Chapter 3: The Point of No Return
The phone’s buzz was a drill against the silence, vibrating Jean’s discarded clutch like a trapped insect. Its cold blue light cut through the dim lounge, starkly illuminating the tear tracks on Jean’s cheeks, the ruin of her mascara, the stark despair in her wide, green eyes. She flinched at the sound, a wounded animal reacting to a predator’s growl. Her trembling hand hovered over the purse, fingers twitching. "I have to…" she choked out, voice shredded. "He knows… he always knows when it’s bad…"
Susan moved before thought could catch up. Her hand shot out, not gentle, fingers wrapping around Jean’s wrist just as her fingertips brushed the leather. A shimmering, hexagonal lattice of pure force flickered into existence between their skin – not painful, but absolute. A barrier.
"Don’t," Susan breathed. The word was low, rough, barely more than air pushed past a tight throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the phone’s insistent drone. The guilt was a physical weight, a stone lodged beneath her sternum, but beneath it, surging with terrifying force, was the raw, undeniable echo of what they’d just done. The taste of Jean still on her lips, the phantom heat of her skin against Susan’s palms. The crushing velvet, the ozone tang, the shattering glass. The way Jean had fallen apart beneath her. It had been oblivion. An escape she wasn't ready to leave.
Jean stared at the force field, then up at Susan, confusion warring with the devastation. "Susan? What are you–?"
Susan didn’t let her finish. Her invisible hand, unseen beneath the rumpled silk of Jean’s ruined dress, slid back up the smooth, damp skin of Jean’s bare thigh. Not tentative, not questioning. Possessive. Urgent. Her touch traced the curve upwards, higher, skimming the edge of torn lace that was all that remained of Jean’s underwear – the ripped scrap still lay discarded on the velvet cushion beside them. Her fingers brushed the soft, vulnerable skin of Jean’s inner thigh.
Jean gasped, a sharp intake of breath that hitched into a sob. Her whole body tensed, then shuddered. "Stop," she whispered, the word thick with tears and something else – a raw, involuntary tremor of desire. "We… we can't… Scott is calling…"
"He’ll call back," Susan murmured, leaning in. The force field dissolved as she closed the distance, her visible hand releasing Jean’s wrist only to cup her jaw, tilting her face up. Susan’s thumb brushed away a fresh tear, the salt sharp against her skin. "Or he won’t." She looked into Jean’s dilated pupils, seeing the storm of shame, fear, and the undeniable, treacherous spark she’d ignited moments before. "Right now…" Susan’s invisible fingers pressed higher, finding the slick heat at Jean’s core through the damp lace remnants. Jean’s hips jerked, a choked whimper escaping her. "...right now, I’m not done with you."
The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the carpet. Insistent. Accusing. Jean’s gaze flickered towards it, her body trembling violently under Susan’s dual touch – the visible hand anchoring her face, the invisible one pressing relentlessly against her center. She squeezed her eyes shut. "It’s wrong," she breathed, tears leaking anew. "We’re wrong. Ruined."
"Maybe," Susan conceded, her voice dropping to a husky whisper against Jean’s ear. Her breath stirred the fiery strands of hair clinging to Jean’s damp temple. The scent of sweat, sex, and that unique, electric ozone of Jean’s power was intoxicating, pushing the guilt deeper, making the need sharper. Her invisible fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, applying just enough pressure to make Jean’s breath catch. "But the ruin feels so much better than the guilt, doesn’t it?" She pressed a kiss to the corner of Jean’s trembling mouth. "So much warmer."
Jean’s resistance buckled. A ragged moan tore from her throat, raw and helpless. Her head fell back against the velvet seat cushion, exposing the long line of her neck. Her hands, which had been clenched into fists at her sides, flew up, tangling desperately in the front of Susan’s loosened dress. Not pushing away. Pulling Susan closer. "Susan…" It was a plea. A surrender. A name wrapped in agony and ecstasy.
Susan covered Jean’s lips with her own, swallowing the sound. This kiss wasn’t the frantic collision from before. It was deeper, slower, a deliberate claiming. A distraction woven from desperation and shared damnation. Her visible hand slid down Jean’s neck, over the curve of her shoulder, pushing the bunched silk of the ruined dress further down, baring Jean’s breast. Her thumb brushed the hardened peak, eliciting another shuddering moan against her mouth. Her invisible hand continued its relentless, circling pressure between Jean’s thighs.
Jean arched against her, her body seeking friction, seeking release, seeking oblivion from the howling shame that Scott’s call had ripped open. Her telekinesis flared erratically – a champagne flute on a nearby table trembled, the floating candles dipped violently again, their flames shrinking to desperate blue sparks. She tore her mouth from Susan’s, gasping for air. "Please," she sobbed, the word fractured. "Please, Susan… make it stop. Make me stop." Not just the pleasure. The guilt. The fear. The relentless buzz of the phone vibrating against the floor, echoing the one vibrating in her skull – Scott’s insistent, psychic knock-knock-knock.
Susan understood. She pressed a hard kiss to Jean’s collarbone, tasting salt and desperation. "Close your eyes," she commanded softly, her voice thick with her own need, her own escape. "Just feel this. Only this." Her invisible fingers slipped beneath the tattered lace, finding slick, heated flesh. She pushed two fingers inside, deep, curling them against a spot she’d discovered made Jean see stars moments ago.
Jean cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that drowned out the phone’s buzzing for a heartbeat. Her back arched off the velvet seat, her body clamping down hard around Susan’s fingers. Crimson light flickered behind her tightly shut eyelids. "Don't stop," she gasped, her hands scrabbling at Susan’s back, nails digging through the thin fabric of her dress. "Don't ever stop…"
The phone buzzed again. And again. Relentless. Susan ignored it, focusing on the rhythm, the feel of Jean tightening around her, the desperate, broken sounds tearing from the redhead’s throat. She worked her fingers, slow then fast, deep and demanding, building the pressure, chasing Jean back towards the edge she’d only just fallen from. She kissed Jean’s neck, her jaw, whispering fragmented, meaningless words against her skin – "That's it… let go… just for me…"
Jean’s climax hit like a seismic wave. It tore through her, violent and consuming. She convulsed, a silent scream stretching her mouth wide, her body bowing off the cushion. The crimson light flared again, intensely bright, shattering the base of a nearby empty decanter with a crystalline crash. The floating candles snuffed out completely. For a moment, the lounge plunged into near darkness, lit only by the cold, persistent glow of the phone screen still flashing SCOTT on the floor.
Jean collapsed, panting, trembling uncontrollably. The psychic energy dissipated, leaving only the thick scent of ozone and sweat and sex. The phone finally stopped buzzing. Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, broken only by their ragged breaths.
Susan slowly withdrew her invisible hand. The sudden emptiness made Jean whimper softly. Susan held her, her own body trembling with the aftershocks of manipulation and desire. The stone of guilt was back, heavier than ever. She’d used Jean’s despair. She’d used her own power. To hide. To avoid.
Jean’s eyes opened slowly. They looked hollow in the faint light, the vibrant green dulled. She stared at the dark ceiling, tears silently welling and spilling over. "It didn't stop," she whispered, her voice a broken thing. "Nothing stopped."
Before Susan could find words, a new sound cut through the silence. A sharp, familiar ringtone. Her ringtone. Coming from the small beaded clutch she’d tossed onto the table earlier. The shattered champagne flute glittered nearby like accusation.
Susan froze. The blood drained from her face. Slowly, dreading what she knew she’d see, she turned her head.
Her phone screen blazed brightly on the table. The name displayed was clear, stark, unavoidable: REED.