Chapter Text
The bus hums through the foggy night, somewhere on the narrow black road between South Bend and Rockford. Rain beads and runs down the pitch-black windows. The poker game ended about half an hour back, with Jess crowing over her winnings and Lupe throwing down her cards in disgust. Most of the girls are sleeping, a few paging through magazines or dime thrillers. Even Maybelle’s knitting needles have fallen silent.
And Greta’s watching Carson.
Carson, sitting in the second row behind the driver, haloed in the soft glow of her reading light. Her soft brown hair is curled and pinned back, so that Greta can see the stubborn line of her jaw, her slim straight nose, the slight crease between her eyebrows.
Greta’s watching her, because she’s always watching Carson; because she can’t look away. Her chest warms, seeing Carson bent so diligently over her weird little recipe cards, writing out their last game in chickenscratch squiggles that make sense only to her. It feels so fearfully tender. Carson feels like hers, when Greta can watch her like this, when Carson doesn’t know just how much Greta loves—loves watching her.
She needs to slow down. She needs to stop.
Carson’s been growing bolder these last few weeks. Her excuses have grown so far-fetched that it must take real effort for Jess to pretend she doesn’t know. The hiding spots Carson claims are completely unknown are really nothing more than dusty corners—two days ago she pulled Greta into the nook behind the grandfather clock, as if anyone walking down the hall couldn’t have seen them.
But Greta kissed her all the same. She couldn’t resist pressing Carson against the heavy oak of the clock, to feel Carson’s breasts against hers, to have her hands on Carson’s cheeks and then in her hair. To taste Carson’s smug smile because she got what she wanted. To lose herself—
Again.
Greta takes a breath and looks out into the rain. She can’t afford to let Carson distract her like this. Affect her like this. The fact is, Carson surprised her. She keeps wanting more, in a way Greta never anticipated. Carson’s so intense, so open, and Greta hates stopping, but she has to. She has to, not least because she can’t help giving in to the temptation to see if Carson will come back and ask for more.
Carson always, always does.
At the front of the bus, Carson’s head lifts suddenly. She tucks her pencil and her little bundle of recipe cards into the purse at her feet. She glances at Bev, sitting ramrod straight behind the driver and staring ahead; at Shirley, asleep in the seat beside Carson with her forehead leaning against the window. Then, disguising the motion with a rolling stretch of her shoulders, Carson turns slowly, and lets her gaze wander towards Greta.
The look on her face when she catches Greta watching her back is almost comical. A skittish shyness curls in Greta’s stomach. Butterflies, just from catching Carson’s eyes, just from seeing the happiness light up Carson’s face when she catches Greta looking. Caught, yes, but Greta can always turn that to her advantage. She smiles, lets her tongue swipe slowly along her bottom lip, lifts her eyebrows.
She means it as a tease, not an invitation…but maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that Carson takes it as one. Carson makes one very obvious attempt at a stealthy glance around. She’s lucky that most of the girls are asleep and the rest don’t care. Even Jo is snoring gently, her head pillowed on her glove against the window. Quietly, slowly, Carson stands up and makes her way to the back of the bus. When she reaches the back row, she gives Greta a playful grin. Greta’s eyes dart front, then back to Carson, then down to the seat beside her. Carson doesn’t hesitate. She slides into the seat next to Greta and settles back with a sigh.
Greta stretches up just enough to look over the seat-backs and reassure herself that, truly, no one’s looking. Why would they? And yet Greta’s heart races. Goosebumps prickle along her arms, her breath grows shallow. It’s dark, it’s quiet. The rumble of the bus’s engine covers the sound of anything they might say. Carson could be here for any reason. Small talk. Baseball talk. No one cares.
And Carson’s leg is warm, next to hers. Carson’s shoulder is firm against her arm. Greta can’t stop smiling, even as she does her best to keep her face turned towards the window. Every time she steals a glance at Carson, Carson is beaming back at her, her wide, beautiful smile, her eyes shining in the dark. Even this moment feels stolen, something precious, something Greta needs to guard, along with her heart.
Then she feels Carson’s knee, pressing against hers. When she looks over, Carson’s smile has grown even warmer. “I was thinking about you,” she murmurs.
Greta bites her lip and takes another glance around the bus. She doesn’t let them do this. Should not have let Carson do this. In a few minutes she’ll kick Carson back to her own seat; she has to. But her breath catches. “Were you?” she says, low, sultry; when it comes to hearing Carson talk to her about…how she feels, how she wants, Greta can’t stop herself. She needs every word. Every last stuttering confession. Carson’s so tenderly shy and yet so fucking filthy. The combination makes Greta dizzy.
“Yeah,” Carson says. Her knee nudges Greta’s again. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. She knows what she’s doing. She always…does this. Asks so openly. Wants, so blatantly. When Greta was with other women, she was the dirty secret. They wanted her, but they hated that they wanted her. They were ashamed of wanting her.
Not Carson. Her desire burns like a bonfire, bright and hot and impossible to hide. Greta keeps circling closer, knowing how easily she’ll be burned, but basking all the same in the pure heat of Carson’s want, Carson’s need.
And so Greta gives in. “When were you thinking about me?”
“Last night,” Carson says. She takes a breath, her chest rising. “After Shirley was asleep.”
“Oh?” Greta says. She can feel the slow heat of her body, the desire that warms her and seems to pin her to her seat. It’s just words. They’re barely touching; just Carson’s knee, Carson’s warm, strong thigh. Nothing anyone will notice, comment on. It’s safe, safe to want the way Carson makes her feel. No one’s ever made her feel so desirable, as if she’s the center of Carson’s entire world.
“Yes…” A blush is creeping up Carson’s cheeks, and Greta wishes she could lay her palm against her jaw, feel the warmth rising in her skin. “I…I, uh, was thinking about…the tree. Our tree. In the woods.”
“Mmm, I thought you said you were thinking about me?” To make her point, Greta lays her hand on Carson’s leg. Carson’s muscles tense, just from that slow, firm touch. Greta swallows against a rush of excitement. She loves Carson’s legs, the power, the strength in her. Carson’s not the only one who’s had…thoughts. About the time—whenever that might be—that they will have more than stolen moments, more than kisses in the dark. Greta’s spent more than a few of her own spare moments imagining Carson wrapping those legs around her and pulling Greta tight against her as they move against each other. Carson holding her tight, both of them wet and slippery, both of them pushing with every urge, Greta watching Carson’s face when she finally, finally brings Carson completely undone beneath her.
She watches Carson swallow, watches her bite her lip. They’ve gone farther than this before. Greta’s slipped her hand up Carson’s sweater; Carson’s fingers have snuck their way under the waistband at the back of Greta’s skirt. But that’s always been in the heat of the moment, when Greta absolutely can’t bear not to feel Carson’s hot skin under her hands, when she’s lost in the moment, when she’s chasing down every tiny whimper that Carson can’t hold back. When Greta’s on edge, she hardly needs anything more than the memory of the first time she pinched Carson’s nipple through her bra. Carson gasped, went limp and open mouthed in Greta’s arms. Her hips jerked against Greta’s leg and she let out a low, broken whimper that Greta thinks will play in her ears forever.
Fuck, she’s getting wet. “So all this thinking,” Greta says, squeezing Carson’s thigh. “Has it gotten you there?”
“There,” Carson says, and her blush deepens.
“Have you finished?” Greta asks. She knows she’s stopped Carson on the brink more than once, Carson lost and squirming beneath her, her breath coming harsher and louder until Greta knows that one more moment would make Carson cry out, and Greta has to pull back before that sound escapes.
“Uh,” Carson says, shifting in her seat, her eyes on Greta’s hand massaging her leg, “maybe?”
In other words, no. Oh, honey, Greta thinks. Oh dearest. No wonder Carson’s always so eager, so wound up, so restlessly impatient. Greta squeezes Carson’s thigh, almost without thinking, and Carson tips her head back and lets out a slow, shaky breath. She’s not pushing. Fiercely, transparently, not pushing. She knows the rules, knows how quickly Greta can shut things down.
Greta can barely believe that her palm on Carson’s leg, over her skirt, over her stockings, is bringing Carson so close. She peeks again over the top of the seats. The back of the bus is loud, bumpy, shadowed. It’s not the basement, it’s not even the garage. Someone might turn around, might look.
But Carson…She’s so beautiful like this, so sweet in her wanting. And she trusts Greta. Despite her frustration, she’s always trusted Greta to make her feel good.
And her eyes—they’re so wide, like they were the night Greta first kissed her. Deep and warm and a little bit unsure. Greta gives Carson’s thigh another squeeze and Carson’s eyes grow even darker. She’s watching Greta, her lips parted. She’s trembling under Greta’s touch.
“Sit back,” Greta whispers, because, after all this time, she can’t leave Carson like this. She can’t deny her.
“Greta…”
“Not a word,” Greta says. “Not a sound.”
Carson lets out a sudden huff of breath, understanding. She shifts: not even enough to be called slumping, but her knees open just enough that her skirt lifts slightly. Her hand grips the armrest until her knuckles whiten. She’s trying so hard to control her breathing, but Greta’s watching the tick of her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat and she can see Carson’s pulse deepening, quickening. What she wouldn’t give to kiss her right there…to touch her tongue to the fluttering rush of Carson’s desire.
Keeping her eyes on Carson’s, Greta digs her fingernails into Carson’s leg. Carson’s hips jerk and her mouth opens but no sound escapes.
Greta feels a heady surge of pleased power. She wants to kiss Carson, so badly. She glances at Carson’s mouth…and doesn’t.
But she softens her grip, lets her hand shift between Carson’s legs.
She hasn’t touched Carson. Not here. Only the tease of her leg between Carson’s, or the press of their hips together. But never her hand, never her fingers.
Carson deserves so much better than this. Distantly, Greta hates that it’s like this, that she can’t have Carson naked on a wide, soft bed, where they can kiss and touch and Greta can bring Carson, quivering, to every height that Greta wants so badly to show her. Carson deserves all of Greta for her first time, their first time. But Carson’s swallowing, watching her, her hips easing higher as Greta’s hand strokes firmly between her thighs.
“Let me show you,” Greta says. God, she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. They’re practically in public, nothing but a row of empty seats between them and too many eyes. But she can’t turn back, not now that she can see the frantic need in Carson’s eyes. “I want you to feel so good,” she says. “Is that okay, Carson?”
Carson nods, tightly. Her hips roll forward again, a wordless pleading for more. Following the rules—Carson has gotten so good at the rules, even when Greta wishes she didn’t have to.
Greta takes her hand away and Carson does let out a sound then, a frantic whimper of disappointment. It takes every ounce of control for Greta not to kiss her, not to soothe her with her mouth and tongue. “Shh,” she says. She finds the buttons of Carson’s skirt, a line down her hip. Greta pops the top two buttons open. Just enough to give her room, not so much that Carson won’t be able to do them up quickly if she needs to. Greta wishes they had a sweater, a blanket, anything, to cover Carson’s lap, but no one’s watching. No one knows, and Carson can be quiet. Desperately quiet. Greta slides her fingertips along Carson’s stomach. She wants this, wants Carson squirming beneath her touch. Carson is already panting lightly, and Greta can feel the tension in her abs as Carson breathes out and presses up into her touch. “I want to do so much for you,” Greta admits. She wants so much more than she should ever say. Instead, she lets her fingers press lower, and feels Carson’s curls for the first time. Greta’s breath escapes in a rush and her eyes close. She finally manages to drag her eyes open. She needs, needs to see the desperate wonder in Carson’s face as she reaches slowly, softly, lower.
“I wish I could fuck you,” she says, “I wish I could taste you…”
Carson’s eyes widen, and a whimper slips out, and Greta reminds herself. Carson doesn’t know. Greta smiles at her gently, stroking through Carson’s hair, stroking lower. “I think you’d like that,” she says, “my mouth…”
“Greta.” Caron’s voice is husky, her face flushed, her eyes dark as stars.
“Shh,” Greta says again. “I wish I could fuck you, but…do you like this?” She sinks one finger deeper, between Carson’s folds. Carson’s wet and hot and so slippery under Greta’s fingertips.
Carson gasps, and nods, almost frantically. “I, you always make me…”
Greta finds her clit, firm and slick with Carson’s wetness already. “Here,” she says. She strokes up and down, two fingers now, one on either side of Carson’s swollen clit. Carson’s eyes are open, watching her, and Greta leans closer, then, with a sigh, pulls back. She can’t kiss Carson the way she wants, she won’t be able to lick the desperation from her mouth. “You need to slow down, Carson. It’s not like the woods…you’ll take your time for me, won’t you?”
“I can’t,” Carson moans. “There’s never enough time…and I need—you—need…”
“We have time. Tonight,” Greta says, hoping she won’t regret that promise. She can barely rip her gaze away from Carson’s face long enough to check the bus again, even as Carson’s working through her pleasure. Greta assures herself they’re still alone, still unnoticed. They’re safe, safe for Greta to go a little further. Stroke, and stroke again, and a small pause so that Carson lets out another tiny, whimpering sound. She’s soaked, quivering under Greta’s fingers. “Is this how it is when you do it?” Greta asks.
“Yes, but it’s—too slow—I want—Greta…”
“I want you to finish,” Greta says. “I want to see you. Relax. Breathe…”
Carson bites her lip, but the tension in her thighs slowly drains away, so that Greta has more room to ease her fingers lower. She can just reach Carson’s entrance now. She teases her fingertips in circles, around and retreat and circle again, while Carson rocks into the movement. She’d look so beautiful with Greta’s fingers buried deep inside her, so lost.
Greta returns to Carson’s clit, bringing Carson’s wetness on her fingers, so that she can slide over Carson’s clit, again and again. Her own breath is coming faster as she imagines tasting Carson for the first time, drinking down every drop of her arousal, sinking her tongue deep enough to make Carson cry with how good it is. Carson would be loud, so goddamn free with every appreciative sound. She’s always so amazingly honest and Greta knows she’d give in to everything Greta wants for her, her hands, her mouth, her body. But tonight it has to be enough to give Carson this much: to show her how her body can feel.
Carson’s head jerks, her eyes open. Greta can feel her breath, all but hear her heartbeat. She circles two fingertips over Carson’s clit, lightly, lightly, while Carson pants and tries so hard, so hard, not to moan for her. Oh, Greta wants to drink her moans. She keeps her touch slow and light, because she doesn’t want to overwhelm Carson…only bring her to the edge…only allow her this feeling, this sensation. She so wants to be Carson’s first.
“Tell me,” she says. She shouldn’t risk this, but she needs to know. “Carson…tell me…”
“It feels, Greta, oh God. Oh God, your fingers, don’t stop, Greta please don’t stop—”
“You’re close,” Greta says. Carson’s thighs are tight and trembling, her entire body shaking. “So close for me, Carson. I won’t stop. I want you to feel good…let yourself feel it…it’s going to be even better…” She wants so badly to kiss Carson, to taste her name on Carson’s lips, but she doesn’t. She’ll lose herself, if she does. “I like watching you,” she says. “I like watching you…like this…for me...”
“I, it’s, oh...” There’s something like astonishment, something like prayer in Carson’s voice. Suddenly, her legs clamp tight on Greta’s hand, and Greta feels it, the tiny jerking thrusts of Carson’s hips. She’s grinding against Greta’s palm, her mouth open, her voice scratching as she keeps her voice low. “Greta. Greta…”
Greta gives her everything she can, all the time she can. She wants Carson breaking like this for her.
“That’s right,” Greta whispers. “That’s how you make me feel, Carson.”
Carson's legs relax slowly, but Greta keeps her hand between Carson's legs. When Carson finally opens her eyes, God, that dark needy shock is back. That bewildered awe. “Is that how…" Carson swallows. “How it’s supposed to be?”
“No,” Greta says. “It’s supposed to be so much better. When I can taste you. When I can fuck you, Carson…do you want that?”
“Yes…”
“My fingers, inside you, when you’re coming for me? I think you want that.”
“Yes,” Carson says, lifting her hips as if she can chase Greta’s words. “I want… everything. More.”
Greta laughs softly. She should have known Carson wouldn't be finished after one. If they had all the time in the world, Greta would keep going until Carson pushed her away, exhausted, sated. But tonight... “We can’t.”
“I know. But Greta…that was…you make me feel…”
Greta takes her hand slowly from Carson’s skirt. She touches her wet fingertips to Carson’s mouth, unthinking at first, but then Carson’s tongue darts out, and a shock of pleasure hits Greta like lightning. Carson licks her lips, and Greta finds herself blushing now. Carson takes her so well.
Fuck. Greta can’t want that. Shouldn’t want that, shouldn’t need that from Carson. She should be in control, not the needy one, not the one left aching for more. But she simply won’t let Carson see. “Go back to your seat now,” she says.
Carson pouts. “Can I sit with you? Next time?”
Greta shakes her head, imperceptibly. “Stay at the front,” she says.
“But if they’re sleeping…”
“No. Carson,” Greta says. There’s a thick ache in her throat. She can feel her own wetness, her own emptiness. She’s goddamn glad she gave Carson everything, but her own need throbs like regret. “I shouldn’t have.”
Carson sighs, nods. “I…I’m glad you did,” she says. There's a hint of mischief in her eyes, her teasing voice, when she says, “I like when you break a rule for me.”
Fear shivers somewhere behind Greta’s heart. But all she can think is how much she wants to kiss Carson’s mouth, taste Carson from her own lips. She shakes her head again, more firmly this time. “You can practice on your own,” she says, to make Carson blush.
“For you,” Carson says. “But that…I don’t think I’ll ever feel like that on my own.”
“You will,” Greta insists. She wanted so much to be Carson’s first, but it’s too dangerous to ever think about being her only.
“If I do,” Carson says. She takes Greta’s hand, where she’s still slippery with Carson’s wetness. “I’ll be thinking about you. Wanting you. Wanting this.” And this time, she’s the one who brings Greta’s hand to her mouth. Her eyes are open, steady, confident. She leans down and tastes herself, cleans herself from Greta’s fingers.
Greta can feel Carson’s mouth on her fingers like a deep pull between her legs, and she wants to cry. She’s never felt a need like this, a hopeless desire like a heartache. She loves—loves being with Carson, loves everything about her. And Carson’s here now, but she can’t stay.
Finally, Carson stands up and heads to the front of the bus. She takes her seat again with no one so much as glancing at her.
But Greta closes her eyes and knows. She wants Carson just as much, just as strongly. It’s not Carson’s desire she needs to fear.
It’s her own.