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Santos takes a long, lazy hit of her vape and opens her email for the fifth time, skimming over the lengthy block of text like it’s changed in the last seventeen hours. Dear Ms. Trinity Santos, we are very pleased to confirm you have been accepted for an internship at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital Emergency Department, beginning blah blah blah. Details are details. What matters is that she’s going to be an ER doctor, after years and years of busting her ass, years of all-nighters and never going out and saving every red cent for textbooks and supplies, and she’s going to fucking celebrate.
Well, celebrate, she supposes, is relative. She can’t afford a steak dinner or an actual party or anything like that, so instead she’s gone out drinking with a few friends and been promptly abandoned by said friends the moment they met guys they thought were cute. Which is fine. Santos is used to it by now. She seems to exclusively attract straight women—be it friends, colleagues, or hookups—and really, it stopped bothering her years ago. She’s got thick skin. It’s one of her best qualities. You have to be unrufflable, growing up the way she did, living the way she does, and over the years she’s given up caring about girls who take her number but don’t call her back and go scuttling off the moment she tries to kiss them when it’s light out. Their loss, she thinks, and she means it most of the time.
She takes another puff and blows a strawberry-vanilla-ice cloud into Pittsburgh’s frigid night, dropping her vape back into the pocket of her jeans and turning to head back inside the warmth of the bar. Probably she’s gonna be able to bow out now. Two beers and an hour of conversation before her friends splintered off to flirt is plenty of celebration, right? It’s gonna have to be at this rate, and she’s fine with that, really, she is, because she’s not going to get much of a party anywhere else. Whatever.
It’s sticky and warm inside, so jam-packed with bodies that Santos has to shove her way back to the bar to settle her tab, ignoring the dirty looks and mutters that her patented elbow jab gets her. If they’d move out of her fucking way, there wouldn’t be a problem. She passes Sarah, who’s laughing at something a tall guy with a moustache is saying, and makes a second of impassioned eye contact with her before her eyes slide right back to the guy and she laughs again. Jesus, Santos needs better friends. She sighs, hits another person with her elbow, and wriggles her way out of the crowd just in time to snag a spot at the bar before a man with a septum ring gets their first. Snooze you lose, asshole. Maybe another beer won’t kill her. She is celebrating, after all.
“Another Corona,” Santos says to the bartender, resting her elbows on the scratched-up wood, and someone beside her scoffs. Ordinarily, Santos might choose to ignore this. She doesn’t care about people making fun of her, she doesn’t care about people who don’t like her attitude, and she especially doesn’t care about a stranger’s opinion of her; but it’s kind of a pretty scoff. The sort of scoff that might come out of the mouth of a beautiful woman, and Santos likes beautiful women. She turns her head, and is indeed greeted by a very beautiful woman. A dark-eyed, dark-haired woman with full lips twisted into a scowl, twisting a little plastic sword between two fingers as she eyes Santos like she’s something scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
“Nobody ever taught you manners?” The woman asks, dropping her sword on a cocktail napkin while swilling the remaining sip or two of her martini, and Santos rolls her eyes. She does, however, roll them with far less venom than she usually might if one of the hottest women she’s ever seen in real life wasn’t lecturing her about minding her ps and qs. “How about a please? A thank you?
“Thank you,” Santos tells the bartender when he returns with her beer, watching him jam a desiccated wedge of lime into the neck of the bottle before he hands it over. He gives her a strange look and walks away again. Santos turns to the woman and raises a single eyebrow, taking a sip of her beer and doing her best not to grimace before she speaks again. “Better?”
“Much better, though your attitude could use some work. I guess I can chalk that up to the fact that you’re drinking alone.” The woman looks Santos up and down slowly, and Santos takes the opportunity to do the same. She’s wearing loose brown pants and a grey sweater that fits her perfectly, black curls scraped up and away from her face, and Santos wonders if she’s straight and decides she doesn’t care if she is.
“Ouch.” It doesn’t really sting the way she suspects the woman thought it might, but Santos presses her palm to her chest as if she’s been wounded anyways. “I could say the same about you, you know.”
“That you could,” The woman cocks her head. “Are you really out by yourself on a Saturday night? I thought young people were supposed to be fun.”
“No. My friends and I are celebrating.”
“Oh? Did you finally turn twenty-one?”
Santos huffs, swigging her beer again. The woman doesn’t actually look that old, maybe a decade or so older than Santos herself, but there’s a quiet sort of wisdom in the way she carries herself, like she’s seen too much too soon. Santos knows that sort—knows that sort because she sees that sort in the mirror every single morning, but the way this woman is looking at her makes her banish all that from her brain and focus on the gorgeous woman currently flirting with her.
“Hardly. Job stuff. I just finished med school, and I got this really great internship, so.” Santos waves her bottle, letting herself trail off, and she’s surprised when the woman’s brown eyes brighten.
“Congratulations. That’s quite the accomplishment,” The woman says, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She raises her martini and Santos obliges, tapping the neck of her bottle against the rim of the woman’s glass and grinning despite herself. It is an accomplishment. It’s the hardest thing Santos has ever done, and she’s done a lot of hard shit in her life. “Surely that warrants more of a celebration than being ditched by your friends in this dump.”
“I don’t really care.” Santos just shrugs. She can’t imagine what she’d actually do to celebrate, and even if she could, there’s no way she could actually afford it. It is what it is. Maybe in fifteen, twenty years, when she has the kind of fuck-you money doctors get after they’ve been practicing for a while, she’ll do something. For now the thrill of rereading that email and the buzz of two and a half beers and the way this woman is looking at her will have to do.
“There’s that attitude again,” the woman clicks her tongue, finishing the last dregs of her martini and setting the glass down on the bartop. “You’re never going to make it as a doctor with that kind of bedside manner.”
“Oh, I can assure you, my bedside manner is impeccable.”
“I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
“I’d be happy to prove it,” Santos says before she can stop herself and the woman raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. She doesn’t look disgusted, however, more intrigued than anything else, and alright, Santos can work with intrigued. Better than ‘horrified’ or ‘grossed out’ or entirely repulsed’. Maybe she’s married, maybe she’s straight, maybe she’s straight and married. Santos couldn’t care less, as long as she doesn’t stop looking at her like that.
“Finish your beer,” The woman murmurs, her voice dropping to a whisper that Santos can barely hear over the pounding of the music, and Santos tips her head back and drinks. Chugs, really. It burns going down, mostly because she hates the taste of beer, but when she’s finished she sets the bottle down and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and practically preens beneath the woman’s approving gaze. “There you are. Good. Do you need to tell anyone you’re leaving?”
“They won’t notice.” Santos shakes her head, trying and failing to disguise her eagerness, and the woman flashes that lazy smile again.
“Suit yourself. Pay for the drinks and meet me outside. Five minutes or I’m going home without you,” She says, pushing herself off the edge of the bar and straightening up. They’re the same height almost exactly, the woman is maybe a half-inch taller, and she slings her purse over her shoulder before disappearing into the throng of people and walking towards the exit. Santos has never paid for anything so quickly in her entire life, though she does grimace at the price of two martinis and three beers. Christ, she can’t make a habit out of this.
“You didn’t tell me your name.” Santos says once she’s rejoined the woman outside, forty bucks poorer and exponentially hornier. Why dropping forty dollars she doesn’t have has made her want to fuck this woman senseless, she isn’t sure, but it has, and she falls into an easy step with the woman as she starts to walk. They’re going to her place, then. Fine by Santos. She just moved to a new place and is waiting on the delivery of an IKEA bed frame, plus she hasn’t done laundry in a few days. This woman probably sleeps on something better than a mattress on the floor and based solely on the scent of her perfume, clean and fresh and slightly floral, she does laundry regularly and doesn’t let it pile up into a daunting mountain in the corner.
“You didn’t tell me yours.”
“It’s Santos.”
“Just Santos?” The woman asks, incredulous, and Santos feels her cheeks go slightly pink. Only her parents and her sisters call her Trinity, she’s been through entire semesters without professors even knowing her first name, and she’d really prefer not to add another name to that list, even if it is inevitably going to be a really hot name.
“Yeah. Santos.”
“I’m Yolanda.” She says, and Santos rolls the name around in her mouth a few times. Yolanda. It suits her.
“Just Yolanda?” Santos asks, resisting the urge to reach into her pocket for her vape, and the woman cuts her eyes over and gives her half a grin that makes warmth flare up in Santos’s stomach.
“Mhm. Just Yolanda.” Yolanda confirms. Well, Santos didn’t exactly offer up her own name, so just Yolanda it is. Gonna make her a hell of a lot harder to google later, but it is what it is. How many Yolandas live in Pittsburgh, anyways? Probably less than there are Santoses. She’s pretty sure she isn’t even the only Santos in her building. Yolanda quickens her pace, the dim light of the streetlamps painting her yellow and gold, and Santos nearly stops to stare before she remembers that Yolanda threatened to leave her behind and breaks into a half-jog just to catch up.
Yolanda lives shockingly close to the bar, barely four blocks away, and it feels like no time at all before she’s slipping her shoes off at the click of Yolanda’s reproachful tongue and setting them on the rack by the door. Santos watches her flick the lights on and illuminate a very clean, very homey apartment with hardwood floors and soft blue walls and furniture that probably costs more than Santos’s rent, and follows without being invited when Yolanda sheds her own shoes and coat and walks into the living room. Her heart is pounding, so hard she can feel it in her throat, and once they’re standing on the plush rug, Santos’s socked feet sinking into the soft fibers as she looks around at the art on the walls, Yolanda turns around and gives her that lazy smile and kisses her.
Not hard, not deep, but with a self-assured confidence that makes Santos weak in the knees as Yolanda’s hand comes up to settle on her waist. She tastes of salt and gin and Santos kisses her back eagerly, toes curling into the carpet when Yolanda’s tongue slips between her lips, body anchored to the Earth only where Yolanda is touching her. The rest of the world falls away.
Santos makes an embarrassing little noise when Yolanda’s free hand sinks into her hair, her fingers long and slender and practiced as they wrap up a handful of thick dark locks and twist, tipping Santos’ head back just enough to grant better access to her mouth. God, she tastes so fucking good, she’s touching Santos just enough to keep her desperate for more, she’s everywhere and everything and Santos never wants her to stop. Yolanda pulls her closer by that hand in her hair, body burning hot even through her sweater, and it’s only when Santos lets out another trembling, needy sound that Yolanda comes up for air.
“You’re so beautiful,” Santos breathes the moment their lips aren’t occupied, though a string of spit still connects their mouths, and Yolanda just smiles. She has a devastating, gorgeous smile, the sort of smile that must break hearts, and Santos nearly clacks their teeth together in her effort to taste that grin. Yolanda laughs into her mouth and grabs at the hem of her shirt, those nimble fingers peeling black fabric up and over Santos’ head and tossing it in an ungainly pile to the carpet. Oh, thank God Santos wore her second-best bra tonight. She does not need Yolanda seeing the faded yellow sports bra with the hole in the back. Yolanda runs her fingers over Santos’s back as they kiss, humming approval into her mouth when they find the hard remnants of gymnast muscle, and the thrill of pride that runs through Santos’s belly at that approval is really quite pathetic. She reaches for Yolanda’s sweater, savouring the warm skin of her stomach under her knuckles as she starts to pull it off, but Yolanda catches her arm when the sweater is halfway up her torso and presses her thumb into the fluttering pulse of Santos’s wrist.
“So greedy,” Yolanda says, her mouth so close to Santos’s own that Santos can practically taste the sweet warmth of her lips, and then she moves away, sitting down on the plush blue couch and leaving Santos standing kiss-drunk and slightly dazed in the middle of the rug. She props her elbow on the arm of the couch, examining Santos with dark eyes gone liquid in the lamplight, and then crooks one beckoning finger. “Come here.”
Santos practically lurches towards her, very nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste, but the click of Yolanda’s tongue stops her dead in her tracks. Yolanda shakes her head, a black curl escaping her bun as she moves, and she points that same beckoning finger at the floor. Fuck, does she want Santos to crawl? That feels…incredibly demeaning, but her knees meet the carpet so quickly she knows she’s going to have wicked rug burn in the morning and she finds herself crawling across the living room floor without breaking eye contact, that same lazy grin back on Yolanda’s face as she watches Santos move. She’s almost past the coffee table, almost at Yolanda’s calves, almost ready to straighten back up and strip Yolanda bare so they can go at it on the sofa, when a foot comes to rest in the center of her forehead and keeps her just out of reach.
“We just talked about your attitude, didn’t we?” Yolanda asks, her voice both firm and teasing as she looks down at Santos. “Use your manners.”
“Please, can I touch you?” Santos begs, sitting back on her heels and gazing up at Yolanda, wondering how the fuck she got herself into this situation and how the fuck she’s going to make sure she gets herself into this situation again, and at Yolanda’s tilted head she keeps going. “Can I fuck you, please, god please, can I taste you, I want to taste you so bad, please, please let me touch you, fuck, please let me make you come—”
“I thought you said your bedside manner was impeccable.” Yolanda eases up the pressure on Santos’s forehead, though she doesn’t move her foot, keeping her maddeningly far from what she wants, even as every cell in Santos’s body screams at her to get closer, get between her legs, kiss her until they’re both breathless and devour her like she’s been starving for years, fuck her senseless and then fuck her again. God, she’s never wanted anyone this badly in her entire life. She’s never needed anyone this badly, never felt this urgent spark of desire that might never be quelled, never been struck with this desperate and burning hunger, and this need must be painted stark across her face, because Yolanda drops her foot and leans forward to pat Santos’s cheek firmly.
“We’ll work on it.” Yolanda draws her hand back and undoes the button of her pants, lifting her hips just enough to get them down past her thighs so Santos can do the rest. Santos does, eagerly, tugging them down and off and slotting herself neatly between Yolanda’s bare knees and pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Her skin is soft and warm, rich brown against the thin pink cotton of her underwear, and fuck, they’re soaked through, so wet that Santos’s breath catches in her throat as she takes a deep inhale. She ghosts her tongue over the damp cotton, the spark in her belly catching fire as she gets her first taste of Yolanda, and Yolanda lets one palm come to rest on the back of Santos’s head and scrapes gently over her scalp.
Santos has half a mind to tear Yolanda’s underwear off like they’re in some shitty romance novel, but she has a feeling that’s just going to piss Yolanda off, and so she hooks her fingers in the waistband and pulls them off, seriously debating tucking them into the pocket of her jeans but ultimately deciding against it for the same reason. God, she’s fucking gorgeous, the trimmed dark curls between her thighs sopping wet and sweet-smelling, and Santos doesn’t bother teasing. Yolanda shudders as Santos licks a long stripe up her cunt, a muscle in her thigh twitching against Santos’s cheek, and Santos nearly groans into those soft curls at the sound of her, the taste of her, the way she feels beneath her tongue. The sweetest thing Santos has ever known. She licks her again and again, digging her fingers into the soft flesh of Yolanda’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises as she does, hoping Yolanda wears purple fingerprints for a week, hoping she sees the marks Santos left every time she gets dressed in the morning and remembers the way Santos feasted on her. Fuck, she tastes good.
“God,” Yolanda breathes above her, her hips bucking up to meet Santos’s mouth when Santos laps hard at her clit, the hand braced against the back of Santos’s skull tightening in her hair. “Fuck, that’s good. That’s it.”
“Oh yeah?” Santos can’t help herself, she never can, and she’s rewarded once by the way Yolanda’s slick center rubs up against her mouth and twice by a dull thud as the heel of Yolanda’s hand thumps into the back of her head. She probably deserved that one.
“Smartass,” Yolanda scoffs, but it dissolves into a loud moan when Santos pushes deeper into her cunt with her tongue, her nose grinding against Yolanda’s clit hard enough that she can feel the way it makes Yolanda clench around her. She could do this for hours; really, she’d be happy to die down here as long as Yolanda doesn’t stop grabbing at her hair and sighing and calling her names: but when she curls her tongue just so and exerts just the right amount of pressure against Yolanda’s clit, Yolanda lets out a long, fractured groan and comes in and on and around and against Santos’s mouth. Santos licks her through it, desperate for as much of her as she’s willing to give, eager to drink her down and then some, savouring the way her cunt spasms as she rides out the last waves of her orgasm against Santos’s tongue.
Yolanda drags her head away by the hair once she’s stopped shuddering, putting two fingers underneath Santos’s chin to tip her face up to the light of the lamps and the light of Yolanda’s scrutinizing gaze. Santos basks in it, knowing the entire bottom half of her face must be slick and shiny and wet, glowing with pride and satisfaction as Yolanda drags the pad of her thumb across her lower lip. They watch each other for a moment, both half-dressed, both flushed and warm and wanting, and then Yolanda gets to her feet and tugs Santos up with her and kisses her again.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” Yolanda murmurs into her open mouth and Santos nods so eagerly she nearly cracks her forehead against the bridge of Yolanda’s nose. She earns herself another smile at least, one that sends a lightning bolt directly into her veins and makes her shiver despite the fact that she’s burning hot inside. “Good. Come on, then.”
Santos allows herself to be led out of the living room and down the hall, past a darkened kitchen full of stainless steel appliances, and into a very spacious, very tidy bedroom. Yolanda releases Santos’s hand just long enough to turn the lamps on and then she’s back in front of her, skating her hands over the thin skin covering Santos’s ribcage as she eases her bra up and over her head. Santos helps her get it off and feels her heart skip a beat when one of Yolanda’s thumbs dances over her nipple, goosebumps cropping up along her chest as Yolanda touches her. God, her hands feel good. Strong and steady and warm, skilled as they explore the exposed skin of Santos’s torso, clearly used to the feeling of sensitive skin beneath them. She moves down to the waist of Santos’s jeans, undoing and unzipping them and guiding Santos to step out of them with a hand on her hip, though honestly Santos doesn’t need much encouragement at this point. She’s fucking aching for Yolanda’s touch.
“Sit down.” Yolanda says, nodding at the large, neatly-made bed, and Santos jumps to obey. The comforter is soft against the backs of her thighs and she wriggles to get comfortable as Yolanda sheds her own sweater and then unclips her bra, now entirely bare to Santos’s gaze. Fuck, she’s breathtaking. Long lines and soft flesh Santos wants to sink her teeth into, so beautiful it feels like Santos has been punched in the gut, and she presses her thighs together as Yolanda opens the bottom drawer of her nightstand and emerges clutching a handful of straps and a light blue tube.
Santos makes an ungodly noise at the sight, her mouth going suddenly dry. Oh, Jesus. She didn’t think this was what Yolanda meant. She was expecting two long, slender fingers and a thumb at her clit, one that would likely send her over the edge embarrassingly quickly, not a purple strap-on ribbed for her pleasure. Yolanda drops the bottle of lube on the bed and raises an eyebrow at Santos’s stricken expression, resting one palm against the bare skin of her thigh and stroking her thumb over the side of her knee.
“Never used one?” Yolanda asks, the blunt edge of her nail scraping against Santos’s thigh and making her shudder.
Santos shakes her head. She has, but she’s usually the one securing a harness around her hips and spitting in her hand to get it wet. The idea of Yolanda pressing into her, though, filling her, taking her, makes her feel dizzy in the very best way, and honestly, she’d let Yolanda do whatever she wanted at this precise moment as long as she keeps touching her. “Not in a while. I’m usually a giver.”
“Isn’t that cute.” Yolanda slides the harness up and over her thighs, tightening each band around her hips, and Santos shudders again. Fuck, what is this woman doing to her? She’s never considered being on the receiving end of a strap-on in her life and here she is, letting Yolanda slide her boxer briefs down her legs and groaning when that steady hand parts her thighs and delves between them. “Next time, hm?”
Santos nods, forcing a breath out through her teeth as Yolanda cups her in one hand. Finally. Even that brush of friction makes Santos grind down into her palm, desperate for even a moment of relief, and Yolanda huffs a laugh, reaching over for the bottle of lube and slicking up the strap-on. Santos doesn’t think she needs it, honestly, she’s never been this wet in her life, surely she’s dripping onto Yolanda’s soft white comforter, but she’s also never been fucked like this before and she’d really rather it doesn’t hurt. That much, anyways. Sometimes she likes a little pain with her pleasure.
Yolanda settles on top of her, a few errant curls tickling Santos’s cheeks, and then she kisses her again, her mouth and her cheeks and down her neck, scraping her teeth over Santos’s collarbones hard enough to leave a mark, moving down her body until she catches one nipple in her mouth and sucks. Santos’s back arches off the bed, the pressure of Yolanda’s tongue against her sensitive breast enough to make her clench around nothing at all, and Yolanda lets out a satisfied hum as her teeth sink into that sensitive flesh. God, Santos is going to die and it’s going to be from the feeling of Yolanda’s tongue working at her other nipple, the other hard and shiny with spit and still smarting from the little red marks left there, it’s going to kill her, it’s going to be her ruin, and she wants Yolanda inside her so badly she has half a mind to flip them over and ride her ‘til morning.
“Let’s try manners again.” Yolanda says, lifting her head from Santos’s breasts and looking up at her with what can only be described as a smug grin. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Please.” Santos breathes, barely able to get the word out.
“Please what? Tell me what you want, darling.”
“Please fuck me, Yolanda. Please.”
“Where?” Yolanda drags her thumb over Santos’s lower lip again, this time letting her fingertip slide onto Santos’s tongue for a moment. “I could fuck this smart little mouth. See how much of an attitude you have when I’m all the way down your throat. Is that what you want?”
Well, it is now, but God, if Yolanda doesn’t fuck her properly soon she’s going to start humping the mattress, and so Santos shakes her head. Yolanda raises both eyebrows, releasing Santos’s jaw, and blows a stray curl away from her forehead. “No? Tell me where, then. Use your words.”
“Please fuck my cunt.” Santos inhales sharply when Yolanda notches the blunt head of the strap-on against said cunt, which is sloppy wet and eager and desperate, aching so badly Santos can feel it in her bones, and the grin that curls across Yolanda’s lips is maybe the prettiest thing Santos has ever seen in her entire life. She leans down to kiss Santos again, her tongue sweeping into her mouth in one broad stroke, and at the same moment she pushes into Santos in a slow, steady thrust that makes Santos groan against her lips.
Oh, holy shit. The stretch hurts for a moment, a delicious sort of pain that Santos can feel all the way down in her toes, but Yolanda is there, kissing her, one hand stroking her cheek and the other keeping most of her weight propped up, her body soft and warm and wonderful against Santos’s own. And fuck, when their hips meet, when Yolanda is seated entirely inside her, the pleasure is so overwhelming Santos can barely take in air.
“Deep breath. Atta girl,” Yolanda coaxes, rubbing her nose against Santos’s as she tucks a dark lock of hair behind her ear. “There you go. How’s that feel?”
“Good,” Santos pants, because it does feel good, it feels fucking fantastic, and the way Yolanda is looking at her, the way Yolanda is touching her, feels even better. “It feels—I feel—full.”
“Want me to move?” Yolanda asks. Santos nods, shifting her hips against Yolanda’s, and Yolanda answers this nod by drawing nearly entirely out of her before she pushes back in. This time Santos feels nothing but want, pleasure like she’s never known, and she groans, digging her nails into Yolanda’s shoulders as the base of the toy bumps up against her clit. Another bump makes her sink her teeth into her lower lip to suppress a cry, but Yolanda shakes her head, clicking her tongue in that way that drives Santos fucking crazy. “Let me hear you.”
Santos has less than an instant to obey, because Yolanda thrusts into her hard right then, hitting some spot up inside her that makes her keen so loudly it nearly echoes. She can feel her cheeks go red at the sound that’s practically a whimper, the sort Santos has never made before and (based solely on two promises of another hookup) will likely make again, and Yolanda just kisses her again, smiling against her lips as she does.
She screws her eyes shut and loses herself in the feeling. Loses herself in Yolanda, really, in the steady rhythm of her hips and the warmth of her skin, in the smell of her hair and the way her lips feel as they dance across her throat, in the absolute unwavering desire that threatens to overwhelm her. She didn’t know bottoming could feel this good and even if she did, she doesn’t think it would feel this good with anyone else, she thinks maybe Yolanda is the only woman who could have kindled this need inside her, the only woman who could make being spread out and fucked feel this right, and she drags her nails down Yolanda’s back and buries her face in the crook of her neck.
“I know, I know,” Yolanda murmurs in her ear, cupping the back of Santos’s head in one hand as her free hand slips down between them. “You’re doing so well, darling, just a little more. All you need to do is ask me nicely.”
Santos would do whatever Yolanda wanted right now. She’d give her every cent she has, chequing and savings, she’d prostrate herself on the floor, scrape and bow and beg, if it just means Yolanda will keep stroking at her clit as she fucks her in strong, thorough thrusts that feel so good Santos wants to scream into the muscle of her shoulder.
“Please make me come,” she gasps, her voice hoarse—barely her own. Yolanda rests her forehead against Santos’s, their faces so close Santos can see the faint lines around her eyes and the liquid brown within them, breaths mingling as Santos keeps going. “Please, I want to come, I want you to make me come, I want to come with you inside me, I want you to come inside me, please-”
Santos comes so hard her back arches off the bed when Yolanda grinds her palm against her clit, all of the evening’s pent-up desire making her shake and shudder and twitch as Yolanda fucks her through it. She feels like she’s being burned alive and torn apart and she never wants it to end, but when it does, after what feels like an eternity, she collapses against the mattress and welcomes Yolanda’s weight on top of her.
They lie there for a while. Santos is in no particular rush to move, to lose the feeling of Yolanda on top of her and inside her and wrapped around her, she feels warm and comfortable and better than she has in a long time, even though her thighs are sticky and wet and there’s a strange dull ache in her hips she’s choosing to attribute to the strap-on still all the way inside her. Yolanda sifts her fingers through her hair, scraping her nails gently along her scalp in a way that makes Santos want to start purring, and it’s only when the slick and lube coating her thighs starts to get tacky that she shifts beneath her.
“Another deep breath for me,” Yolanda says. Santos inhales, doing her best not to wince at the loss of Yolanda inside her as she pulls out and gets up off the bed, strap-on bobbing obscenely around her hips. They look at each other, Santos limp and boneless on the bed, Yolanda standing between her calves where they’re dangling off the mattress, and Yolanda smiles down at her and gives the inside of her knee a pat. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”
“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” Santos drapes her forearm across her eyes and sighs, listening to Yolanda’s resounding laugh as she disappears into the ensuite. Fucking hell. What is she meant to do with herself now? Ask Yolanda out? Propose? She yawns instead, running a hand over her face, and props herself up on her elbows when Yolanda comes back into the room with a washcloth in her hand. She’s taken the strap off, though there’s a faint red dent on her hip where the harness just bit into her skin, and Santos fights the urge to clamp her legs together when Yolanda kneels on the bed between her spread thighs to clean up.
“What do you want to specialise in?” Yolanda asks as she drags the warm, damp cloth along the inside of Santos’s thigh. Santos frowns at her, tensing slightly beneath her touch when she wipes the swollen, aching flesh of her cunt, and Yolanda finishes removing the last dregs of lube and slick and tosses the washcloth into her hamper. “You said you just finished medical school. What do you want to do?”
“Oh.” Santos frowns again. “I haven’t decided yet. I spent some time—” She cuts herself with another loud yawn and Yolanda laughs again, a warm, throaty laugh that Santos wants to drink with a straw. Fuck, she didn’t even realize how tired she was. She supposes getting fucked that hard really takes it out of you, that and three beers and the fact that it’s—she turns her head to look at the alarm clock on Yolanda’s nightstand—three in the morning. Christ. Were they really fucking for that long? For literal hours?
“Stay the night,” Yolanda says. It’s not a question or an offer, but it’s not quite an order, either. Santos is privately relieved either way. She did not want to collect the clothes strewn around Yolanda’s apartment and redress with wobbly legs and limp home right now. She nods, kissing Yolanda again, savouring the taste of her mouth, and Yolanda kisses her back for a moment before tapping the side of her neck with two fingers and tugging her beneath the covers.
They fall asleep like that, tangled beneath the comforter, a mess of dark hair and long limbs and warm skin, and it’s quite possibly the best night’s sleep Santos has ever had.
It would be inappropriate for Santos to say that she’s thrilled when two stretchers come crashing into the emergency room twenty minutes into her first day in the Pitt, so she won’t say that. What she will say is that she’s already annoyed by Dr. Langdon, charmed by Dr. Collins, and finds herself suddenly irritated about being away from her phone for so long. She’s not the kind of person who’s addicted to technology, really, some of her classmates in med school would spend entire classes glued to their phones while they were meant to be learning, but these past few weeks she’s been texting Yolanda so often that she’s actually turned her ringer on. Her ringer. Like she’s turning into her mother.
In any case, Yolanda hasn’t texted her back since last night, so it doesn’t matter anyway. What does matter is the screaming and the blood and the beeping of monitors, the fact that she gets to work, she gets to be in the action, that Dr. Robby points at her and tells her to do something and trusts that she knows how to do it. He tells her to go and assist Mohan with an intubation while he pages Garcia, whoever that is. He’s mentioned Garcia twice now, both times with a degree of respect that suggests Garcia is a friend of his, a respected colleague or something. Probably some old guy who’s been doing surgery longer than Santos has been alive and only gets his choice of good cases, the kind of guy Langdon seems to aspire to be. Whatever. Santos doesn’t care. She cares about snapping on a pair of gloves and sliding some protective glasses up her nose and ignoring the weight of her phone in her pocket, though right now she’d give anything to hear it buzz. Mohan has already propped the patient’s mouth open and prepped everything, but she steps aside once Santos arrives and nods her head at the tubes like Santos knows what to do. And she does, and it feels good to know what to do.
“The cords are very anterior,” Santos says, peering at the monitor, and Mohan grabs her hand, pressing cold fingers into her knuckles so she can keep a solid grip on the trach tube and not stab the guy in the throat.
“Yeah, that’s because we can’t flex the neck.” Mohan moves Santos’s hand up, gripping her wrist a bit harder than necessary. “Keep the hockey stick straight up.”
“I’m in!” The end of the tube slips down past the patient’s vocal cords and into his airway and Santos can’t help but be pleased with herself. Or at least, she can’t help but be pleased with herself until Dr. Robby enters the room and she hears an incredibly familiar voice, one she’d be hard-pressed to ever forget.
“What do we got, party people?” Yolanda Garcia says, in the same rich, strong voice that’s been haunting Santos for weeks, and Santos looks up from the man’s intubation tube so quickly she nearly drops the machine and lets it crack a few of his teeth. Yolanda lets her eyes drift across the crowd of staff surrounding the patient’s bed, scrutinizing with that dark, discerning gaze, and when their eyes meet, Santos forgets how to breathe.
Well, fuck.