The Christening (continued)

She Said It Was Practice — Bonus Chapter
by Blair Lennox

Margot grabbed the front of Wren’s shirt and pulled her into a kiss that tasted like both of them.

“My turn,” Margot said against her mouth.

She slid off the counter with the fluid grace of a woman who had just come so hard she’d screamed in a residential neighborhood before ten in the morning and was nevertheless functioning at full operational capacity. She walked Wren backward across the kitchen — four steps, five — until Wren’s hip hit the island.

The other counter. The one with the butcher block top she’d lobbied for and lost, and the better light from the east-facing window, and the exact right height for what Margot clearly had in mind.

“This is the butcher block,” Wren said.

“I’m aware.”

“You said butcher block stains.”

“I’m willing to make an exception.” Margot lifted Wren onto the surface in one smooth motion — hands under her thighs, a flex of arms and shoulders that Wren felt in places that had nothing to do with gratitude for core strength. “Shirt off.”

Wren stripped her sleep shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra either — weekend mornings, the policy was bipartisan — and Margot’s hands found her breasts immediately, thumbs circling both nipples with the precise, incremental escalation that was so essentially Margot it made Wren’s eyes sting.

“You’re beautiful in this light,” Margot said. “The morning light through this window catches every freckle. I want to map them.”

“Map them later. Touch me now.”

“Patience.”

“I don’t have patience. I have a woman I love standing between my legs and not touching me where I need to be touched and I am going to — oh God—”

Margot’s hand had slid between Wren’s thighs. Over her shorts. Pressing the fabric against her with a firm, rolling pressure that made Wren’s hips jerk.

“These need to come off,” Margot said, snapping the waistband.

Wren lifted her hips. Margot pulled the shorts and underwear down in one efficient motion and then she was bare on the butcher block with morning light on her skin.

“Lie back,” Margot said.

Wren lay back. Margot spread Wren’s thighs wider and kissed her inner thigh — moving upward with excruciating slowness, her mouth warm and open, her tongue leaving a wet trail that the cool air turned electric.

“Margot, please—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Your mouth on me. Now. No more teasing. I want your tongue on my clit and your fingers inside me and I want to come so hard the neighbors file a noise complaint.”

Margot’s eyes went dark. “That can be arranged.”

She put her mouth on Wren and Wren’s back arched off the butcher block like a woman receiving divine intervention.

Margot’s tongue was devastating. Precise, relentless, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on the swollen nub that was the center of Wren’s nervous system. She added her fingers — two, then three after Wren gasped “more” — and the fullness, the stretch, the curling pressure combined with the wet heat of Margot’s mouth was building something enormous inside her.

“I’m so close — don’t stop — yes yes yes—”

She came screaming. Her body convulsed around Margot’s fingers and Margot stayed, rode her through it all until Wren was limp and gasping on the butcher block.

Margot stood up. Her chin was wet. Her reading glasses had ended up on the floor across the room.

“We’re going to need more towel hooks,” Margot said.

Wren laughed so hard she nearly fell off the counter.

Later — showered, dressed, kitchen sanitized — they sat on the sofa with fresh coffee. Wren tucked against Margot’s side, Gerald on the windowsill, thriving.

“Lisbon in six weeks,” Wren said.

“I’ve already booked the flights for the last weekend.”

“You’re visiting?”

“I’m visiting every time. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“For the record,” Wren said, “I was never practicing.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, I was practicing. But it was always for you.”

“I know,” Margot said. “It was always real.”

Some messes, they’d learned, were worth keeping.

And some counters were worth christening twice.

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