It's been a week since Reagan's seen Amy.
A week.
A fucking week.
Reagan never realized how slowly seven days could pass. How the seconds could just drip by, like water out of a faucet leaking into a sink that never filled.
The first day, she was OK. She and Amy talked on the phone after Amy, Bruce, Lauren, and Farrah had arrived at their hotel in Dallas.
Stupid fucking Aunt Becky. Fucking dying unexpectedly. Fucking funeral and fucking family shit.
One day, and Reagan already had fucking on the brain.
The second day, Reagan was too busy for it to bother her. She and Karma had a catering job for a sorority house at UT-Austin. And then she had a DJ gig at a frat house on the same campus. Yeah, she thought about Amy in her free moments (and some of the not so free ones), but she was so busy and running so hard, she didn't really have time to miss her.
The third day and the fourth day Reagan cleaned her apartment. Scrubbed from top to bottom, from kitchen to bath to living room. She even swept off her little - as in one person at a time sized - balcony.
By the time she was done, you could have eaten off the floor or performed surgery on the kitchen counter.
The fifth day and the sixth day? Amy was tied up - and not in the way Reagan liked to sometimes fantasize about - and couldn't even talk on the phone. So the older girl visited her dad and her brother and went bowling with her friends and they all pretended - really hard - that they didn't see her checking her phone every five minutes.
And the seventh day? Today?
Today Amy comes home..
Today Reagan gets up early to get ready. Amy was supposed to be back this afternoon, so Reagan showers, dresses, and lights candles, then blows them out - because really, who the fuck lights candles in the middle of the day, even if you are trying to set a mood - and then relights them and then paces impatiently by her door.
Amy had promised to come straight there.
No stops. No Karma's house or Shane's place. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
And then it happens.
Her phone rings. And she knows. Without even picking it up, Reagan knows
"I'm so sorry, babe. But there's this family dinner thing and my mom is insisting we go and we're not going to be back till tomorrow…"
Reagan blows out the candles and storms out of the apartment. She's mad, but she's madder that she can't really be mad because it's family and death and that shit always takes precedence, even over getting to be with your girlfriend.
So she can't really be mad, and she's not, not mad at Amy at least.
But it's been a week.
So she goes shopping. Reagan hates shopping - hates it - but it's mindless and distracting and doesn't involve her sitting on the couch moping and diving for her phone every time it buzzes.
She's in some ridiculously over-priced lingerie store, trying on a new bra, when she considers - briefly - sending Amy a selfie from the fitting room.
But then she reconsiders. Because, you know, what if Farrah or Bruce or Lauren or - even worse - one of Aunt Becky's three dozen other super conservative and incredibly religious relatives happens to pick up Amy's phone.
How would they react to a provocatively posed, mostly topless - OK, probably totally topless - Latina lesbian selfie on sweet and innocent Amy's phone.
Yeah, like that doesn't make the decision easy for her.
And so Reagan snaps a shot of herself, the new black lace bra she's about to buy pulled down just enough to expose almost all of her breasts, the mall's AC working it's magic - like the thought of Amy seeing this isn't enough to make her nipples hard all on its own - and she's biting her lip and giving the camera what she hopes is her most lustful expression.
She sends the pic off to Amy, packs up her intended purchases and heads for the register. The woman behind the counter has just handed Reagan her receipt when her phone buzzes.
Amy's response is simple. Two words.
Fuck. Me.
That's the plan, Reagan texts back, making a beeline for Starbucks to get a frappuccino or an iced coffee or something to cool her down.
Are you home? Are you alone?
Reagan's mouth goes dry as she reads Amy's words on the screen. She can't be thinking… no… that's not like her.
Give me fifteen minutes and I can be.
Amy's response comes ten seconds later.
Make it ten. Reagan grins and her phone buzzes again. Hurry.
Twelve minutes later - a new record for her - Reagan's barely in the door when she hears her laptop beeping in her bedroom. She drops the bags and makes a dash for it, diving onto the bed just in time to answer Amy's Skype call.
"Hey, Shrimps," she says. "So you liked my…"
The words die in her throat at the sight on her screen. In fact, Reagan thinks, she might have just lost the power of speech permanently.
Amy's in a hotel room, the lights low - and Reagan can only assume the blinds pulled tightly shut - and her hair is all wavy and tousled, the way Reagan loves it best.
And she would so compliment Amy on that. If noticing her hair was at all possible. Because, Reagan realizes quickly, when Amy Raudenfeld is standing before you - even on a computer screen - in nothing but a dark red push-up bra, a pair of matching stockings and garters and - are you fucking serious? - nothing else?
Yeah, her hairstyle is the last thing on your mind.
"You like?" Amy asks and Reagan can only nod and barely even that. "I was going to wear this today when we came home, as a surprise." Amy leans back against the bed behind her, arching her back and staring right into Reagan's eyes. "Surprise…"
Reagan doesn't know what to say or what to do or - at this point - what planet she's on. This is so not like Amy. Even now, even after months of dating, this is so not something she would have ever expected her girlfriend to do.
This is just so… hot.
Reagan finally finds her voice again. "If you're going to get me gifts like that," she says, "you may need to go away more often."
Amy shakes her head. "No," she says. "No more trips. No more time apart." She smiles into the webcam and, for a moment, supermodel Amy is gone. "I miss you."
"I miss you too, Shrimps," Reagan says. "And I don't care how many sexy outfits you bring back, as long as you come home to me."
Amy shifts on the bed, letting one long leg - and fuck me, Reagan thinks, have they always been that long - stretch out invitingly in front of the camera.
"Tell me," she says and that's a tone Reagan's never heard before, but if the way her stomach just tightened and her heart sped up is any indication, she wants to hear it a lot more often.
"Tell you what?" she asks and she has to swallow down a moan as Amy shifts again, just enough to remind Reagan that's she not wearing any underwear.
"What do you miss?" Amy asks. She reaches up and slowly slides one bra strap down and Reagan's eyes trace every inch of the movement. "What do you miss about me?"
Reagan watches as Amy's hand slowly moves back up her arm, fingers tracing over the skin of her shoulder and then down, lightly caressing the swell of her breast.
"Your skin," she finally croaks out.
Amy pauses, her hand just barely cupping her breast, one finger dangerously close to the hard nipple Reagan can see poking through the fabric.
"My skin?"
Reagan nods slowly, her eyes never leaving the blonde's hand. "It's so soft," she says. "The way it feels under my fingers." Her eyes flick up to Amy's. "The way it tastes on my tongue."
She can hear Amy let out one shuddering breath and Reagan can't help but smile. Two can play this game, she thinks.
"What do you miss about me?" she asks Amy and, as she does, she tugs her own shirt up and over her head, tossing it into the corner of the room.
Amy's pupils dilate at the sight and she almost forgets to answer the question. "What do I miss?" she asks. "That's easy. Your lips."
Reagan's hands disappear out of Amy's view as she frantically works at the button of her jeans. "Why my lips?"
"Because they're fucking perfect," Amy says. "So soft and wet and God, when you kiss me…"
Amy's fingers stroke softly against her skin and Reagan's not sure she even knows she's doing it.
"Do you remember our first night?" Amy asks and Reagan nods. "Do you remember the first time you made me cum?"
Reagan pauses, her jeans halfway down her legs, rendered completely speechless by those words.
You made me cum.
"It was your lips," Amy says, not waiting for an answer. "It started when you kissed my neck and you kept pressing your lips against my skin. Here and here and here…"
Amy's other hand traces soft lines against the skin of her neck, mimicking the path Reagan followed that first night.
"And then you moved lower," Amy says, her hand skimming down over her collarbone, to the top of her breast. "Do you remember?"
Finally kicking free of her jeans, Reagan reclines back onto the bed. "Yes," she says. "You tasted like vanilla and strawberries. I couldn't get enough."
"You teased me," Amy says. Her fingers slide slowly beneath the cup of her bra and Reagan realizes she's holding her breath. "You kissed me," Amy says, "and then you'd pull away, waiting until I couldn't stand it anymore and then you'd kiss me again."
Reagan remembers. She remembers the way Amy's back arched up off the bed, the way Amy's hands tangled in her hair, desperately trying to keep the contact, to keep Reagan's lips from sliding off her skin.
"And you kept getting closer," Amy breathes, as she slowly tugs the bra lower. "Closer and closer, but you would never just give me what I wanted."
Reagan's hand clutches at her thigh, her nails digging into the sensitive skin. "And what was it you wanted?" she asks.
"Your lips," Amy says without hesitation. She slides the bra down completely, her fingers moving quickly to capture her newly freed nipple. "I wanted your lips, right here."
Reagan can only watch, transfixed, as Amy's fingers pinch and tug gently at her nipple, her thumb massaging against it.
"And then, when you finally did," she says, "when you finally kissed me there… when those perfect fucking lips wrapped around me and I felt your tongue flicking…"
Amy stares directly into the camera, right into Reagan's eyes.
"That was the first time," she says. "That was the first time you ever made me cum."
Reagan moans and grips at her thong with both hands, sliding it down and off her legs, barely even registering how fucking soaked it is. She returns her eyes to the screen just in time to see Amy stretch out against the headboard, her legs still pressed together, her hands resting on top of her thighs.
"I miss your lips," Amy says. "I miss your tongue and the way it feels running over every inch of me. I miss your hair and the way it feels when I bury my fingers in it while those lips and that tongue are between my thighs."
Reagan can wait no longer and she runs one finger down through her folds, sliding back up to the top, her brain marvelling at how wet she is just from Amy's words. Her eyes squeeze shut at the jolt of pleasure that runs up her body as two fingers dance lightly over her clit.
"You know what I miss the most, though?" Amy asks as she spreads her legs just a little, one hand gently caressing the inside of her thigh while the other cups her breast. "Your eyes," she says.
Reagan's eyes pop open and she lets out a guttural moan as she sees Amy's hand move further down between her legs.
"That's right," Amy says. "Look at me. That's what I miss." Amy's legs slip further apart as she slowly loses control, and Reagan can see her fingers sliding against her lips, one of them dipping inside her, just barely, before Amy pulls it back out and moves up, using her own wetness as she rolls her clit beneath her thumb.
"I love when you look at me," she says and as Reagan moves her other hand down her body, pressing first one and then another finger inside, all she can do is look at Amy.
"It's the way you look at me when you don't think I notice," Amy says. "Or the way you look at me when you haven't seen me in a day or two." The words come out in broken, shuddering whispers. "I can see it," she says. "How much you want me. How much you need me."
Amy's fingers work feverishly against her clit and Reagan tries to keep pace. She wants them to finish together.
"Do you have… any… idea," Amy's panting now, every flick and flex of her fingers sending tiny little shockwaves through her. "Any idea what that does to me?" she asks. "Do you know how fucking wet you make me just by looking at me?"
Reagan moans, a whispered 'fuck' slipping from her lips.
"That's what does it," Amy says. "Every fucking time. That's what makes me cum." She groans out the word. "It's not your lips or your tongue," she says.
"Amy…" Reagan whimpers out her name and then bites down on her lip, her body so fucking close to the edge.
"Every time," Amy gasps. "I look down, I look at you feasting on me and you look up at me with those eyes, like you can't ever get enough…"
She can't. Reagan's been hooked on Amy since the beginning and once she'd had her, once she'd had a taste…
"Rea… look at me… please…"
Reagan does. She looks right at her, drinking her all in. The way the sweat shines against her skin. The way her hand squeezes her breast, two finger tugging and pinching and pulling on her nipple as she moans her way toward her climax. The way her legs shake and tremble as it all builds inside her.
The way her eyes search out Reagan's, the way their gazes lock as they both roll over the top, moaning as the rush ripples through them. Reagan watches as Amy's orgasm rushes through her, the sight of her girlfriend cumming more than enough to finish her as well.
It might be minutes, it might be an hour, fuck - it might be a day, for all she can tell - when Reagan hears Amy speak again.
"Holy shit," she says and Reagan laughs. "That was… "
"Yeah," Reagan says. "It was. But Shrimps?"
"Yeah, Rea?" Amy's head is tipped back and she doesn't seem like she's going to move any time soon.
"If you think that was good?" Reagan says. "Just wait till you get home."