77. Chapter 77

The silk feels slightly foreign on her skin, which is used to tougher stuff, but she imagines Maggie’s fingers running over the material – running under the material – and she licks her lips and runs her fingers through her hair and checks the low cut, just-barely-covering-her-ass dress (more of a slip, really) in the mirror before grabbing her glasses and slipping them on as an afterthought.

She stares at Maggie for a moment – lounging on the couch, beer in hand, catching up on Quantico for no reason other than to mock the FBI and watch Priyanka Chopra exist – before gulping, before grabbing the remote and pausing the TV, before setting her phone into the speaker Maggie had brought from her apartment and pressing play on one of her favorite Beyoncé tracks.

“Babe, what – oh. Oh. God. Fuck.”

“Am I interrupting, Sawyer?” Alex asks, licking her lips and keeping her eyes locked in Maggie’s as her hips catch the rhythm, as Maggie’s jaw hits the floor and Alex crosses in front of Maggie, keeping her sitting with a gentle push on her shoulders and a wink from behind her glasses.

Maggie tries to speak and Maggie utterly fails, and Alex holds her bottom lip with her teeth as she pauses.

“Did you want me to stop?”

“I – it – no, Alex, fuck, no.”

“English language giving you trouble, Sawyer?” Alex chides with wicked eyes, her voice several octaves lower than it usually is, and Maggie doesn’t bother to refute her. She just reaches her hands out for Alex’s hips, for Alex’s body, for Alex, because she’s in a silk slip and she’s wearing her glasses and she’s starting to dance and Jesus Christ she needs to touch her.

“Nnnhnn,” Alex chastises, swatting Maggie’s hands away gently, arching an eyebrow behind those glasses and letting her lips curve into a lopsided grin. “I didn’t say you could touch.”

“Sorry,” Maggie breathes, and Alex smiles, and Alex turns, and Alex watches Maggie over her shoulder because god does it feel good to see the raw need, the raw want, the raw lust on her face as Alex bends, as Alex brings her hips down, brings her hands down to brace herself on the couch on either side of Maggie’s legs, brings her ass down, grinding down in perfect time into Maggie’s body.

“Al – Alex,” Maggie chokes, and Alex hums, and she reaches back to take Maggie’s hands – obediently raised in surrender, obediently raised in a ‘you told me not to touch you so I’m not even though dear god is it destroying me’ palms up pose at her sides – and bring them to her waist. Maggie groans and grinds her hips up into Alex’s ass and Alex chuckles deep in her throat and moves her ass harder and Maggie is tossing her head onto the back of the couch because Maggie is wrecked and can do nothing but moan and splutter and grab and fight to keep her eyes on the woman in a silk slip and glasses giving her the most perfect lap dance she could ever imagine.

“Maggie?” Alex asks over her shoulder, and Maggie grunts something unintelligible in response.

“Wanna take me to bed and reward me for giving you a lap dance?”

And Maggie might be wrecked and she might have forgotten what oxygen is and she might have forgotten how to speak, but she remembers how to stand and she remembers how to spin Alex around and lift her up and kiss her mouth and carry her to the bedroom and lay her down and fuck her until her throat is sore from screaming and her eyes are glazed from cumming that hard.

“So… you like when I give you lap dances? Cause that’s… that’s what I’m getting.”

“Know what babe, I’m not too sure. Think you could… try again? Give me a bigger sample size to analyze?”

“And you call me a nerd.”

“In those glasses?”

“You like these glasses.”

“Damn right I do.”