The night is smog-black and the house is all but empty. Carver stands in the motionless living room, breathing air that smells like gingerlily and the sea. Not like that’s hard, on the west coast. Everything from the overcast sky to the cliffs to the veins of the town inhabitants is drenched in the seasalt spray of aeons passed. It’d be more poetic if it didn’t also stink of hot fish guts and seagull shit. She takes another step, moving like a phantom in her combat gear.
The living room isn’t her focus, but she notes fleeting things as she glides through. A framed certificate above the mantelpiece. She squints at the golden lettering. A master’s degree from Atlantic Tech. Marine Biology. A handful of framed photographs showing a smartly-dressed woman with an eye-catching build, wavy brown hair and cheerful chestnut eyes. There you are. A football and a jumble of athletic clothes lie crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Carver inches over them, one hand on the banister and one clamped over her cargo pants pocket to silence the jingle of metal. She’s already sweltering under the weight of the body armour she’s in, but it’s a necessary evil. Not that she’d need it for this job. Tonight, it’s more for the fear factor. The fear factor, in turn, does wonders for Carver’s libido.
The bedroom door is open. It’s been unseasonably warm the last few days, and even from here she can feel the cooling relief from a window left half-cracked somewhere ahead. The carelessness about security makes her shiver. Fuck me, girl. It’s like you were calling me here. She’s sprawled on the bed. Sound asleep. She doesn’t stir when Carver enters, eyes gleaming. Wavy hair tossed around sunburnt shoulders, one leg bent with her arms thrown over her pillow. Looking, for all the world, like Carver’s newest plaything. For the next few minutes, that’s all she is.
She’s bare from the waist up, clad only in a pair of grey boxer shorts. Carver pauses by the edge of her bed, gaze raking the pristine curve of her waist and spine in the strips of pale moonlight. The sight of something on the messy duvet makes her pause. A vibrator. Tossed aside, perhaps as an afterthought. Carver’s mouth begins to water and she trails her eyes down between the prone girl’s thighs. True to her observation, there’s a messy patch of damp on her boxers. Got tired, did you? After that sight, Carver can’t wait any longer. She flicks a switchblade from her pocket open and scores the fabric of the boxers enough to loosen the elastic and slip the garment fully off. That reveals precisely where she wants to be. The girl shifts in her sleep, squishing her cheek into her pillow. She’s facing away from Carver, but even if she weren’t, she’s conked out in such a deep sleep that it wouldn’t matter anyway.
Carver stretches a large hand between her parted thighs and bites back a groan when she makes contact. Her fingertips are instantly soaked. She draws them to her lips for a quick taste—divine—then returns them where she wants them and eases one into slick heat. Her eyes flick to the girl once she’s inside. Any sign of waking now would ruin her fun. But no, she’s still out cold, so Carver works a second thick finger in and starts to pump. Admittedly, Carver would like to see her awake, if even just to see her whine and cry about the stretch. Right now, the only words whirring in her mind are take it take it take it. With her other hand, she squishes a soft handful of her ass for added leverage and curls her fingers. She slid in palm facing down, so she’s angled perfectly for what she wants. She’s only working for a few minutes when muscles in the girl’s thighs start to flutter. Carver doubles down and makes her next few thrusts arc deep and forceful against her g-spot. Above her, the girl looses another pitiful moan. Carver looks up to see her body twitch. That’s all the warning she gets before she feels her squirt into her hand. It’s short and messy, and Carver rides her through it as she continues to jolt.
The girl stirs, then, mumbling nonsense until she blinks up at Carver’s looming form. Carver withdraws her soaked hand and raises an eyebrow. Then the girl smiles. “I thought you weren’t gonna be here until the morning. I had to get started without you.”
Carver doesn’t owe her an explanation. All Hazel is to her is a stress toy to squeeze when things get hectic. Something that makes pretty noises when she fucks into her. Something that’ll let her creep into her room in the wee hours and sleep soundly while her cold hands wander.
“Started and couldn’t finish,” she notes, eyeing the discarded vibrator. Hazel huffs at that, and Carver continues. “You said you were going to be alone tonight. That wasn’t something I could miss.”
Hazel chuckles and stretches her arms upwards—then pauses and frowns. “Did I…” She shifts her thighs. “Did you make me..?”
“Squirt? Yes. You do it more often on your stomach,” Carver says offhandedly. “I would’ve moved you had you not already been lying like that.”
The furious blush on Hazel’s cheeks makes Carver want to pin her down again. She resists, only because Hazel takes that moment to eye her up and down. “You look scary in all that gear. I guess I’m always asleep when you wear it, huh?”
“Came straight from a job,” Carver answers simply. “And now I have to go back to another one. I’ll be around.” She pauses in the doorway and looks back. “Hazel. Next time…”
Hazel starts to grin and she brandishes her vibrator. “Let me guess. You want to catch me in the act?” The only answer Carver gives is the barest shrug of her wide shoulders, but Hazel winks nonetheless. She watches her from the window until she vanishes from sight, then flops back onto the bed and reaches for her vibrator once more.