Object of Desire

Veronica slouches at her desk again, typing the same line three times and hating it. Down the hall Gabby stretches on the bed, bare skin catching streetlight. When the cursor blinks, Veronica forgets why she called. She leaves her chair, touches Gabby first, mouth brushing the line of her collarbone, then open and wet across a nipple. Gabby watches, unreadable. Their mouths meet once, urgent, then Veronica pulls back and writes the sentence that suddenly feels right. She slips on the leather harness with one practiced move. The strap settles against Gabby’s thigh, thicker and realer than any idea on the page. Gabby arches for it without asking, heat slick on the silicone before it pushes inside. Veronica’s hips set a hard rhythm; each thrust sharpens the next sentence in her head. Gabby’s breath shortens, fingers tugging the back of Veronica’s hair. Between them sweat cools and the room smells like sex and late coffee. After, Veronica pulls out slow, finds the notebook under the pillow, scribbles fast. Gabby turns away, jaw tight, not yet finished. Tension ticks like the second hand on the clock beside the bed.