Good Girl, My Girl

A Lavender & Lore Bonus Chapter by Aurora North

This scene takes place between Chapters 18 and 19 of Lavender & Lore.

The idea came to Hannah on a Tuesday, watching Ro tie an apron.

It wasn’t the apron itself—a plain black thing, functional, the one Ro wore when she restocked the café supplies because the packing materials shed dust that ruined her button-ups. It was the motion. Ro’s hands reaching behind her back, fingers finding the strings without looking, pulling the knot tight with a single efficient tug. The certainty of the gesture. The muscle memory. The hands that knew exactly how to fasten something against a body.

Hannah stood behind the register, watching, and thought about those hands tying something else. Something softer. Against skin instead of cotton. Over her eyes instead of around a waist.

She thought about not being able to see.

About trusting Ro so completely that she could surrender sight—the sense she used most, the one that tracked Ro across every room, the one that cataloged forearms and jaw angles and the micro-expressions of composure cracking—and let the dark take it. Let there be nothing except sound and touch and Ro’s voice, which had been the center of her universe since the first day and which, without the distraction of sight, would become everything.

The thought made her wet standing at the register at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. Which was, at this point, just a regular Tuesday.

She brought it up over dinner on Friday. Ro had made pasta—something simple with garlic and olive oil and the basil they were growing on the fire escape, because Ro’s cooking, like everything about her, was unfussy and precise and better than it had any right to be.

“I want to try something new,” Hannah said.

Ro set down her fork. Gave Hannah her full attention—the shift immediate, total, the way Ro attended to everything that mattered. “Tell me.”

“A blindfold.”

The word landed in the quiet kitchen like a stone in still water. Ro’s expression didn’t change—but her hands did. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, the tendons tightening, and Hannah saw the reaction move through her body like a current: interest, assessment, want.

“Tell me more,” Ro said. Her voice had dropped. Not the full command register—the precursor to it. The considering voice. The voice of a woman evaluating a proposal with genuine interest.

“I want to not see. I want to trust you with that. I want—” Hannah steadied herself. “When I can see you, part of my brain is always watching. Reading your face, anticipating what comes next. I want to turn that off. I want to be inside the sensation instead of observing it. I want your voice to be the only thing I can track, and I want every touch to be a surprise.”

They discussed safewords, boundaries, check-ins. Ro was thorough, as always—the negotiation itself a form of intimacy.

“What are you hoping to feel?” Ro asked.

“Yours. Completely. Like there’s nothing left I’m holding back.”

Ro lifted Hannah’s hand to her mouth. Kissed her knuckles. One by one.

“Go to the bedroom. I need ten minutes.”

Hannah went.

The bedroom was candlelit when Ro appeared in the doorway. Black tank top, dark jeans, bare feet. The uniform. The visual shorthand that told Hannah’s body, before her brain caught up, that the dynamic had shifted.

“Stand up,” Ro said.

Hannah stood.

Ro crossed the room. Stopped in front of her. Close enough that Hannah could smell sandalwood and the faint trace of garlic from dinner.

“Color?” Ro asked.

“Green.”

“Arms at your sides.”

Hannah let her arms fall. Ro’s hands found the hem of her shirt and began to lift. Slowly. Knuckles grazing Hannah’s stomach, her ribs, the undersides of her breasts. The shirt cleared her head and Ro dropped it on the floor and looked at her.

Hannah wasn’t wearing a bra. She’d stopped wearing one at home weeks ago.

“You knew,” Ro said, looking at her bare breasts. “When you got dressed tonight. You knew this was going to happen.”

“I hoped.”

“You planned.” Ro’s thumb traced the curve of Hannah’s breast without touching the nipple—a circumnavigation, deliberate and maddening. “My little strategist.”

She produced a silk scarf—dark, soft, pooling over her fingers like water. “This is the blindfold. It ties at the back. It’s not tight. If it shifts or feels uncomfortable, tell me immediately.”

Hannah closed her eyes. Felt the silk settle against her lids—cool, light, barely a weight. Ro’s fingers at the back of her head, tying the knot with efficient certainty. The tug as the knot tightened—snug, not painful, just present.

Then Ro’s hands withdrew, and Hannah was blind.

The world compressed. All she had was the floor beneath her feet, the air against her bare skin, and the sound of Ro breathing three feet in front of her.

“Color?”

“Green.” Her voice sounded different to her own ears. Smaller. More exposed.

“Good girl.”

The words hit her like they always did—a full-body shudder—but amplified. Without sight, the sound was everything. Ro’s voice filled the dark the way light fills a room, and the timbre of it, the low specificity, was so vivid that Hannah felt it physically. On her skin. Between her legs, where the first pulse of real arousal bloomed.

Then Ro’s hands were on her, and the world became touch.

Fingertips. Starting at her temples, tracing the edge of the blindfold, down the line of her jaw. Along her neck—both sides, simultaneously, raising goosebumps in their wake. Over her collarbones, which responded to Ro’s fingers with a flush that Hannah couldn’t see but Ro could.

“The blush is starting,” Ro murmured. Close. Her breath on Hannah’s shoulder. “Your collarbones first. Then your chest. It’s moving down—like your body is blushing for me. Answering me before I’ve even asked the question.”

Ro’s fingertips traced lower. Over the swell of Hannah’s breasts—still not touching the nipples, orbiting, circling, and the denial was exquisite because Hannah couldn’t predict when the touch would land.

“Your nipples are hard,” Ro observed. “They’ve been hard since I said ‘good girl.’ Before I touched your breasts. Just from the words.”

“Ro, please—”

“Please what?”

“Touch them. Touch me.”

“I want to hear you say it. Specifically.”

“I want your mouth on my nipples. I want you to suck on them until I can’t think. And I want you to keep talking while you do it because your voice is the only thing I can hold onto right now.”

Ro’s mouth closed over her left nipple.

Hannah’s knees buckled. Ro’s arm was around her waist, steadying her, holding her upright while her mouth worked. Warm, wet, devastating. Tongue circling, then the suction—firm, rhythmic—and the edge of teeth, just barely. Hannah’s head fell back and she gripped Ro’s shoulders and moaned.

“You taste like salt. Like want. You’ve been wanting this all day—I could see it at the store, the way you watched me tie the apron.”

Ro guided her to the bed. Hannah lay back, and her arms went up instinctively, reaching for the iron headframe.

“Hold on. Don’t let go unless you need to safeword.”

Hannah gripped the iron bars. The cool metal grounded her.

What followed was the most thorough exploration of Hannah’s body that anyone had ever conducted. Ro used everything—fingertips, nails, lips, tongue. Temperature: warm mouth followed by cool breath. The anticipation between touches was its own form of pleasure. Every nerve amplified. Every sense heightened.

And through all of it, Ro’s voice. The steady narration that was Hannah’s lifeline in the dark.

“You should see yourself. The way you arch when I touch you here—” A feather-light stroke on her inner thigh. “—like your body already knows what I’m going to do before I do it.”

“Ro—please—I need—”

“Tell me specifically what you want.”

“I want your mouth on my pussy. I want you to take my underwear off and make me come. Please.”

Ro pulled her underwear off. Slowly. Then her hands were on Hannah’s thighs, spreading them wide.

“Jesus, Hannah.” Ro’s voice was wrecked. “You’re soaked. All of this is from—”

“From you. From your voice. From being blind and trusting you. Every drop.”

Ro put her mouth on her.

The first stroke of her tongue—flat, broad, dragged slowly—tore a cry from Hannah’s throat. Without sight, every sensation was magnified. The texture of Ro’s tongue, the pressure, the specific pattern—all of it hit harder, landed deeper.

Ro was relentless. Patient and relentless. She built the orgasm methodically, each stroke layered on the last. And she talked—pulling back just enough to breathe the words against her.

“You taste incredible. The way you respond—every sound, every movement—you’re so present. Not in your head. Just feeling. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

“I’m close—I can’t—”

“Not yet. Hold it for me.”

The thumb slowed. The fingers inside her maintained their devastating rhythm but the clit stimulation backed off just enough to keep Hannah on the edge without pushing her over.

“You’re so good at this. When I finally let you go, it’s going to be devastating. For both of us.”

Hannah hung on. By her fingernails, by her teeth, by the sheer force of wanting to be good for Ro.

“Please. I can’t hold it—”

“Look at me—open your eyes.”

“I can’t see—the blindfold—”

“I know. But open them. Let me see you trying.”

Hannah opened her eyes behind the silk. Saw nothing. Felt everything.

“Come for me. You’ve been so good. So patient. So perfect. Come for me now, Hannah. Let me watch.”

Ro pressed hard on her clit and curled her fingers deep, and the orgasm broke free like a wave through a seawall.

Hannah screamed. Her body convulsed, her back arching off the bed, her hands ripping the sheets from the corners. The orgasm was immense—rolling, compounding—because every wave brought a fresh surge of Ro’s voice praising her through it, and each word was a trigger, extending the orgasm past what she thought her body could sustain.

When it finally subsided, Ro withdrew gently. “Can I take the blindfold off?”

Hannah nodded. The silk slid away. Light flooded in. Ro’s face, above hers. Dark eyes, wet. An expression of devastating tenderness.

“Hi,” Hannah whispered.

“Hi.” Ro kissed her forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Like I just discovered a new color.”

Then Hannah said: “I want to see you now. I want to see your face while I make you come.”

The dynamic shifted. Hannah undressed Ro slowly. With the same attention and narration that Ro used—she’d learned it, absorbed it, made it her own.

“Your shoulders. You carry everything here. I can feel the knots. I want to undo every one.”

She kissed down Ro’s body. The Adrienne Rich tattoo. The flat plane of her stomach.

“You clench here when you’re trying not to react. Right now you’re clenching. Let it go.”

Ro exhaled. The muscles softened.

“Good,” Hannah murmured, and she felt the word land—felt Ro’s body respond to good the way Hannah’s body responded to good girl.

She settled between Ro’s thighs.

“Hannah.” Ro’s voice was barely there. “Please.”

Please. The word Ro almost never said.

Hannah put her mouth on her.

She worked with what she’d learned—the pressure Ro liked, the pattern, the alternation between tongue and lips. She knew that Ro went quiet before she came, and she knew that what Ro needed in that silence was not more stimulation but more words.

“You’re so beautiful. The way you’re letting go right now—I can feel it. You’re not controlling this. You’re just feeling. And it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

She slid two fingers inside Ro. Curled forward.

“You’re close. You’re trying to hold it because you’re Ro and you control everything and letting go feels like—”

“Like falling,” Ro whispered.

“I’ll catch you. Fall, Ro. I’m right here.”

Ro fell.

The orgasm moved through her like a seismic event. Her back arched. Her thighs locked around Hannah’s head. She was silent for one terrible, beautiful second—and then she broke, and the sound she made was Hannah’s name, said in a way that contained every meaning the word had ever held.

Hannah held on. Stayed with her. Mouth soft, fingers gentle, riding out the aftershocks.

“I caught you,” Hannah whispered.

Ro’s eyes were wet. Open. No walls.

“You caught me,” Ro confirmed.

Aftercare was a language they’d developed together.

For Hannah: the weighted blanket, water, Ro’s body behind hers, mouth against the back of her neck. For Ro: being held. Being told she was good. The reversal that always broke her open.

“That was intense,” Ro said eventually.

“Which part?”

“The part where you praised me. While you were going down on me. I wasn’t expecting them to hit that hard.”

“Now you know.”

“I knew intellectually. I didn’t know in my body. The difference is—”

“Everything.”

“Everything.”

They were quiet. The candles had burned low. Brontë had materialized at the foot of the bed, purring.

“Can I ask you something?” Hannah said.

“You can ask me anything.”

“When you were going down on me. With the blindfold on. Were you turned on?”

Ro’s laugh was soft and incredulous. “I was so aroused I could barely focus. Every sound you made—I felt it physically. By the time you came, I was grinding against the mattress. Involuntarily.”

“You were grinding against the mattress while going down on me?”

“Subtly. I thought.”

Hannah grinned. “That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever told me.”

“I’m going to retract this confession.”

“Too late. It’s in the permanent record.”

They lay tangled in the candlelight. Hannah reached for the Maya Singh novel on the nightstand—Burning Patience, the one that had started everything—and read the final paragraph aloud. The HEA.

She closed the book.

“I used to think that was fiction,” she said.

“The HEA?”

“The whole thing. The idea that you could want someone this completely and be wanted back.”

“And now?”

“Now I know they were writing from experience.”

Ro’s arm tightened around her waist.

The candles burned out, one by one, and they slept—held and holding, known and knowing, two women in a bed above a bookstore, living the story they’d always deserved.

Thank you for reading. Hannah and Ro’s story continues in the full novel.

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