saving all my love

three

Sleep doesn't come easily to Rosie tonight. She tosses and turns and has cloudy, discombobulated dreams of the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland trying to cut off her head with an eyelash curler. She narrowly escapes certain death by falling into an oubliette, where Jennie is trapped in her sexy lavender shirt and tells Rosie that they can pass eternity with orgasms.

The dream is ridiculous, completely insane, but Rosie wakes up in the middle of the night in a sweat. She kicks off the covers and gives a frustrated sigh. She's still in that hazy realm of being not asleep but not quite awake.

She needs to sleep. She needs to be oblivious to this whole Jennie thing for a few blissful, dreamless hours.

Ugh. Jennie.

Rosie rolls over into her pillow and groans.

She doesn't want to think about Jennie now, not in the middle of the night when she's liable to be cranky and irrational and confused. Her defenses are nonexistent in the middle of the night. And this whole business with Jennie and her blushing cheeks and her sexy shirts is making Rosie neurotic and sex-crazed and ugh.

So much for not thinking about Jennie.

With another sigh, Rosie settles onto her back and closes her eyes, resolutely giving in to the thoughts that have been monopolizing her mind. Without preamble, her hand steals beneath her linen pants and cotton panties, past soaking wet curls, and she sighs as her fingers dip into wet folds.

She should charge Jennie fucking Kim for all the laundry money she's spent washing her ruined underwear.

This isn't going to take long. Since this whole Twilight Zone thing with Jennie has been happening, she's been having shattering orgasms within minutes of touching herself. She can only imagine that she'd end up like a teenage boy if she ever had sex with the woman...

...which makes her think about having sex with her. She imagines pressing Jennie against her desk and ripping apart that goddamn lavender blouse (she'll never be able look at that color again without feeling lightheaded) and kissing her until her lips are bruised.

She curls her fingers, brushing her knuckles against her clit. She gasps and spreads her legs wider, rocking her hips up against her hand. It's good...it feels so good...and it would be so much better if Jennie were the one fucking her...

Rosie could come with only the slightest touch and she's not ready. She doesn't want it to be over. She slides the flat of her palm against herself, coating her hand in her copious moisture. She arches her hips, whines, and teases herself. It's a game she plays: prolong the orgasm as long as possible and come like a screaming banshee.

It would be a much more satisfying game if there were another player.

She slips one finger in, and then another, and she coos and sighs and "ooohs" while she rocks her hips. "Yes!" she says, adding a third finger, and then she's fucking her hand like it's her job.

Rosie's close...so close...and she screws her eyes shut tight and imagines Jennie's long, slender fingers, and she's coming hard. She wails and shakes and convulses before she slumps back against her pillow. Her breath is ragged and her lungs burn and her legs feel like jello. She pulls her fingers out, wipes them on her thigh, and rolls over.

Her heart is pounding. She thinks once more of Jennie and falls asleep with a smile on her face.

When she wakes up several hours later, she blinks lazily as she opens her eyes. She feels considerably well rested.

She looks at the computer and at the darkened image of Jennie's study.

Jennie's study. Not a black box.