Chapter 28: The Morning After the Shower
The smell of coffee pulled Emily from sleep like a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes to a room she didn't recognize—soft yellow walls, a quilt that smelled like lavender, a window framed by curtains that let in the pale gold of early morning. For a moment, she was disoriented. Then the memories crashed over her like a wave.
The shower. Katrina's taste on her tongue. Calista's fingers inside her.
The orgasm that had nearly made her black out.
"Oh my God," she whispered to the ceiling.
Her body ached in ways it hadn't ached in years. Not the sharp pain of injury—the good kind. The kind that came from muscles used in ways they'd forgotten they could be. Her thighs were sore. Her jaw was sore. There was a tenderness between her legs that made her blush just thinking about it.
She sat up slowly.
The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 AM. She'd slept later than she'd intended. Back home, she was usually up by six, making breakfast for the kids, packing lunches, checking her email before her first practice session of the day.
But she wasn't home. She was in a house in the Chicago suburbs, three days away from seeing her brother, and she'd just had the most intense sexual experience of her life with two women she'd met less than twenty-four hours ago.
And she wanted more.
The thought should have shocked her. It didn't.
She swung her legs out of bed and stood. Her body protested—aching, stiff, still humming with the ghost of last night's pleasure. She found her suitcase, dug through it for something to wear, and realized she hadn't packed anything appropriate for lounging around a house full of strangers.
The oversized t-shirt she'd slept in would have to do.
It hung to her mid-thigh, soft and faded, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she headed for the door. Her hair was a disaster—wild and tangled, still faintly damp from the shower. Her face was flushed. Her eyes were bright.
She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly fucked and wasn't sorry about it.
Because she wasn't.
The hallway was quiet. She padded downstairs on bare feet, following the smell of coffee and something sweet. The cats—both of them—were sprawled on the stairs like furry speed bumps, and she stepped over them carefully.
Rembrandt opened one eye, judged her, and went back to sleep.
The kitchen was warm and bright. Casey stood at the stove in a pair of loose pajama pants and a tank top, her back to the door, flipping pancakes with the kind of practiced ease that came from decades of practice. The coffee maker burbled on the counter. A plate of already-finished pancakes sat warming under a towel.
"Morning," Emily said.
Casey turned.
Her face was soft with sleep, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a messy bun. She took one look at Emily—the flushed cheeks, the messy hair, the oversized shirt—and smirked.
"Sleep well?"
Emily's face went hot.
"I—yes. I mean. Um."
Casey set down the spatula. She crossed the kitchen in three easy steps and stopped in front of Emily, close enough that Emily could smell her—flour and butter and something floral, maybe lavender soap.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," Casey said. Her voice was gentle. "This house is full of people who like what they like. We don't judge."
"I'm not—I mean, I'm not embarrassed exactly, I just—"
Casey cupped her face.
Her hands were warm. Her eyes were kind. She looked at Emily like she was something precious, something worth taking care of, and Emily felt something in her chest loosen.
"You're beautiful," Casey said. "Did you know that?"
"I'm thirty-three. I have stretch marks. My—"
"You're beautiful." Casey leaned in and kissed her.
It was soft at first—a question, an invitation. Emily melted into it, her hands coming up to rest on Casey's hips. The kiss deepened. Casey's tongue slid against hers, slow and deliberate, and Emily moaned into her mouth.
Casey's hand slid under the t-shirt.
Her fingers found Emily's bare hip, then her waist, then the underside of her breast. She cupped it, thumb brushing over the nipple, and Emily gasped against her lips.
"Starting without me?"
Mike's voice came from the doorway.
Emily jerked back—instinct, embarrassment, the sudden cold reality of being caught. But Casey didn't let her go. She just turned her head and smiled at her husband.
"You were taking too long."
Mike was wearing sweatpants and nothing else. His hair was sleep-mussed, his glasses slightly crooked, his chest soft and hairy and entirely unselfconscious. He looked at Emily like she was a prize he'd won.
"I see you've met my wife," he said.
"I—yes. We met. Last night. At dinner."
"I meant like that." He gestured vaguely at Casey's hand, still under Emily's shirt.
Emily's face burned.
But Casey laughed. "She's nervous. It's cute."
"I'm not nervous," Emily protested. "I just—this is—I don't normally—"
"You don't normally what?" Mike crossed the kitchen and stood behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. "Have sex with strangers? Fuck two women in a shower? Wake up sore and wanting more?"
Emily's breath caught.
"You were loud last night," he murmured against her ear. "Not that I'm complaining. I just want to know if you're going to be loud again."
"Mike," Casey warned. "Give her a minute."
"I've given her a minute. She's been standing here blushing for five."
Emily turned.
She didn't know what possessed her—maybe the glamour, still lingering on her skin; maybe the reckless freedom of being somewhere no one knew her; maybe just the simple, aching want that had been building in her chest since last night.
She kissed him.
Mike made a surprised sound against her mouth, then kissed her back with enthusiasm. His hands found her waist, her hips, her ass. He pulled her against him and she felt his cock—hard and thick—pressing against her thigh through his sweatpants.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're really something."
"So I've been told."
Casey came up behind her.
Sandwiched between them, Emily felt like she was drowning—in sensation, in want, in the sheer overwhelming reality of two people touching her at once. Casey's hands slid under the t-shirt again, pushing it up. Mike's mouth found her neck.
"Take it off," Casey said.
Emily lifted her arms and let Casey pull the shirt over her head.
She stood naked in the kitchen, between two near-strangers, and she had never felt more alive.
"Bend over the island," Mike said.
"What?"
"The counter. Bend over it. Hands flat."
She did.
The marble was cold against her stomach and breasts. She heard Mike move behind her—the rustle of fabric, a drawer opening, the click of a cap. Then Casey's hand on her back, gentle and steady.
"You okay?" Casey asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
Then Casey's fingers were between her legs.
Emily gasped. She was already wet—had been wet since she woke up, if she was honest—and Casey's touch was sure and practiced. Two fingers slid inside her, curling, stroking, finding the spot that made her see stars.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Casey worked her slow and deep, thumb circling her clit, fingers curling inside her. Emily's hips bucked against the counter. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the smooth marble.
Behind her, Mike was kissing Casey's neck.
"You're so good at that," he murmured. "You're always so good."
"I know."
He laughed and reached around to palm Casey's breast. Casey moaned, but her fingers never stopped moving inside Emily.
"More," Emily begged. "Please. More."
Casey gave her more.
She pressed a third finger in, stretching Emily, filling her. Emily cried out—loud, shameless—and rocked her hips back, taking her deeper.
"Fuck, look at her," Mike said. "She's beautiful."
"She is."
Emily felt the shift—Casey pulling her fingers out, the sudden emptiness. She whined. Then something else pressed against her entrance. Something thicker than fingers.
She turned her head.
Mike had his cock in his hand, stroking it. Casey was bent over the counter beside her, her pajama pants around her ankles, her ass in the air. Mike pressed the head of his cock against Casey and pushed in.
Casey moaned.
Emily watched, transfixed, as he fucked his wife—slow at first, then harder, his hips slapping against her ass. Casey's mouth was open, her eyes closed, her fingers gripping the counter.
"Watch her," Mike said. "Watch how good she takes it."
Emily watched.
She watched Casey's face as Mike fucked her. She watched the way Casey's breath hitched, the way her mouth curved into a smile, the way she pushed back to meet every thrust. The counter was cold under Emily's own body, her cunt empty and aching.
Then Casey reached over and slid her fingers back inside Emily.
They moved together—a rhythm, a dance. Mike fucked Casey. Casey fingered Emily. Emily pressed her forehead to the marble and moaned like a whore.
Somewhere behind them, the pancake on the griddle started to smoke.
"Ignore it," Casey gasped. "Ignore it. Don't stop."
Mike didn't stop.
And neither did Casey.
Emily was teetering on the edge—so close, so close—when footsteps sounded on the stairs.
"Oh my God," a voice said. "Really? In the kitchen? Again?"
Calista.
Emily turned her head. Calista stood in the doorway in nothing but a silk robe, her silver hair loose, her golden eyes bright with amusement. Katrina was behind her, wrapped in an old bathrobe, her dark hair a tangled mess.
"This is exactly why we can't have nice things," Calista said.
"Morning, sweetheart," Mike said.
"Don't 'sweetheart' me. You've burned the pancakes."
"I'll make more. Later."
Calista shook her head, but she was smiling.
"Move over," she said. "I want in."
She joined them.
Calista's glamour hit like a wave—hot and heavy and impossible to resist. Emily felt her whole body flush. Her nipples tightened. Her cunt clenched around Casey's fingers.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Calista came around the counter, not bothering with clothing. Her body was slim and pale and perfect, her small, high breasts tipped with pink nipples, her cunt bare. She stepped between Emily and Casey and looked down at them both.
"You're beautiful," she said, looking at Emily. "You know that?"
"You said—that was Casey—"
"She was right." Calista leaned down and kissed her.
Her lips were soft and warm and tasted like sleep. Her tongue slid into Emily's mouth and Emily groaned, her hips rocking against Casey's fingers.
Calista pulled back.
"Katrina," she said. "Come here."
Katrina joined them. She was still shy in some ways—Emily could see it in the way she held herself, the way her eyes flickered to Mike and away. But she came anyway, kneeling between Emily's legs like she belonged there.
"May I?" she asked.
Emily could barely speak. "Yes. God, yes."
Katrina leaned in.
Her tongue was soft and wet and perfect. She licked up the length of Emily's cunt, from her clit to her entrance and back again, before pressing her tongue inside. Emily cried out. Her hips jerked. Casey's fingers were gone, replaced by Katrina's mouth, and it was too much, too good, too—
"Oh fuck," Emily gasped. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—"
Mike was still fucking Casey. Calista had moved behind Mike, her hands on his hips, her mouth on his shoulder. Casey was moaning, pressing back against Mike, her eyes closed.
Emily watched through a haze of pleasure.
She watched Casey come—watched her body shake, watched her mouth open in a silent scream, watched Mike fuck her through it. She watched Mike come a few thrusts later, his hips stuttering, his fingers digging into Casey's hips.
And she watched Katrina between her legs, licking her like she was the only thing that mattered.
"Please," Emily begged. "Please, I need—"
Katrina knew what she needed.
She pressed two fingers inside Emily and licked her clit at the same time. Emily's orgasm hit her like a freight train—sudden and shattering, ripping through her body. She screamed. Her hand flew out and knocked something over—a glass of orange juice, she'd realize later—and her whole body convulsed.
She might have blacked out.
When she came back, she was slumped over the counter, panting, her legs trembling. Katrina was licking her fingers. Calista was laughing. Casey was leaning against Mike, smiling.
"Breakfast is ruined," Casey announced.
Emily looked. The pancake on the griddle was a blackened husk. The orange juice was spreading across the floor in a sticky puddle. One of the cats—VanGogh—was drinking it.
"Worth it," Emily whispered.
Casey laughed.
"Yeah," she said. "It was."
She came over and helped Emily stand. Her hands were gentle. Her smile was warm.
"Go shower," she said. "I'll make more pancakes."
"Lots more," Mike said, pulling up his sweatpants. "I'm starving."
"You're always starving."
"You just fucked it out of me."
"I didn't hear you complaining."
Emily left them bickering—fondly, affectionately, the way people did when they'd been together for years. She climbed the stairs on legs that still shook. In the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror.
Her hair was wild. Her face was flushed. Her lips were swollen.
She looked like a different person.
She looked like someone who might actually be okay.
The shower was warm and clean. She stood under the spray and let the water wash away the sweat and the stickiness and the lingering smell of sex. She closed her eyes and thought about her brother.
Two more days.
Two more days and she'd see him. Two more days and the twelve-year mystery would be solved. Two more days and she'd know, once and for all, where Mark had been all this time.
She'd been terrified.
But now—standing here, in this strange house, with these strange, wonderful people—she felt something else.
Hope.
She finished her shower and dried off. She wrapped herself in a towel and went back to her room to get dressed. When she came downstairs again, the kitchen smelled like fresh pancakes and coffee. The orange juice was mopped up. The burnt pancake was in the trash.
Calista was at the table, fully dressed now in jeans and a tank top, eating a pancake with her fingers. Katrina was next to her, looking more relaxed than Emily had ever seen her. Casey was at the stove again. Mike was at the table with a cup of coffee.
"Better?" Casey asked.
"Better."
"Good. Sit. Eat. You're going to need your strength."
"For what?"
Casey smiled.
"For tonight."
Emily sat.
She ate.
And for the first time in twelve years, she felt like she was home.