Page 75 of Vengefully Matched

Her body tensed up, and she willed it to relax, willed herself to calm down, and not to ruin this one wild, beautiful chance.

Priscilla stopped, pulling back, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

Agatha chewed her lip. She could distract with something else, like she had in the Loculus. She could lie and say that it was nothing, but she suspected that Priscilla wouldn’t let it go so easily. Her only option was truth.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted. “I want to, but I haven’t. I don’t know. I’m worried it’s too late to know, and that there’s no way I’ll ever catch up.”

Goddess, this was mortifying.

Priscilla cupped her face with both hands. “You are enough,” she said. “And it’s not too late. But if you want to stop here and think about it, or wait until you’re more comfortable, you always can.” Her face was so open, so earnest, that Agatha wanted to be honest too. She could lie and pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a big deal. It meant something to her, and there was no way to change that, to make it not mean something.

She did not want to stop; everything in her was wound so tight, and she felt certain that she couldn’t possibly go on without doing something more. “I want this,” she said, her voice shaky. “I just don’t know how. I mean, I know, like I’ve seen, but I don’t know know.” Her cheeks were burning, half agony of embarrassment, half hope of desire.

“I can show you,” said Priscilla, looking right into her eyes and pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you want.”

“Y-yes,” Agatha breathed. “I’d like that.”

“Take your pants off.”

Agatha nodded, unbuttoned, and unzipped, letting them fall around her feet, and then stepping out.

Priscilla reached around her, fingers skating under her shirt, and pulled it slowly, agonizingly upward, the edges of her hands just barely skimming Agatha’s skin.

She shivered and reached.

“I want to see you too,” she whispered, and Priscilla nodded, shrugging off her sweater. Agatha reached for her pants, but she shook her head.

“Let me teach you what you should expect. From any partner.” Her eyes narrowed. “Of any gender. I can’t help but think no one has ever taken care of you the way you deserve.”

“I—” Agatha started, but Priscilla was kissing her again, walking her back toward the desk, and gently pushing her toward it, helping her slide up it.

She squeezed Agatha’s thighs, one in each hand, high enough up that it made Agatha whimper a little bit. When her thumbs started to circle, firm against the flesh of her thighs, Priscilla let out a moan that Agatha wanted—no, needed—to capture. She leaned in, kissing Priscilla harder, swallowing the sound of it, fucking her mouth with her tongue.

“You like being worshiped,” Prissy murmured, “and I know well enough by now to know that when I see a goddess, the correct position is on my knees.”

But she didn’t move downward; instead she pulled back, looking at Agatha’s breasts.

Agatha had always felt a shade insecure about them: the heft of them, the stretch marks on the sides, and the areolas that she’d feared were too large ever since some guy in her freshman algebra class had loudly exclaimed that he was grossed out by a pair of tits he saw with areolas bigger than half dollars.

Hers were twice that, at least. She needed to get out of her head.

“What are you thinking?” asked Priscilla, and again, she thought about brushing it off, about bringing her lips to cut off the question, changing the subject with her tongue, her hands.

But she wanted to do this, to really do it. “I’ve always been a little nervous about my breasts. About them not being svelte or dainty. Neat.”

“Fuck,” breathed Priscilla. “I’m obsessed with every single thing about your tits. I haven’t stopped thinking of them since the house stole your towel and left me breathless and horny. I’d go to war for these tits.”

“Oh,” said Agatha, and then, “Oh,” as Priscilla ran a finger down the curve of one, and then the other, and then reached with both hands, pulling the sheer fabric of her bra down so that she was almost fully exposed, the underwire of it pushing them up and together.

“I want to touch you everywhere,” said Prissy softly. “I want to show you what it is to love this body the way I love this body.”

Love. The word hit with too much impact, but there was a difference between loving a body and loving a person, and she forced herself to remember.

“Touch me,” she breathed. “Show me. Ruin me.”

Priscilla’s eyes were dark. “All right,” she said silkily. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”