, arranges it carefully over Trinity’s naked, tied up body, and walks out of the bedroom without a second glance.
The door shuts behind her with a click and the room falls silent except for the light hum of the air conditioning unit. She can hear Yolanda open the front door, her friendly greeting. It’s Mrs. Roberts, her next door neighbor. Mrs. Roberts gets invited inside. So, not a quick interruption, then.
Now alone, Trinity can fully process her predicament. Her hands and feet are still in the restraints, and the padded cuffs exert a reassuring, grounding pressure when she pulls at them, keeping her in place. The chunky knit weave of the blanket, usually so soft when Trinity curls up under it to watch TV, feels like sandpaper rubbing on her nipples and clit. The vibrator is curved. She knew this, obviously, but it’s different when it’s just sitting inside her, with the curved part putting just enough pressure on her front wall that it’s making her hot all over. She gives her muscles an exploratory clench. Maybe she can work it inside her in such a way that will make it feel like Yolanda is here with her, thrusting the vibrator in and out.
But of course, she’s not here. She’s out there, putting the kettle on and serving Mrs. Roberts some herbal tea and when Mrs. Roberts asks where her girlfriend is, Yolanda answers that she’s tied up at work. Real fucking clever, Trinity thinks, but what was it Yolanda had said after she had wedged the vibrator up her cunt? Hold this for me, had been her command, hold as in don’t even think about doing anything else with it, hold as in you better not come until I’m back. She can’t come. Yolanda will be mad at her if she comes and she hates when Yolanda gets mad, she hates when she makes Yolanda mad, that’s the last thing that she —
The vibrator is remote controlled. She knew this too, but again, it’s a different matter entirely when it suddenly comes to life inside her and she’s not allowed to come. Fuck. Yolanda must have snuck the remote into her pants pocket and now she’s controlling it from the other room.
Tears spring to her eyes as the gentle hum of the vibrator brings her right back to the cusp of orgasm. On instinct, she tries to clamp her legs together but is stopped by the restraints. She bites down on the inside of her cheek instead, hard, and frantically thinks back to the last test question they had been working on together. A 33-year-old woman is admitted to the hospital because of a three-day history of fever...or was it a rash on her chest? Or both?
It’s not enough of a distraction. She hears Yolanda ask solicitously after Mrs. Roberts’s family and the vibrations ramp up in intensity. Good Lord. Mrs. Roberts launches into a story about her youngest grandchild who just started preschool and has already amassed quite the gang of admirers and it’s so wrong, Trinity thinks, for her to be listening to this kind, wonderful, gregarious, long-winded, annoying woman talk on and on about her grandchildren while she’s bucking against her restraints and biting the inside of her cheek to shreds. Does Mrs. Roberts have any idea? That Yolanda, who is now politely offering her the cookies that Perlah’s kids baked for Trinity, who catsits for her when she goes on her Caribbean cruises, who shovels the snow from her walkway every winter, is simultaneously working her girlfriend up into a desperate, weeping mess in the other room and is therefore possibly the cruelest woman who ever lived?
The vibrations stop.
Trinity sags with relief and she blinks away tears as she tries to calm down her racing heart. She never imagined she would be grateful for a vibrator to just be inside her, not moving, but this is what Yolanda has reduced her to.
And then, just as she’s had a moment to catch her breath and give herself a pep talk that yes, she can do this, she can stay in control and hold out and be good for Yolanda, the vibrations start again.
It goes on like this, the vibrations starting and stopping, her arousal rising and falling, until there’s a puddle of drool and tears on the pillow and a puddle of come on the duvet cover under her ass. She loses all sense of time and space. Nothing exists to her anymore, nothing but the slim length of silicone inside her cunt and whether or not it’s moving at that very instant. On the other side of the door, Yolanda and Mrs. Roberts work their way through the latest on each of the grandchildren, then Yolanda’s parents, her brother and nieces, Mrs. Roberts’s vacation plans for the rest of the year, and what books they’re reading.
Finally, blissfully, the conversation winds down. She hears Yolanda clearing the plates and helping Mrs. Roberts out the front door and down the steps of the townhouse before going back to the kitchen to load the dishwasher and wipe off the counters and then, and only then, does the bedroom door open once again.
“How’s it going in here?” Yolanda asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.
Trinity lifts her head, outraged. “Are you fucking kidding —”
But the rest of her sentence is cut off when Yolanda covers the distance from the doorway to the bed in three confident strides and tears the blanket away to straddle Trinity’s aching, feverish, shell of a body and capture Trinity’s mouth with her own.
Yolanda kisses her like she wants to eat her alive, her tongue ruthless and hot and searching and Trinity can’t do anything except just lay there and take what Yolanda gives her. Yolanda’s hands cradle her face, fingers pressing into her jawbone as she mumbles against her lips, “You’re so good, my baby, my good girl, beautiful like this, tied up and waiting just for me. Did you come?”
“No,” Trinity grits out, when Yolanda lets her come up for air, “no of course I didn’t, I wouldn’t, I was waiting for your permission —”
And Yolanda groans into her mouth, kissing her with renewed fervor and grinding down on Trinity’s hips as if Trinity had been the only thing she was thinking about out there too, even as she poured tea and served cookies and asked about every single excruciating detail of Mrs. Roberts’s life.
The sudden friction from the denim of Yolanda’s jeans on Trinity’s clit is too much, sending her hurtling to the edge even as the vibrator inside her lies dormant. “Yolanda,” she gasps frantically, “wait, please, can I — will you let me —”
“Yes, baby,” Yolanda says, pulling back in consternation, realizing what Trinity is asking for even as she has trouble formulating her thoughts into words, “you can, how do you want —”
But just that is enough for her, Yolanda’s permission and half of a question breathed against her lips, the blunt scrape of nails on the nape of her neck and the hours and hours of teasing and edging that had come before. She shakes and shatters with the weight of Yolanda fully clothed on top of her, not even touching her properly at all. Her cunt clenches around the vibrator, the curved end of it exerting the most delicious pressure inside her, drawing her orgasm out for so long her inner thighs start to tremble and cramp.
When the aftershocks wear off, the sensation that brings her back into her body is Yolanda’s lips tracing along her jawline, sucking soft kisses into her skin. One hand still cradles the back of Trinity’s neck, scratching a soothing rhythm in her sweaty hair, while the other reaches down to grasp the end of the vibrator.
“Wait,” Trinity gasps, “not yet.” Yolanda releases her hand, nosing an apology into her neck. Her nose is cold and it tickles and Trinity flinches away at first but Yolanda just presses in harder, follows it up with the gentle press of her lips.
That’s more like it. Trinity smiles dopily at the ceiling where Yolanda can’t see, then asks, “Can you untie me now please?”
Yolanda complies readily, the weight of her disappearing as she climbs off the bed to undo the restraints, tenderly rubbing the circulation back into Trinity’s ankles and wrists. This time, when she ghosts her fingers over the vibrator with a questioning look, Trinity nods her consent. Her cunt is unbearably sensitive from her orgasm, but Yolanda is gentle as she eases the vibrator out of her and tosses it aside.
The first thing Trinity does with the newfound freedom of her limbs is to pull Yolanda back on top of her. She tugs at the hem of Yolanda’s t-shirt, pulling it over her head, and Yolanda follows by unclasping her bra. She knows that Trinity needs skin-on-skin contact after a session like that and so she lays on Trinity’s chest, letting Trinity wrap her arms and legs around her like a koala.
It doesn’t stop her, though, from laughing lightly in Trinity’s ear and teasing her in soft murmurs about being needy and touchstarved. Trinity ignores this in favor of taking one of Yolanda’s hands and redirecting it between her legs.
“Again?” Yolanda asks her with a raised eyebrow and Trinity nods. Even as sensitive as she is, having the vibrator removed after so long has left behind an aching emptiness, an insatiable need. She sighs in relief when Yolanda fills her again, even with only one finger. She holds it inside her, not thrusting in and out but twisting back and forth, and in her heightened state, the rougher texture of Yolanda’s knuckle against her walls provides just enough friction to cause a second orgasm to crest through her body.
It’s not enough. Her body still feels like it’s pulled taut, like it’s still holding all of the tension of the past few hours, and she can tell Yolanda feels it, too. Yolanda keeps her finger where it is and slowly lowers the heel of her hand to rest on Trinity’s oversensitive clit. It feels good, even though it probably shouldn’t, and she can’t help herself from lifting her hips to push even harder into the welcoming pressure of Yolanda’s hand.
She loses count, then, of how many times Yolanda makes her come like that, cupping the entirety of her cunt in a single hand, grinding the meat of her palm on Trinity’s clit and alternating between sucking her nipples and kissing Trinity’s open mouth. Or maybe it’s not multiple orgasms but one long, neverending stream of pleasure. She doesn’t have the brain capacity to figure it out. She just lets herself go and lets Yolanda take control. It’s something new about Yolanda that she’s discovered, now that they’ve officially been girlfriends for a few months. She might seem stern on the surface, with all her posturing earlier about Trinity not taking her studying seriously and then tying her up and forcing her to work on practice questions. But she has a softer side too, the side of her that won’t hesitate to give Trinity whatever she asks for, whatever she wants when she wants it. The side that has seen how hard Trinity had been working the past few weeks.
It’s a new feeling, to have someone really see her and take care of her in this way. She basks in the warm glow of it when she’s finally sated and Yolanda has relinquished her hold on Trinity’s cunt. They lie there in the rapidly dimming light of the bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms, sweaty and sticky and neither of them wanting to be the first to get up and shower.
“It’s the first Saturday of the month,” Trinity remembers suddenly.
“It is,” Yolanda confirms, after a slight, suspicious pause.
“Mrs. Roberts always comes over on the first Saturday of the month.”
“She does,” Yolanda confirms again.
Trinity huffs in disbelief. So Yolanda had known this was going to happen all along. She’d probably spent the whole time Trinity was at brunch planning and scheming. “You’re such an asshole,” she says, “I want a new study buddy.”
Yolanda smirks into the soft curve of her breast, then props her chin on Trinity’s sternum, right above her beating heart. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’m not the one who left studying until the very last minute.” She pinches Trinity’s side. “And I’m your asshole.”
Trinity can’t help it, then, even as her skin stings from the scrape of Yolanda’s nails and she’s so fucked out she’ll be limping around for days. She laughs, and tugs Yolanda up so that they’re eye to eye. “Mine,” she agrees, holding Yolanda’s precious face between her hands, and captures her pleased sigh in a kiss.