Page 74 of Vengefully Matched

“Come on.” Priscilla took her hand and pulled her toward the stairs and then up them. There was more room back here than she had realized, and the second floor went back farther than the room on the first. “I want to show you my reading room.”

They stopped at a carved wooden wall with an intricate depiction of Artemis and her huntresses running through the woods, bows pulled taut, fierce, imposing, and powerful. She was as gloomy and unknowable as Agatha had once thought Priscilla, all sharp angles and poised arrows ready to strike. Agatha thought that Priscilla Hart might belong carved onto a marble relief. Beautiful enough to be immortalized in art. She ran a hand along the bow, the wood smooth and cool against her finger.

“Not quite there,” said Priscilla, nudging her hand over.

Priscilla pressed a finger on top of hers, and she felt that sensation down to her bones. When the other woman moved her hand over, to one of Artemis’s curls, Agatha didn’t even bother to ignore the fire igniting within her. She shifted, pressing her legs together and preparing to haul Priscilla against the carving and get her fill of the time they had left, but the wall flipped, revealing a small antechamber, lined with busts and paintings, and an additional spiraling staircase.

“Up there,” Priscilla whispered, and Agatha had a feeling they were entering someplace sacred. It was possible that the solemnity was about the raging desire she had to kiss Prissy, and maybe do more, but whatever the cause, she was speechless.

“I don’t usually bring people up here,” Priscilla continued. “It’s the rare collection, where the grimoire usually hides. Technically, it lives wherever it wants in the library, but I know it prefers up here.”

When she wound her way up the staircase, Agatha followed, hardly daring to breathe. They reached the top, which had ornately carved wooden shelves lining one wall, full of books so old she’d hardly dare to touch them. A long, expensive-looking chaise lounge stretched out next to the wall of books, and a sturdy oak desk, polished and fancy enough that it would have looked at home in Oxford, sat in the corner next to a leather couch.

“I used to come here and read poetry,” Priscilla said, rubbing one arm of her sweater.

“You liked poetry?” There was something so fucking lovely about that, it almost killed her to know it. Too much of Priscilla was exquisite, and Agatha wasn’t sure if she could bear it.

Priscilla blinked. “Yes, I like poetry.”

“Tell me,” said Agatha, “Tell me about poets you like.”

A white cat yowled in the corner, slinking over to Priscilla and rubbing her leg until she petted it.

“Emily Dickinson, namesake of my beloved Emily Lickinson,” she said, and the cat darted down the stairs and vanished, presumably into the library main room or the house. “But Emily Dickinson is more my brother’s favorite. I do love her, obviously—I’m queer and bookish, so that’s a given. But if I had to name my favorites? Goddess, I got lost in Elizabeth Bishop. Mary Oliver. Audre Lorde. The kind of words that wrap around your soul, that consume you, and that beg to be consumed, over and over again. Words that are like a lover.” She paused, swallowing, as though maybe she’d said too much.

It was the most vulnerable Agatha had ever seen Priscilla, and she got a sense that there were few people who saw such softness in the woman.

Agatha could feel herself flush, and she walked the room, pausing at the desk and turning, hands braced on the edge of it. “Words like a lover sound decadent.” Priscilla’s brow furrowed, so she quickly added, “Decadent in a good way. I’d like that, I think.”

“Would you?” Priscilla stepped closer to her.

“Yes.” It was a whisper. A confession, and truly, her whole soul.

Priscilla leaned forward, hands on either side of the desk. “You understand that I’m not just asking you to read poetry?”

“I do,” Agatha breathed. “Though you can read poetry to me if you like. I just…” She paused, flustered. “You distract me.”

Priscilla ran a thumb along Agatha’s bottom lip. “The feeling is mutual,” she purred.

“What if we—” Agatha started.

“If we just—” Priscilla bit, and then laughed at the simultaneous misfire of words. “You go first.”

“I was going to say…” Agatha could smell her, that lemon, the edge of mint. Madness. This was madness. Her brain was addled by wanting, that was all. She was starting to admit how much she liked Priscilla, but it was of course because her feelings were muddled by lust.

“What if we fucked?” she blurted, before she could talk herself out of it.

Priscilla sucked in a sharp breath, and Agatha went on, hurried, frantic to play it cool enough, to keep composure. “What if we did it once, just to get it out of our systems?”

“Yes,” whispered Priscilla, pressing a kiss to the side of her face, just next to her mouth. “A thousand times yes.”

Agatha leaned in, and their mouths collided, sweet, hot, and yearning. She lost herself in it, felt Priscilla press her against the desk.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Agatha whispered, her voice coming out all wrong. Breathy. Strangled.

“All right,” said Priscilla, and her mouth was moving, harder, her tongue parting Agatha’s lips, her hands skating Agatha’s waist, hips, thighs. She moaned, hands moving through Priscilla’s hair, and then lower.

It was so perfect, and she didn’t want to ruin it, but all the facts in the world couldn’t distract her from this particular set of anxious thoughts. What if she was terrible at sex with women? What if years of mediocre men had worn her down to something unusable, unworthy of love, or even sex, that felt good?