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“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Your protests only seem to fly over her head, though, narrowed eyes watching as Lottie brushes off your qualms and continues fixing something on the counter across from you.
You adjust yourself on the cool metal table behind her, the sweltering summer air causing your thighs to stick to the surface, leaning to the side to try and see what she’s doing. You don’t particularly believe in Lottie’s woo-woo crazy rituals, but they seem to bring her some sort of peace, or comfort, maybe, so you don’t bother trying to convince her that a concoction made of herbs and spices you’d never heard of will cure your headache.
Besides, who are you to dismantle the belief system she’s built for herself?
“This will help,” She slants her chin over her shoulder to gently smile at you, the kind that stills your complaints and affirms your suspicion; she isn’t going to let you leave until she gets her way. You hum. This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself partaking in something simply because your girlfriend is just too pretty to say no to.
After a few moments, she turns, a hand-made mug cradled in both palms, extending it out to you with a murmured urge to take it. You do, thankfully, and begin sipping on the tea your ever-loving partner had made you, smiling tightly in appreciation. “Thank you.”
You don’t think any of her remedies of affection have yet to work, but you’d never tell her that. Although you aren’t the biggest fan of her herbal smoothies and homemade balms and mindful meditations in the field behind the dining hall, it’s one of the many ways she chooses to show her affection. It’s her way of taking care of you, of pouring her love into something tangible.
She steps between your swinging legs and lets her arms bracket either side of you, caging you in place, then leans forward to press a lingering kiss to the centre of your forehead. You lean into her touch, only you don’t let it simmer for too long, anyone could wander into the large kitchen and see the two of you. You’re almost surprised that Misty hasn’t come looking for you already.
It’s not that your relationship is a secret, you just haven’t found the way to tell everyone else yet, and you aren’t sure you’ve found the right time. You place the mug on the table beside you and let your arms loosely drape around her neck, fingers messily intertwined. She leans back a bit, soft palms falling to your waistline, the pads of her fingers daring to dip beneath the hem of your tank top, tickling against your hot skin.
Her eyes narrow, ever so slightly, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. If her expression is any indication, she’s certainly enjoying herself. “Don’t look at me like that,” You hum. She knows exactly what she’s doing, watching your chest sharply rise as her touch trickles down the sides of your thighs. “Like what?” She cocks her head, the point of her tongue scoring across her bottom lip. You squirm beneath her gaze—she’s looking at you like you’re something to devour, like she’s settled on her prey.
“Like that.” You lace your fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck and gently tug, humming when she squeezes the soft flesh of your thighs in retaliation. She stills for a moment, then picks up the mug you had discarded and raises it to your lips. She taps the flex of your jaw with her free hand, “Open.”
Your face heats, though you do as she instructed and tilt your head back, nudging against her palm that cups the back of your head, hair twisted around her slender fingers. She pulls ever so gently, cockily smiling at your obedience. She’s testing your will to follow, your will to let her lead.
She pours some tea into your waiting mouth, pauses, then a little more, humming in approval when a small bead dribbles past the seam of your lips and down the hollow of your cheek. “Good.” You try to sit up, but her hand in your hair keeps your head in place, craned back to expose the column of your neck, letting her watch as the murky droplet slides down your jugular and gathers in the dip of your collarbone.
Then she does something you aren’t expecting, leaning forward to lick along the sweet trail it had left, teeth clashing against your skin as she does so. You whimper, hips twitching towards her, and slightly tilt your head to give her unrestrained access to your pulse point. She smiles against it, before gently sucking a bruise in its place, high enough it would easily be covered by your hair.
“Lottie,” Your hands fall to her shoulders, scoring along them until they rest on either side of her neck. “What, sweetheart?”
“Please,”
She laughs, pulling back to look you in the eye, her hand dropping from the back of your head to settle on the table behind you, her body slanted and towering over yours. “You wouldn’t drink it otherwise,” She shrugs, clearly enthused that she had, once again, fooled you into giving her exactly what she wanted while letting you think you had been given a choice.
Your brows knit together, lips pouting. “You’re such a tease.”
She coos, cradling your cheek before lovingly patting it. “Poor baby.” You lean forward, lips nearly brushing against hers, until you hear that unmistakable whisper from the hall. Lottie’s head snaps towards the door, features pointed. She’s quick to guide you off the table with a hand pressed to the small of your back, stilling for just a moment, eyes burning holes through the door across the room.
“Is that—” You don’t have time to finish your thought before she’s ushering you towards the dining hall’s back exit, chin turning over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure the two of you haven’t been caught by the overly suspicious blonde lingering in the hallway.
“Shh,” She quietly pries the door open and pushes you outside first, quick to follow the ghost of your footsteps, stepping ahead of you and pulling you towards the small building tucked into the tree line. You aren’t sure if the thrill of nearly being caught or the thick summer air is what causes sweat to pool behind your neck, and you don’t get to pay it much mind before Lottie is opening the door to the Sharing Shack and shoving you inside.
Once the door closes and locks behind her, you can’t help but begin to laugh, flopping onto the bench with a loud burst of giggles. Your laugh is infectious, and she fails to bite back her own that scrapes along the back of her throat, low and throaty. “Fucking Misty.” You mumble once your chuckles die down, extending an arm out to her.
She isn’t sure what you want, her curiosity getting the best of her as she slips her palm into yours, gasping when you roughly tug her forward so she’s standing between your legs, towering over you. Her hands fall to your shoulders, shifting her weight from foot to foot until you urge her to sink to her knees with a gentle tug on her shirt.
You’re eye level now, your wandering fingers working through the ends of her hair, looking up at her from under lowered lashes, lip between your teeth. You’re silently daring her to kiss you, dull nails now absentmindedly dragging along the back of her neck, tilting your head up just enough so you can feel her breath puffing across your chin.
“They’re going to find out eventually,” You whisper, eyes dropping to the curve of her lips, trying to commit their shape to memory. She’s so close, close enough for you to smell the incense clung to her clothes, the sound of her shallow breathing loud in your ears. She’s invading your senses, hands ghosting up your sides, thumbs scoring along the undercurve of your chest. She smugly smiles to herself when she feels your breath falter.
She’s wearing that look again, watching you grapple to get a handle on your breathing like she wants to consume you. It makes your stomach clench; she can feel you shutter beneath the weight of her touch.
“They will. But for now,” She pauses, leaning forward so her lips brush along the shell of your ear, nipping at the lobe with her teeth. “You’re all mine, hm?” Her lips sink to your neck again, making home in the curve of your throat, palms sliding to the small of your back beneath your shirt, pulling you to the edge of the bench.
She’s holding you so tightly against her front that you’re sure you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. You’re decidedly pinned in place—you’re at her complete mercy. Although she’s the one on her knees, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the base of your neck, you feel like you’re the one at worship, hand cupping the back of her head, smoothing her unkept hair into place.
Your hips rock against her, rutting upwards in a senseless pursuit of friction, tugging on her soft locks in hopes that she’ll give into your silent prayer. Her hands circle around you to fiddle with the hem of your tank top, pulling her head from the crook of your neck to look at you for assurance.
“Please,” You fervently nod, not daring to hide your desperation—you never can; she makes your head spin so quickly you lose touch with humility. With practiced hands, she pulls it over your head and tosses it aimlessly behind her, humming in approval when she notices you had forgone a bra earlier in the day, now face to face with the gentle sway of your breasts as you chase fleeting breaths.
“Such a pretty girl.” She’s quick to cup them in her hands, thumbs scoring across your pebbled nipples until you whine and arch into her touch, aching for more. She kisses you, a sloppy mess of teeth and tongue, hungrily swallowing the noises that squeak past your lips like a starving man. Her touch nears gluttonous, blunt nails raking down your back like she’s trying to pull you close enough to absorb you. The cool metal of her rings sends a shiver down your spine. Then her head ducks down, biting at the curve of your chest, leaving a mark where only the two of you are sure to see it.
“Lottie,” You gasp out, hands anchoring on her shoulders to keep you tethered, twisting the fabric of her shirt between your fingers in tight fists. She doesn’t want to waste any more time, sure Misty is still hot on your trail, hands shaking under the flimsy fabric of your skirt as her lips wrap around a pert bud, tongue lapping tight circles around it. She pinches the other between her thumb and forefinger, tweaking it until your moans grow loud and dire.
She’s moving quick, too quickly for you to find enough words to tell her to slow down, though the idea is swiftly tossed when her thumbs hook beneath the band of your panties, leaning back so there’s just enough room to slide them down your legs and toss them in the same direction as your shirt.
She pinches at your thighs, driving them to spread, mouth moving to the other side of your chest. She shuffles forward, now perfectly slotted in place, the ends of her hair tickling your legs. The hardwood beneath her digs painfully into her knees but she’s so determined to feel you, to watch you come undone, that it gets pushed to the back of her mind. She’s sure she’ll regret it when she wakes to bruises tomorrow, though the consequences of bringing you to your peak here, now, seem rather miniscule.
She sits up a little straighter, prompting you to fall on your back, the cool wood soothing your sweltering skin once you settle. Her lips begin to trail downwards, kissing down the swell of your stomach until she hits the waistband of your skirt, pulling back to bunch it around your waist.
Then her touch is gone, your hummed note of dissatisfaction breaking the lull of panting-filled silence. You prop yourself up to see where she’d gone, watching as she gathers her hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, wetting her lips with her eyes trained on your exposed core.
She looks animalistic, almost, chest heaving as she fiddles with an elastic around the small of her wrist, moving as quickly as her fingers will allow. Once her hair is pulled back, she hooks her arms around your thighs, pulling them even further apart, really putting you on display for her. On any other night she might’ve kissed along your inner thighs, clipping at your skin with her teeth to spur you on, but she can’t seem to find the control.
Before you can beg her to touch you, her tongue flattens and drags through your folds, and you let yourself fall flat again. She’s anything but gentle as she wraps her lips around your clit, instantly bucking into her mouth with a garbled and nonsensical plead.
She laps at you like she’s been deprived, like you’re the first meal she’s had in months, impatient and wet and sloppy. Your head lolls back, nails scraping along her scalp as your fingers root through her hair, guiding her mouth where you need it. “Fuck, Lottie, I—” You choke on your desperation, “Please.”
You want her everywhere, need her everywhere, craving her in a way so past sexual it feels subhuman. No one else has ever known how to play your body quite like this. She dares to scrape her teeth along the sensitive bundle of nerves, your back arching off the bench with a stuttered gasp.
“Oh God,” She can feel you pulsing around her tongue, thighs trembling in her hold. With your clit selfishly sucked between her lips, she releases one of your legs and eases a finger into you, slow, at first, until you clench around her, enticing her to add another and set a steady rhythm.
Her name sits on your tongue like a prayer, then a whine, a moan, a curse. Your hips roll against her mouth, and just as you begin to lose yourself in the sensation, she taps your thigh. You struggle to keep your eyes open, blinking a few times, before looking down your body. Dark eyes stare up at you as she curls her fingers. You curse again, though she doesn’t let you look away.
The sight of her between your thighs so adamantly, down on her knees with your wetness smeared across the lower half of her face, is enough to make you cry out, a loud, rash sob cracking through the hollow of your chest. Your hand rises to paw at your breast but she’s quick to knock it back into place, taking over what you had started, moaning into you.
The vibrations set your balance off kilter, head dropping back, eyes flitting closed to keep yourself some-what grounded. It’s like your body is no longer your own; she has you at her mercy like a moth to a flame. She adds a third finger and hums a small note of satisfaction at the feeling of you stretched around her. She can’t get enough of your taste, of the feeling of you, of the noises you’re making. She wants more, ever more, greedy for everything she can take from you.
You’re so responsive to her touch, it’s almost addicting. She taps against your g-spot once, then twice, studying your face as a string of moans break the once silent room. She bumps against it again and again and again until you think you’re going to explode, the coil in the pit of your stomach begging to come undone.
You gasp her name, loud and unrestrained, and when you look down at her again, meeting her eyes that have you pinned beneath her lust-clouded gaze, your back sharply arches with a mangled whimper.
You chant her name like it’s the one thing you haven’t forgotten when you come undone, twitching and writhing against her mouth that doesn’t seem to let up. She’s determined to pull another orgasm from you, fingers crooking inside you as she releases your swollen clit with a wet pop. Her name sounded so pretty on your lips when you came, she can’t help but want to hear it again.
As much as she loves the sounds you’re making, she’s worried you’re loud enough to attract a crowd, so she crawls back up your body and presses her lips to yours, her tongue slipping into your mouth and rolling against your own. You whine at the taste of yourself on her lips. The heel of her palm bumps against your clit each time she jerks her fingers, and she can tell by the way you contract around her, so warm and wet, trying to draw her in deeper, that you’re teetering the edge again.
She presses her lips to your ear, softly shushing. “Shh, quiet. You don’t want everyone to hear how good I fuck you, now do you?” Her lips trail down, nipping at your collarbone, before finding the curve of your breast again. You arch into her mouth, her name a breathy chant.
Her fingers pump hard and fast, pressing soft kisses along your neck and chest as you start to tremble beneath her. She feels your climax before it hits, smiling into your neck at you clenched around her so tightly. The way you moan her name, fingers clawing down her back hard enough to draw blood, makes her head spin. You’re so gorgeous like this, sweaty and breathless and sensitive to her touch, that she’s ready to pledge herself to you; to devote the rest of her life to worshiping the alter between your legs.
She fucks you through your orgasm until she feels you begin to shrink away, pressing soft, gentle kisses to the point of your shoulder. You breathlessly reach for her, turning your head towards hers to kiss her again, your vibrating limbs moulding against hers as she crawls up the length of your body and comfortably settles on top of you.
You’re like liquid, melting into all her gaps, pecking kiss after kiss to her lips until she pulls back with a small, loving smile. “You’re perfect.” She hums, smoothing your sweaty hair from your face with her clean hand. “You’re perfect.” You echo, mirroring her expression.
She laughs, delicate and faint. “We should head back home,” She starts, still mindlessly petting your hair, “I want to run you a bath.”
You’ve noticed that as enthusiastic as she is about getting her hands on you, she much prefers the ritualistic aftercare that follows. “I didn’t get to touch you,” You pout. Her smile widens, “Tomorrow. This was about getting rid of that headache of yours.”
Your brows furrow. You’re silent for a beat, before you prop yourself up on your elbows and corner her with a bemused glance. “The tea—that was just regular tea, wasn’t it?” And really, you don’t know why you’re surprised. She laughs again. “I told you I’d help you. I never said it was with the tea.”