Chapter 16: Raw and Desperate
The walk home was a blur of streetlights and whispered laughter, their fingers laced together so tightly the bones ached. Grace’s leotard had gone cold and sticky against her skin under her jacket, the medal a persistent, heavy weight bouncing between her small breasts with every step. She couldn’t stop smiling. Her cheeks hurt with it.
They stumbled through the front door of their shared house, the familiar creak of the floorboards a welcome sound. The common areas were dark and quiet; their housemates were likely still out celebrating or crashed elsewhere. Skye kicked the door shut with her heel, the latch clicking into place with a finality that made Grace’s breath catch.
In the dim hallway, Skye turned to her. Her eyes were dark pools, reflecting the faint light from the street outside the window. Without a word, she slid her hands under Grace’s thighs and lifted her straight up, pinning her against the wall next to their bedroom door. Grace gasped, her own hands flying to Skye’s shoulders for balance. Skye buried her face in Grace’s neck, inhaling deeply, just holding her there, suspended. Grace could feel the tremble in Skye’s arms, a raw current of emotion running beneath the strength.
“My champion,” Skye murmured, the words vibrating against her skin. She lowered Grace slowly, letting her slide down the front of her body until Grace’s feet found the floor. The friction was exquisite. Then Skye cupped her face. “I am so fucking proud of you. You were… unbelievable.”
She kissed her then, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of shared victory and the winter air outside. Grace melted into it, her earlier public boldness now folding into a private, overwhelmed tenderness. She whimpered into Skye’s mouth, her hands fisting in the soft material of Skye’s sweater.
A shrill, electronic ringtone sliced through the quiet.
They broke apart, breathing ragged. Grace blinked, disoriented. The sound was coming from her jacket pocket. She fumbled for it, pulling out her phone. The screen glowed brightly in the dark hall: MOM & DAD.
Her stomach did a familiar, pre-flight flip. She looked at Skye, her eyes wide.
“Answer it,” Skye said softly, squeezing her hand. Her thumb stroked Grace’s knuckles. “It’s okay.”
Grace swiped to answer and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Gracie! Oh, sweetheart, we saw it! We streamed it!” Her mother’s voice was thick with tears, loud enough that Skye could probably hear it. “You were magnificent! A gold medal! Your father is pacing the living room, he’s so excited!”
A deeper voice rumbled in the background, then came closer. “Phenomenal stick on that second pass, kid. Phenomenal. We rewound it three times.” Her father’s praise was always specific, always technical, and it meant more than any trophy.
“Thanks, Dad,” Grace said, her own voice choked. She leaned back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor of the hallway. Skye slid down beside her, a warm, solid presence along her side.
There was a pause on the line. Grace held her breath.
Her mother’s voice came back, softer now. “And, honey… we saw the rest, too. After.”
Grace closed her eyes. Here it was. The question. The confusion. The thing that would twist this perfect night into something complicated.
“We just want you to be happy,” her mother continued, the words simple and clear. “That’s all we’ve ever wanted. And you looked… you looked so happy. We love you, Grace. We’re so proud of all of you.”
The relief that washed through Grace was so profound it felt like a physical unknotting of every muscle in her body. A sob escaped her, a hiccup of pure, unadulterated release. “I am happy, Mom. So happy. Thank you. I love you guys.”
They talked for a few more minutes—plans for a visit, the details of her routine, her father’s analysis of the scores. Normal things. Wonderful, normal things. When she finally ended the call, she let the phone drop into her lap. She stared at it, the screen going dark.
Skye was watching her, her expression unreadable in the shadows.
“They’re good,” Grace whispered, the truth of it settling in her bones. “They’re really good.”
Skye smiled then, a slow, beautiful unfurling of joy and relief that mirrored Grace’s own. She stood, pulling Grace up with her. “C’mere.”
She led Grace into their bedroom, not turning on the overhead light, just the small, shared lamp on Grace’s desk. It painted the messy room in warm, intimate gold—the tangled blankets on Skye’s unmade bed, the gymnastics journals stacked next to a forgotten rugby mouthguard, Grace’s spare leotards dangling from the bedpost.
Skye turned Grace to face her, her hands on her hips. The medal gleamed dully between them. Emotions were running high, a crackling, palpable energy in the lavender-scented air. Skye’s gaze was intense, worshipful. She leaned in and kissed her again, a deep, searching kiss that held all the words they hadn’t said yet. Then she guided Grace backwards until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of her own cluttered desk.
Skye lifted her, setting her gently atop the wood, shifting a stray textbook out of the way with a sweep of her arm. She stepped between Grace’s spread knees, her hands coming up to frame her face. She kissed her forehead, each eyelid, the tip of her nose, before returning to her mouth. The kisses were soft, reverent, a stark contrast to the frantic passion in the arena.
It was too much. The gentleness, the acceptance, the wild, roaring need that had been building for months. Grace’s shyness incinerated in the furnace of it.
With a surge of strength that surprised them both, Grace broke the kiss and pushed Skye back. Skye’s eyes went wide with surprise, then darkened with understanding as Grace slid off the desk. Grace’s hands were on Skye’s shoulders, turning her, walking her backward the two steps to the edge of her rumpled bed.
“Grace—” Skye started, but her sentence ended in a soft “oomph” as Grace gave a firm, final push.
Skye fell backward onto the mattress, her long hair fanning out around her. She looked up, propped on her elbows, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Grace didn’t hesitate. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Skye’s hips, her knees sinking into the soft duvet on either side of Skye’s thighs. The cold, metallic disc of the medal pressed into Skye’s sternum. Grace looked down at her, at this beautiful, confident woman who looked utterly wrecked beneath her, and felt a surge of possessiveness so fierce it stole her breath.
She lowered herself, bracing her hands on either side of Skye’s head, and kissed her. It was hungry, devouring. Skye moaned into her mouth, her hands coming up to grasp Grace’s ass, pulling her down hard, grinding the damp, tight fabric of the leotard against the rough denim of her jeans.
“Fuck, Grace,” Skye gasped against her lips, her fingers digging into the firm muscle. “You feel so good.”
Grace rocked against her, the friction a bright, sharp promise through the layers. She could feel the heat of Skye, even through the clothing. She was wet, she was dizzy with it, her whole world narrowed to the seam of their bodies and the dark, wanting look in Skye’s eyes.
The wanting in Skye’s eyes was a physical demand. Grace answered it. Her fingers, still trembling from the adrenaline of the competition and the phone call, hooked into the neck of Skye’s emerald sweater. She didn’t peel it off. She yanked.
The soft wool tore at the seam under the arm with a sharp, ripping sound. Skye gasped, but her hips bucked up harder. “Fuck, yes,” she hissed, helping, shrugging out of the ruined garment as Grace flung it aside. Grace’s hands went to the button of Skye’s jeans, her motions frantic and uncoordinated. The metal bit into her fingertips. The zipper rasped down, loud in the quiet room.
She shoved the denim down over Skye’s hips, taking her plain black cotton panties with them in one rough push. Skye lifted her ass off the bed, kicking the tangled clothing away with her feet. The only thing left were her black ankle socks, a dark frame for the smooth, muscular lines of her legs. Grace stared, her mouth dry. Skye was completely bare, beautifully exposed, her cunt already glistening in the lamplight.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Grace breathed, the words raw. She fell on her, capturing her mouth again in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Skye tasted like coffee and victory. As their tongues tangled, Grace’s hand slid between Skye’s thighs. She didn’t explore. She plunged. Two fingers, slick with Grace’s own sweat and need, pushed straight inside Skye’s cunt.
Skye cried out, her back arching off the bed. “God, Grace!” Her inner walls were a hot, velvet clutch, tight and fluttering around the intrusion. Grace fucked her with her fingers, a hard, quick rhythm, her palm grinding against Skye’s clit with each thrust. The leotard was a maddening barrier, the fabric stretched taut over Grace’s own aching flesh.
She pulled her fingers out, soaked and shining. Breaking the kiss, she held her hand up to Skye’s mouth. “Lick,” Grace commanded, her voice a guttural thing she didn’t recognize. “Lick me clean.”
Skye’s eyes, glazed with lust, locked onto hers. Without hesitation, she took Grace’s fingers into her mouth, her tongue swirling around them, sucking her own taste off with a low, hungry moan. The sight, the wet heat of Skye’s mouth on her skin, sent a violent shudder through Grace. She pulled her fingers free with a pop.
She rolled off Skye, her body moving with a gymnast’s purpose. She knew where it was. Skye kept it in the bottom drawer of her nightstand, hidden under a stack of rugby jerseys. Grace yanked the drawer open, rummaged past the fabric, and pulled out the harness and the silicone dildo, a modest, realistic size in a deep burgundy.
Skye watched, propped on her elbows, her breath coming in ragged pants as Grace stepped into the harness. She struggled with the straps over her leotard, the stubborn material impeding the buckles. With a grunt of frustration, she simply pulled the central strap up between her legs, securing it tightly over the glittering navy fabric. The dildo jutted out from her pelvis, an absurd, thrilling weight.
“Get on your hands and knees,” Grace said, turning back to the bed.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Skye’s face. She obeyed, rolling over with a fluid grace that emphasized the powerful curve of her back, the swell of her ass. She presented herself, looking back over her shoulder, her long hair cascading down. “You gonna fuck me with your medal on, champion?”
Grace climbed onto the bed behind her. She positioned herself, the tip of the strap-on nudging against Skye’s dripping entrance. One hand gripped Skye’s hip, the other tangled in her hair, not gently. She leaned forward, her mouth near Skye’s ear. “Yeah. I am.”
She thrust in. One smooth, powerful drive of her hips, burying the length inside Skye in a single stroke. Skye screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed off their bedroom walls. She was so wet, so impossibly tight and hot. Grace withdrew and slammed back in, setting a punishing pace immediately. There was no tentative exploration, no gentle buildup. This was a claiming.
The gold medal swung wildly, slapping against Grace’s chest and Skye’s back with each violent thrust. Clap. Clap. Clap. A metallic counterpoint to the wet, filthy sounds of their joining. Grace fucked her with the same focused intensity she’d channeled on the floor exercise, every muscle in her abdomen and thighs coiling and releasing.
“You take it so good,” Grace grunted, her voice strained. “This cunt is mine now. Say it.”
Skye was babbling, her head lowered, her words muffled by the comforter. “Yours! It’s yours, fuck, it’s always been yours! Please!” Grace’s grip on her hair tightened, pulling her head back, arching her spine further. The new angle made Skye wail. Grace pounded into her, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a steady, rhythmic bang.
“I’m gonna cum!” Skye shrieked, her body tensing. “Grace, I’m gonna—!”
“Cum,” Grace ordered, never breaking her rhythm. “Cum on my strap. Do it.”
Skye’s orgasm ripped through her, a convulsive, trembling wave. Her inner muscles clamped down, milking the silicone as she cried out, a series of broken, submissive whimpers. “Thank you, thank you, fuck, thank you.” Grace didn’t stop. She fucked her right through it, the relentless pace pushing Skye’s climax longer, wrenching sobs from her throat.
Skye collapsed forward, her arms giving out, her face pressed into the mattress. Grace followed her down, covering her body, never pulling out. She shifted her weight, driving in deeper, harder. She bit the juncture of Skye’s neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark. The medal was crushed between their sweat-slicked torsos.
“Don’t stop,” Skye begged, her voice wrecked. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Grace didn’t. She kept pounding, her own release a coiled, white-hot promise low in her belly, the world narrowing to the slam of flesh, the smell of sex, and the complete, surrendered weight of the woman beneath her.