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“I mean… what if it’s the only chance we get?”
“Yeah,” August agrees. It really is a good point, pragmatically. They have finite resources of time and privacy. Also, August will die if Jane doesn’t touch her within the next thirty seconds. Which is another logistical consideration. “You—yeah.”
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Yeah. Yes. Please.”
It happens fast—August inhales, exhales, and suddenly Jane’s jacket is gone, thrown blindly at the nearest seat, and they’re kissing, hands everywhere, messy and wet and full of small sounds. August’s hair keeps getting in the way, and when she breaks off to rip a ponytail holder off her wrist and haphazardly pull it back, Jane’s at her neck, tongue soothing over every spot she introduces her teeth to. Everything goes fuzzy, and August realizes Jane has taken her glasses off and chucked them in the direction of her jacket.
Somehow the buttons of August’s shirt are undone, and she can’t think about anything but wanting more, wanting skin on skin. She wants to rip their clothes off, use her teeth and her fingernails if she has to, and can’t—not here, not the way she wants. Still, she slides her fingertips under the waistband of Jane’s jeans, catches the hem of her T-shirt, and she waits half a second for Jane to stop kissing her and nod before she’s untucking and pushing it up, and oh God, there she is, this is happening.
In the moonlight, Jane’s body is kinetic. She shivers and tenses and relaxes under August’s hands, a nipped-in waist and sharp hip bones, a simple black bra, gentle ridges of ribs, tattoos winding up and down her skin like spilled ink. And August—August has never gotten this far before, not really, but something takes over, and she’s dropping a kiss on Jane’s sternum, and she’s pressing her open mouth to the swell just above the cup of her bra, the devastating give of it. Every part of Jane is spartan, practical, made into what it is by years of survival, and yet, somehow, it gives. She always gives.
It occurs to August that Jane is thinner than her, and maybe she should care that her own hips are wider and her stomach is softer, but Jane’s hands are on her, pushing her shirt open, everywhere she’s afraid to be touched—the shape of her waist, the dimples of her thighs, the fullness of her chest. And Jane groans and says, for the third time of the night, “What the fuck, August?”
August has to choke down a sigh to say, “What?”
“Look at you,” she says, dragging her thumbs out from the center of August’s stomach to her hips, skimming over the waistband of her skirt. She leans in and tucks her face under August’s collar, bites her shoulder, presses a kiss there, then pulls back and just looks at her. Looks at her like she doesn’t ever want to stop looking. “You’re like—like a fucking painting or something stupid like that, what the fuck. You just walk around like this all the time.”
“I—” August’s mouth tries to form several words, maybe even some that make sense, but Jane’s hands are spanning her waist, brushing the delicate lace edges of her bra, and her mouth is trailing lower, and all that comes out is, “I didn’t know. You—I didn’t know you thought that.”
Jane’s eyes flash up to her, glinting wicked in the low light.
“You have no fuckin’ idea, girl,” Jane says, and then she’s pushing the lace out of the way.
There are hands, and mouths, and fingertips, and tongues, and a sound coming out of August somewhere between a hiss and a sigh, and there’s Jane’s breath hot on her skin. There are, objectively, a lot of things going on, August understands vaguely, but all she can think is want—how much, how hard, how deep she’s been wanting it, Jane’s been wanting it, all of it held between Jane’s lips now, pressing and blooming through her, so keen that it hurts. Jane bites down, and August sucks in a breath through her teeth.
The hand on August’s thigh is inching up her skirt, fabric gathering at Jane’s wrist. When Jane leans into August’s ear, the cotton of Jane’s bra is against her, the insistent heat of her body, the unbearable slide of skin against hers.
“I wanna go down on you,” Jane murmurs. “Is that cool?”
August’s eyes snap open.
“Wha-what the fuck kind of question is that?”
Jane’s head drops back with a bark of laughter, eyes shut and lips swollen, the line of her throat obscene and gorgeous.
“I need a yes or no.”
“Yes, okay, Jesus.”
“They call me Jane, actually,” Jane says, and August rolls her eyes as Jane sinks down to one knee.
“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard,” August says, fighting to keep her breath steady as Jane tugs on the top of one of her thigh highs with her teeth. The elastic snaps back, and Jane grins against the inside of August’s thigh at the little yelp it earns her. “Did that shit really work on girls in the ’70s?”
“It seems,” Jane says, kissing her way up, and August knows her hand is shaking when she pushes it into the hair at the crown of Jane’s head, but she’ll be goddamned if she’ll act like it, “to be working just fine now.”
“I don’t know.” Jane’s fingers catch on the waistband of August’s underwear. August stares across the car at a Brooklinen ad, of all ridiculous things, because if she confronts the reality of Jane kneeling between her legs and tugging her underwear down her thighs, she’s going to have a full-scale mental collapse. “Don’t get too cocky.”
“You might wanna use the door,” Jane says, “for balance.”
“Why?”
“Because in a minute you’re not gonna be able to feel your legs,” Jane says, and when August finally looks down at her, mouth open in shock, she’s smiling innocently. She pushes the hem of August’s skirt up and says, “Hold this for me, yeah? I’m busy.”
“Absolutely fuck you.” August laughs, and she does as she’s asked.
Truthfully: Jane has never once made a promise she couldn’t back up.
