Chapter Twenty-Seven

Maeve

"Okay, Maeve," they say and I watch as they stand up and take their jeans off again. They slip under the covers of their bed and roll over onto their side so they're facing me. "Do you want to turn off the light?"

"Fuck, yes," I say, and I flick the switch.

The darkness is a comfort, but it also creates a cover for me to freak the fuck out.

What the fuck am I doing? Am I really about to masturbate in front of someone else? And not just someone else, but a bleedin' porn star? On what planet is this a good idea?

"Maybe this is a stupid idea," I mumble.

"You don't want to do it?" they ask.

And my mind trips over that simple question. Because I do want to do it. I want to see if I'm even capable of doing it. I want to know if I can be so very far from the prude that that spineless arsehole called me today.

"I do want to do it," I reply. "I'm just scared."

I hear the sheets move and when I look over I can see the outline of Loney's silhouette sitting up in their bed again.

"You know, when I'm working with a partner and they're nervous, I like to suggest we take some deep breaths together. I would also suggest we hold hands or sit close to each other, like on each other's laps, but I can see how that might not work now."

"No," I say, quickly. "I would like to try that. Holding hands, I mean."

I kick my legs out and swing them over the side as Loncey does the same. In the limited light that penetrates the room through the curtains, I can see our knees are just a few inches apart and I see movement as Loncey's hand hovers above the gap between us.

I slip my hand into theirs and I'm momentarily surprised by how warm and soft it feels. Well, I guess smooth skin is a bonus of their job. It's not like they're out there laying bricks all day and getting calluses on their palms.

They lower their arm and rest their elbow on their thigh so my hand fully extends.

"Deep breath in," they say and I obey as the whooshing sound of them inhaling fills my ears. I copy them. "And exhale."

Together we blow out a long breath.

"And again," Loncey prompts and I obey.

By the fourth deep breath, I start to feel more at home in my body. My lungs expand freely, my head has more space in it and my hand feels heavy in the cradle of Loncey's palm.

"One more," they say and as that final exhale sails out of my body, I'm opening my eyes, unaware I'd even closed them.

I've adjusted to the lacking light in the room and I can make out what I think is Loncey smiling at me. Not a big grin. Not a statement of a smile. Just a small lift in their lips.

"You still don't have to," they remind me.

"I want to," I say and I expect the kickback of fear to make me want to swallow those words, but it doesn't come.

"Good girl," they chuckle, and I feel something twist inside my stomach. It feels intimate, them calling me that. Is it because that's what the heroes say to their female love interests in the romance novels I've read? I know Loncey is aromantic, and to be honest, I find comfort in that, knowing that they're not thinking of me in that way, worrying that I want more, but still I wonder if I need to clarify what is going to happen. Or rather, what isn't going to happen.

"Just to say," I begin. "This doesn't mean…"

"I know, Maeve," they interject. "I have no expectations of you. You don't owe me anything."

"Apart from maybe a coffee in the morning for keeping you up late," I quip.

Their smile expands. "Sure, you can buy me a coffee in the morning."

"Okay," I wriggle my fingers out of their grip and I don't like the cool emptiness that takes the place of their warm hold. "I'm going to lie down now."

"Me too," they say.

When I'm lying flat on my back, the covers up close to my shoulders, I slide my right hand into the waistband of my trousers.

"My hand is in my pyjamas now," I say. I rest it on the warm, soft flesh that covers my pubic bone. I have a strip of hair there, one I keep trimmed and neat thanks to regular waxing appointments. Because neat and trim pussies are not just for allosexuals.

There's a pause before Loncey speaks. "You don't have to tell me what you're doing."

"Well, I don't want you to think I'm just lying here," I say.

"I don't think that, I… I just want you to feel comfortable, Maeve," they reply in a voice that almost sounds defeated.

I do, I want to say. I do feel comfortable. However, for some reason, saying so would feel like I'm revealing too much, that it's impossibly more intimate than what I'm doing, which is lowering my fingers so the tips of my index and middle finger feel hot, satin-smooth flesh.

"Fuck," I whisper and I don't know why. It's not like I'm surprised by what I find. But now I have my hand on my genitals, I'm aware of the rolling in my stomach. "I fucking hate this," I add through gritted teeth.

"Think about how good you're going to feel, Maeve." Loncey's voice travels over to me, slow and low.

"When it's all over," I mumble.

"No, when you give your body what it needs. You're so smart to listen to what your body wants," they say and I recoil. That's my immediate reaction but it's washed away instantly by a warm glow that washes everything else away – my shame, my embarrassment, my discomfort.

"Can you… can you say that again?"

They do and as their words fill my ears I start to move the tips of my fingers around my clit in small, tight circles. I fucking wish I had my vibrator with me to make this quicker and easier.

"Think about how relaxed you're going to feel after you come, Maeve. Can I say that? Can I say come?"

"Yes," I gasp. "Just don't… Don't talk about my body, the specifics, down there."

"Okay, Maeve, I won't do that."

"Fuck," I say again, but this time it's void of irritation. It's a little sigh as more of my body succumbs to arousal.

"You're doing so well, Maeve," they say. "You're being really brave."

"It shouldn't be this difficult," I grit out and I rub harder, almost as if to punish myself, but it hardly feels like a punishment when it pulls me closer and closer to where I ultimately want to be.

"It's cool, Maeve, just relax. You're doing so well."

The way their voice teeters on the edge of patronising should have me yelling at them to shut the fuck up, but I don't want them to. I really, really don't. They're making it easier. They're making me almost enjoy it.

"You're going to sleep so well after this. Your body is going to feel so relaxed and your brain will finally switch off. You'll feel so good, and you deserve to feel good, don't you think so, Maeve?"

"Yes," I say again and it's a desperate little noise. My fingers slide easier now I'm wetter and my clit is more swollen under my fingertips. In the silence that fills the room, a little squelch reaches my ears and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping, praying Loncey didn't hear it.

"Are you wet, Maeve?" they ask and their voice is so gravelly it sounds almost painful.

"Yes," I say again.

"That's good," they tell me, "that's very good. That means your body is enjoying what you're doing."

"And if I wasn't wet?" I ask and it's half-obtuseness, half-curiosity that makes me ask the question.

"That would be okay too. Our bodies don't always align with what we know we want or need."

Ain't that the fucking truth, I say silently to myself.

"Are you still touching yourself, Maeve?" they ask and I realise that my finger has slowed.

"Yes," I reply and just as my pace picks up, I feel a warm flood of sensation seize my core. It feels like I've just taken a giant leap towards my orgasm.

Thank fuck, I think but then I second-guess it. Because I don't really want this to be over like I normally do. I don't want Loncey to stop saying nice things to me. I don't want to stop feeling like I'm sharing something with somebody, something that could one day be a way to connect with a partner, somebody who really and truly loves me.

"Are you still touching yourself?"

"Yes."

"Good girl. Are you going to put your fingers inside yourself? Are you going to make it feel good inside too?"

"No," I say, quickly, awkwardly. "I don't like… that."

"Okay, Maeve. You're a good girl for telling me that," they reply gently.

I close my eyes and release a long sigh at hearing their praise, but then I slam my lips shut and try to stifle it.

"You know, Maeve, it's okay to make noises. You can show me that you're enjoying yourself," Loncey says.

"Like… like sex noises?" I say, stuttering because of embarrassment but also because I'm close. I'm really close.

"Yes," they reply and they don't sound amused or deterred by the way I stumbled over my words. "You can sigh. You can moan. You can curse. You can tell me if it feels good. In fact, I'd love to know if it feels good to you."

I swallow. "Yes, it feels good," I say, and it's not a lie. Now I have my release within striking distance and I know the relief that is going to fill my body and mind once it crests, I do feel good.

"What feels good, Maeve?"

"I like how warm I feel," I tell them as I continue to rub tight circles over the tip of my clit. "And how tense my body is. Like I'm aware of every muscle and every bone and every hair."

My breath catches as I struggle to inhale again after talking.

"You deserve to feel that good, Maeve. Go ahead and make yourself feel even better," they say in little more than a deep whisper.

I can't deny how much their words help. So much so that I imagine Loncey is lying right next to me and they're whispering all these things directly into my ear. Sweet words. Gentle encouragements. Delicious praise.

"I'm close," I tell them with a small gasp.

I hear their breath catch before they speak. "Good girl, Maeve. You're such a good girl."

I should hate them calling me that. It's patronising. It's demeaning. It's also a little cliché.

But I don't hate it. I don't hate it at all.

"Say that again," I grit out as my stomach starts to quiver and I know I'm seconds away from it, just seconds away from the stress and the tension all melting away.

"You're such a good girl, Maeve. I love that you're making yourself come. I love that you're making yourself feel good. Because good girls deserve to feel good."

"Oh." I open my mouth and lift my head off the pillow.

"Such a good girl," they repeat and in the chaos of my building climax, I wish they were closer, that they were right next to me, that their body was lying next to mine.

And it's imagining that, imagining their arms around my waist and their lips against the shell of my ear that makes me tip over the edge.

"Fuck," I grunt as the orgasm crashes into me, making my stomach and my pussy convulse. It has my legs twitching once, twice. It has me frowning through the rising peaks and falling dips. It has my breath frozen. It has my nipples so hard and sensitive that the silk of my pyjamas resting against them teases and taunts me. It has me throwing my head back onto the pillow and squeezing my eyes shut only for me to see more colour and light behind my eyelids.

It's an orgasm, that's for sure, and it bears some similarity to climaxes I've had before, but it is also something else entirely. It feels bigger. It feels more unruly. It feels more encompassing. It feels like it hasn't just touched and eased the stress in my head and body, but that it's also touched and maybe caressed a part of my soul.

"Good girl, Maeve," Loncey says. "You did so well. I'm so proud of you."

"Fuck," I say again, but it sounds a lot less strained because my ability to breathe is back, as is my sudden need to laugh.

"Jesus fecking Christ," I say through my giggles.

"What?" Loncey asks. "What is it?"

"I can't believe I did that," I say and I pull my hand out of my pyjama trousers. "With you in the room, I mean."

"Well, I'm happy you did and I hope you are too," they say. "And I hope you feel proud of yourself too."

"I feel… a lot of things," I answer honestly. "And I need to go wash my hands."

"Sure, Maeve," Loncey says and I hear their bedsheets rustle again and I look over but it's still too dark to figure out exactly what position they're in.

Getting out of bed, I use my hands to find my way around the bed and down the short corridor that leads to the bathroom near the entrance to the hotel room. Once inside the bathroom, I flick the light on and stand in front of the sinks. Looking straight into the mirror, I smile at my reflection.

It's a cheeky, knowing smile. It's a silly, excited smile. It's a smile that reminds me of being a child and doing something new, something a bit dangerous, or something a bit challenging and while I hate the connection between what I just did and my childhood, I love this smile. I love the big stupid grin I have on my face. Maybe this is why I bring a hand up to my lips and trace the curve of my mouth, to memorise it. To hold onto it for a moment longer.

But then I smell myself. My salty-sweet scent.

"Ew," I say and then set about rigorously washing my hands.

When I'm finished, I walk out of the bathroom and I'm surprised to see light coming from the bedroom.

Walking to my bed, I see Loncey sitting up with the bedside light on. Their eyes track me and they have a very small smile on their mouth.

"Are you okay?" they ask when I give them a shy look.

I'm not embarrassed as such, but still I'm very aware that what I just did was… something.

"Yeah, I'm grand," I say and I sit on the bed.

"You really did do very well," they say and I hold my hands up.

"Don't… no more good girls. It'll make me cringe now. Now that the moment has passed."

Loncey chuckles lightly and looks down at the sheets over their legs.

"Okay, got it," they say. "No more good girls."

"But," I say quickly. "Thank you. For saying it… when I needed it."

They lick their lips and nod their head. "Of course, Maeve. Did it help Do you feel beter now?"

"Yeah," I say and I reach for my phone. "Shit, it's really late. We should get some sleep."

They nod again, but this time it's just one firm movement. "Actually, Maeve, I have a favour to ask of you myself now."

I freeze. "You know, if it's to ask me to return the favour, you know I don't think I can—"

"No, it's not that." They shift a little. "I was going to ask you if I could hug you, hold you."

"Hold me?"

"Yes, after I do a scene with someone, I like to offer aftercare or I like to sort of end the moment with a hug."

Swallowing is suddenly difficult. "Okay," I hear myself say.

"It's okay with you?"

"Yeah," I say, quietly.

They move slowly, as if to give me long seconds of opportunity to stop them, but I don't. I watch as they get out of bed and stand. I hate how I notice the outline of their dick in their boxer shorts, but I don't let my eyes linger, and when they look up to their face, I am surprised by what I see.

They're smiling and looking down at me, this cute little half-smile lifting their lips in one corner.

"Come here," they say as they open their arms.

And I do. I stand and I take the small step into their embrace. Their arms wrap around me so slowly, so lightly, so tentatively that it's almost frustrating. I want to feel their hold on me.

I pull back. "If you're going to hug me, do it properly, for feck's sake."

They flash me a quick smile and I take in how the single bedside light makes their brown skin glow, rich and warm, and it makes the mahogany shade of their eyes darken, yes, but also light up with golden tones.

They are beautiful. They are beautiful to look at. And I'm starting to think they might be a beautiful human inside too.

So yes, I want to be held by this possibly beautiful human, even if it's just for a few seconds.

As it happens, it's not just a few seconds. Once their arms envelop me with something like intention, I let my body relax against their naked chest. Their hands are firm against my back, fingers spread and strong, and they don't loosen their grip. And I don't push back against it. If anything I melt further into their warm skin, their firm body, and it doesn't take long for the rhythm of our breaths to find and match each other. We inhale together, we exhale together. Our chests rise and fall in sync and I don't know about Loncey, but I close my eyes and don't even think about moving.

Seconds turn into minutes, and the minutes seem to stretch and transform, taking up space in the room and making me finally, finally have some sort of understanding that time and space are connected.

In the end, I don't know how long we stay like that and I don't know when we start to sway together, like we're dancing to music only we can hear but as we move, Loncey's hands begin to move, stroking my back through the silk of my pyjamas. And then my fingers move too, tracing little circles against the firm skin of their lower back.

"I don't want to move," Loncey tells me.

"Me neither," I say.

"But I'm also falling asleep," they admit.

I think then about us holding each other like this in bed. Could we sleep like this, locked in a warm embrace? Would they even want to? I open my mouth to ask but they speak again.

"You need to sleep, Maeve, and I need to not have your incredibly beautiful and warm and smooth and all the adjectives-kind of body pressed up against mine."

Right.

Because then they'll get a boner.

Because… sex.

Yet again, it all boils down to sex.

I start to push back but feel Loncey press me against their chest a little firmer for a few seconds and I almost sink back into their hold, telling myself it's stupid to give a flying fuck about erections or sex or anything but how warm and safe I feel in their arms. Almost. Because then they release me.