Chapter 3: All is fair in love
The scent of chlorine still clung faintly to Lucy’s skin as she paced her cramped apartment. Milli's perfumed letter lay open on the coffee table, the burgundy ink gleaming under the lamplight, each perfectly formed word a silent taunt. The rose fragrance seemed to mock the lingering cheap detergent smell of her own discarded receipt. Fight fire with fire. The phrase hammered in her skull. Milli hadn’t just extinguished her clumsy advance; she’d doused it in gasoline and tossed a match. Lucy wasn’t losing this way. Not again.
The stationery shop downtown felt like stepping into Milli’s world. Polished wood, hushed reverence, the air thick with the ghost of a thousand unwritten confessions. Lucy felt enormous, her worn jeans and band tee alien amongst the delicate papers and gleaming pens. She scanned shelves until she found it: heavy cream paper with a deep crimson border framing delicate, stylized tulips in one corner. Not roses. Never roses again. Tulips – fiery, bold, a declaration. She grabbed a calligraphy pen set, bottles of rich black and crimson ink, and a ream of cheap practice paper, her knuckles white on the bag handle.
Back home, surrounded by scattered art supplies and half-empty coffee mugs, Lucy spread her haul. The tutorial video flickered on her laptop screen, a woman’s hand moving with impossible grace. Lucy’s own first attempts were grotesque. The nib caught, ink bled, letters wobbled and bled into illegible smudges. "Fuck!" she hissed, crumpling another sheet. Patience wasn’t her forte. But the image of Milli’s flawless script, the devastating elegance of her vulgarity, fueled her. She practiced loops, strokes, pressure. Hours dissolved. Her fingers cramped, ink stained her fingertips, but slowly, painstakingly, the letters began to hold their shape. Not Milli’s perfection, but something deliberate, strong. Her own.
She drafted on the cheap paper first. Words came in clumsy bursts, then furious scribbles, then careful constructions. She channeled Milli’s critique, her own frustration, and the raw, aching want Milli had somehow amplified. She thought of her secret obsession: Elara Vance, the indie pop goddess whose voice was pure liquid honey laced with smoke. Not Milli’s imagined rocker. Something softer, deeper, more… consuming.
Finally, she uncapped the crimson ink. Her hand hovered over the expensive tulip-stamped paper. Deep breath. She began.
> My dearest, lovely, delectable rose Milli,
>
> Your… instruction manual arrived. Scented, of course. Classy. A flick of the pen, a slight flourish on the ‘y’. You dissected my locker room fantasy like a biology project. Cold. Clinical. And utterly wrong about the music.
>
> You think I’m all power chords and distortion? Darling Milli, you got my rhythm entirely backwards.
>
> If it were me taking you – and oh, it fucking will be – it wouldn’t be backstage noise. It would be Elara Vance humming low in a candlelit room. Steamy. Intimate. Devastating.
>
> Picture this: A deep, clawfoot tub, brimming with water hot enough to turn our skin pink. Not just water, but scattered with dozens of red tulips – velvet petals floating, their scent thick and heady, drowning out everything but us. Symbols? Fuck symbols. These are because their color matches the fire you light in me, a fire you pretend not to feel.
>
> I wouldn’t shove you against cold tile. I’d guide you down into that fragrant heat, letting the water soak your hair, darken it, slick it back from your face. My hands? Not clawing. Gliding. Trailing through the water, over your ribs, tracing the dip of your waist, mapping the curve of your ass. Slow. Like Elara holding a note, trembling on the edge.
>
> I’d kneel beside the tub, not in front. Eye level. Watching the water bead on your collarbones, tracing the paths with my gaze before leaning in to catch one drop with my tongue. Right there. She imagined the sharp intake of breath, the tightening of Milli's nipples just beneath the water's surface. Then lower. Following that tantalizing line between your breasts. My lips wouldn’t just find your nipple; they’d close around it softly, suckling gently at first, feeling it harden against my tongue like a ripe berry. Then harder. Pulling. Making you arch up out of the water, your perfect tits breaking the surface, glistening, petals clinging to your skin. And the sound you’d make… not a scream. A gasp. A low, broken moan that vibrates against my lips.
>
> My hand wouldn’t fumble between your legs. It would slip beneath the water, fingers parting your slick folds with the same deliberate slowness. Finding your clit, swollen and aching. Not licking, not yet. Circling it with my thumb, feather-light at first, like the brush of a tulip petal. Building pressure. Watching your face. Watching your lips part, your eyes glaze. Feeling your thighs tense under my other hand gripping your hip.
>
> And when your breath hitches, when your hips start rocking helplessly against my hand, begging without words? That’s when my mouth leaves your breast. Slides down your wet stomach. My hair trails in the water. My eyes lock onto yours. And I lower my mouth to that sweet, soaked cunt.
>
> I wouldn’t just lick. I’d taste. Deep, slow laps, burying my tongue inside you, savoring your salt and musk mingled with the floral water. I’d suck your clit into my mouth, flicking the tip of my tongue over that hard little nub with rapid, insistent strokes, timed to the frantic beat of your pulse under my lips. My fingers? Curling inside you, two, then three, pumping in time with my tongue, stretching you, filling you, finding that spot deep inside that makes your whole body convulse. I’d feel you tighten, hear your choked cries echoing off the tiles, louder than any fucking guitar solo, feel your release gush hot and thick against my chin as you shatter, thrashing in the water, scattering red petals everywhere.
>
> That, Milli Evans, is my music. Slow. Deep. Utterly fucking consuming. Played just for you. Waiting for your encore.
>
> Yours Passionately,
> Lucy
She sprinkled a few grains of tulip-scented potpourri onto the ink, watching the tiny dried petals settle. Yours Passionately. Not 'Love'. Passion. Heat. A challenge returned. She folded the letter with meticulous care, slipped it into a matching crimson envelope, and carefully glued a single pressed red tulip to the front. On the envelope, in her best, still-slightly-wobbly calligraphy: My Lovely Rose Milli.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she approached Milli’s dorm building. Campus was quiet, late afternoon shadows stretching long. Milli’s door, when she reached it, stood slightly ajar. Lucy pushed it open just enough to peer inside. Neat. Minimalist. Utterly Milli. Empty. Her gaze snapped to the dresser. Where she keeps her unmentionables. Milli’s own words, tossed off in the locker room weeks ago. A small drawer, slightly different wood grain.
Lucy moved like a shadow. She didn’t touch the bed, the desk, the books. She placed the thick, tulip-adorned envelope squarely in the center of the dresser top, right above that suggestive drawer. A deliberate placement. An intimate landing zone. She slipped back out, pulling the door almost shut, leaving only the faint, hopeful scent of tulips behind.
Milli returned an hour later, the smell of library dust and stale coffee clinging to her. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and froze. The scent hit her first – not her roses. Tulips. Rich, spicy, overwhelming. Her eyes flew to the dresser. The crimson envelope, stark against the pale wood, the pressed tulip a bloody punctuation mark.
A ripple of something cold and hot shot through her. The drawer. Her underwear drawer. Had Lucy…? Had she dared? Milli’s usually unflappable composure cracked. She lunged, yanking open the small drawer. Silk and lace tumbled, but nothing seemed disturbed. Folded neatly, exactly as she left them. Relief warred with a strange, unwelcome thrill. Lucy hadn’t riffled through her intimates. But she’d placed her challenge right there. A calculated invasion.
Milli picked up the envelope. The paper felt expensive, substantial. The calligraphy – improved, deliberate. Her name: My Lovely Rose Milli. A faint smile, tight and dangerous, touched her lips. She broke the seal, the scent of tulips intensifying, and pulled out the thick cream sheet.
Unfolding it, she saw the crimson ink, the tulips in the corner, the practiced script. She sank onto the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking softly in the sudden silence of the room. She began to read.
As her eyes moved down the page, the descriptions unfolding – the hot water, the floating tulips, the slow, deliberate worship… the lingering scent of the flowers seemed to thicken the air around her. Milli felt a flush creep up her neck, not embarrassment, but a slow, insistent heat. Lucy’s words painted a picture far more insidious than the rockstar fantasy. It was patient. Sensual. Deeply knowing. The image of Lucy’s mouth between her thighs, buried in water and petals, her tongue working with that described, devastating precision… Milli shifted on the bed, a faint, involuntary ache beginning low in her belly. Lucy hadn’t just fought fire with fire. She’d built a whole goddamn inferno, and Milli was standing right at the edge, feeling the heat lick at her skin.
She finished the letter. Yours Passionately, Lucy.
Milli stared at the crimson ink, the scent of tulips filling her lungs, the phantom sensation of hot water and a seeking tongue vivid against her nerves. For a long moment, the only sound in the pristine room was her own, slightly unsteady breath. The game had just escalated. Dramatically. And for the first time since Lucy’s initial fumbling advance, Milli felt… intrigued. Deeply, dangerously intrigued. The corner of her mouth tilted up, not in amusement, but in anticipation. Alright, Carter. Show me.