Ellington is waiting for us when I lead
Dylan out of the serviceway. He’s giddy and breathless and can’t
keep his hands to himself—just the way I like him. I do this to
him, make him this boyish man who holds my hands and rubs up
against me, keeps me close to him, kisses me with little pecks on
my cheek whenever he bumps into me. “I love you,” he sighs—I did
that to him, took his breath away, because we didn’t keep it
clean, like Ellington wanted. Dylan likes the things I did to
him with my tongue, the way I licked and sucked and loved him as he
whimpered my name—I didn’t want anyone else to hear so I put the
flat of my hand in his mouth, and when he came, he bit down so
hard, I still have his teeth marks in my skin.
But by the time we step into the main
corridor, our jumpsuit
