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Jane’s eyes flash up to her, glinting wicked in the low light.

“You have no fuckin’ idea, girl,” Jane says, and then she’s pushing the lace out of the way.

There are hands, and mouths, and fingertips, and tongues, and a sound coming out of August somewhere between a hiss and a sigh, and there’s Jane’s breath hot on her skin. There are, objectively, a lot of things going on, August understands vaguely, but all she can think is want—how much, how hard, how deep she’s been wanting it, Jane’s been wanting it, all of it held between Jane’s lips now, pressing and blooming through her, so keen that it hurts. Jane bites down, and August sucks in a breath through her teeth.

The hand on August’s thigh is inching up her skirt, fabric gathering at Jane’s wrist. When Jane leans into August’s ear, the cotton of Jane’s bra is against her, the insistent heat of her body, the unbearable slide of skin against hers.

“I wanna go down on you,” Jane murmurs. “Is that cool?”

August’s eyes snap open.

“Wha-what the fuck kind of question is that?”

Jane’s head drops back with a bark of laughter, eyes shut and lips swollen, the line of her throat obscene and gorgeous.

“I need a yes or no.”

“Yes, okay, Jesus.”

“They call me Jane, actually,” Jane says, and August rolls her eyes as Jane sinks down to one knee.

“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard,” August says, fighting to keep her breath steady as Jane tugs on the top of one of her thigh highs with her teeth. The elastic snaps back, and Jane grins against the inside of August’s thigh at the little yelp it earns her. “Did that shit really work on girls in the ’70s?”

“It seems,” Jane says, kissing her way up, and August knows her hand is shaking when she pushes it into the hair at the crown of Jane’s head, but she’ll be goddamned if she’ll act like it, “to be working just fine now.”

“I don’t know.” Jane’s fingers catch on the waistband of August’s underwear. August stares across the car at a Brooklinen ad, of all ridiculous things, because if she confronts the reality of Jane kneeling between her legs and tugging her underwear down her thighs, she’s going to have a full-scale mental collapse. “Don’t get too cocky.”

“You might wanna use the door,” Jane says, “for balance.”


“Because in a minute you’re not gonna be able to feel your legs,” Jane says, and when August finally looks down at her, mouth open in shock, she’s smiling innocently. She pushes the hem of August’s skirt up and says, “Hold this for me, yeah? I’m busy.”

“Absolutely fuck you.” August laughs, and she does as she’s asked.

Truthfully: Jane has never once made a promise she couldn’t back up.

August turns her head to the side, trying to ground herself to the sturdiness of the door against her back, the way her shirt bunches up between her shoulder blades when she shivers, how her breath clouds the glass in a steady, too-fast rhythm. Through the glass, the city is shining—the bridges and buildings, the carousel on the edge of the water, the pinpricks of boats in the distance, and she’s trying to take stock of it all, of how it feels to have someone so impossibly close to her for the first time. She can’t believe she gets to have all this, this view and this girl on her knees.

August has stepped inside a million other moments with Jane and a million other girls, but nobody else can have this one.

If this were one of Jane’s memories, she can almost imagine how Jane would tell it: a girl with long hair twisted up messily, her shirt thrown open, moonlight turning the lace on her chest to gossamer, her mouth slipping open around a broken sound, underwear around her knees and looking absolutely wrecked. She looks up at August, a strand of dark hair falling across her eyes, mouth busy, and August knows she’d tell it herself in five words: girl, tongue, subway, saw God.

August never knew—she never worked it out in her head, exactly, what would qualify as sex with someone who has the same type of body as hers, no matter how much she wanted it, pictured it with one hand beneath the sheets. She didn’t think she’d know, since she’s never done any of it, where the line is. But this, this—Jane’s mouth on her, wet fingers, every hum and hitch of Jane’s breath getting her off as much as a touch, the give and take of how good it feels to make someone else feel good—is sex. It’s sex, and August is drowning in it. She wants more. She wants to fill her lungs up.

“Jane,” she says, and it comes out weak from the back of her throat. Her knuckles are white in Jane’s hair, so she makes herself relax them, drags her fingers down to Jane’s sharp cheekbone. “Jane.”


“Fuck, I—come back,” she grinds out. “Up here. Please.”

When August pulls her into another kiss, she can taste herself on Jane’s tongue, and that, more than anything, the fierce wave of possessiveness it pulls over her, is what has her fumbling at the fastenings of Jane’s jeans.

It’s a blur—August doesn’t know how she senses what to do. There’s supposed to be an awkward learning curve with someone you’ve never fucked before, but there’s not. There’s this flow between them that’s never made any goddamn sense since that static shock the day they met, and it’s like she’s found her way into this girl’s jeans a thousand times, like Jane’s had her figured out for years. She thinks dazedly that maybe it’s time to start believing in something. The fucking divine construction of Jane’s fingers when they press into her, maybe—that’s a higher power for sure.

It’s over in a gasp, a trip over some edge August doesn’t see until they’re suddenly there, an open-mouthed kiss that’s more a hot exchange of breath than anything else, teeth and skin, a low swear. Jane slumps forward, her shoulder digging into August’s chest, one hand still tucked neatly beneath the lace of August’s bra, and August feels alive. She feels present, somehow, here. Exactly, really here. She smears a messy kiss across the top of Jane’s cheek and feels like Jane is the first thing she’s ever touched in her life.

“You were right,” August says.

“About what?”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

Jane laughs, and the lights come back on.

Jane moves first, picking her head up to glare at the lights. And it’s so ridiculous, so funny and unbelievable and Jane, perturbed at the world for daring to defy her instead of the other way around, that August has to laugh.

“Get your hand off my boob. We’re in public,” she says as the train eases back into motion.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jane snorts, and she stumbles back half a step to let August button her shirt. She watches August shimmy her underwear back up her thighs with devilish interest, looking pleased with herself, and August would blush if she weren’t already pink from everything else.

Jane buttons her jeans and tucks her shirt in and disentangles August’s glasses from her jacket, and then she’s crowding back into August’s space, gently sliding her glasses on.

“I can’t believe you threw them,” August says. “They could have fallen on the floor and picked up a bacterial infection. You could have given me conjunctivitis.”