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easy ride

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Ramona's gotten... freer with her touch, since that time they earned a rack. Destiny's not complaining. 

For example:

Ramona's peeling clothes off of Destiny in a private room, standard. But she's also mouthing at her inner thigh while she unzips the leather miniskirt on Destiny's hip, less standard. Their mark perks up immediately, patting his pockets to find his cash.

It works like a charm. He drops another few hundred when Destiny's breasts finally come into view and Ramona drops her bra to take a slow pass under them, a soft drag of fingertips, lifting just a little to show them off. Destiny feels an electric shock at the small of her back jolt through her at the caress, but she channels it into a breathy moan that breaks the seal on his wallet, groping for a credit card. 

Destiny can't tell if she's floating because of Ramona's touch or if she’s just high on how easy this money is. Could be both. 

The thought is distant and disappears completely when Ramona takes her by the neck, with her thumb on Destiny's jawline, palm against her throat, tucked up under her ear. She tries to meet Ramona's gaze but can't, it's dark and deep and penetrating and—she closes her eyes because Ramona's grinding on her thigh and flexing her arm when Destiny tries to arch away, holding her steady and grinning about it. It's too much, she thinks, only faintly hearing T-Pain’s autotune verse on ‘Cyclone’ blasting from the overhead speakers. 

(Too much— of what, she can’t articulate. The closest she can come to describing the feeling, when pressed for an explanation, goes like this: she feels like she’s hurtling down train tracks at several hundred miles per hour, like a bullet train shot out of the station. She doesn’t know the destination, only that it feels inevitable.) 

Predictably, Ramona makes them look good, like this is both choreographed and spontaneous at the same time. In short, it looks like Destiny can dance, which everyone knows to be a minor miracle even after several coaching sessions. Destiny wonders yet again how Ramona is so good at this. Because while she has improved, rolling hips right next to, right beneath Ramona, she will never compare.

It's actually all she can think as Ramona rolls on top of her and lowers her back to the table. Ramona is so, so good at this. 

The cold surface is grounding; Destiny's fog lifts a little. Ramona smiles, then smirks when Destiny's eyelashes flutter. It makes Destiny blush and burn and yank Ramona closer, quickly pulling the tie to Ramona's top. Slowly tugging at the material after watching Ramona's expression flash dark—it looks something like hunger, Destiny realizes—again, a smug smile of her own appearing as she plucks the shiny gold strips away. 

All told they make bank, almost eight grand. Each. Again. This shit is unreal. 


That was two months ago, a week after they worked that night together in the champagne room. And shit like that just keeps happening. The freer the touches, the freer the money flows.

Ramona’s thumb smears lip gloss across Destiny's mouth, no apology in her eyes. 

(Cha-ching, rack.) 

Ramona literally kisses her way down Destiny’s spine, from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back, Destiny arching like a cat with her teeth clamped onto her bottom lip. 

(Cha-ching, cha-ching. Rack.) 

Ramona sits Destiny in her lap and plays with her nipples for what feels like an eternity—which she later learns was exactly two minutes and thirty-six seconds, measured by the two verses of ‘Lollipop’ Lil Wayne got through.

(Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching. Rack.)

There’s a close call, once.

Ramona’s hand hesitates, palm molded to the expertly hand-stitched roses dotting the La Perla thong currently covering Destiny. It’s warm is what they both think—Ramona’s thumb slides across the fabric and Destiny twitches and Ramona forgets where they are.

(All she can see is Destiny relaxing into her arms while Ramona barters her clothes for the rack the trust-funded Harvard Business School dropout is throwing all over the room and she hesitates. Hesitates because she wants nothing better than to drag off that scrap of La Perla and use her fingers to turn Destiny into a puddle. Hesitates because Destiny is so ready for it, is she—does she always feel like—when they do this together?)

Destiny is gonna die if she doesn't figure out what that look on Ramona’s face means, something masked by a veneer of rigid restraint. She turns her frustrated groan into a growl as Ramona pushes her out of her lap and onto the customer, the smile Ramona always uses on them fixed back in place. “Go on, baby. Show the nice man what he’s paying for.”

He’s thirsty for it, on the edge of his seat. Destiny shoves him back into place, an edge to the gesture and his eyes widen a little. It’s her frustration at Ramona that causes it, and she opens her mouth to apologize and suck up before spotting his reaction. Oh, of course. He’s one of those. Destiny resists the urge to roll her eyes. Well, that makes this very easy then. 

She turns around after a shimmy of her shoulders with her bare tits in his face and parks herself in his lap. She stares right at Ramona and assumes Diamond’s “kick-ass, 100% reliable, never fails to catch the whale, super-perfect lap dance” position in his lap, a hand on each of his knees as she straddles one of his khaki-covered thighs. 

Destiny proceeds to milk the clock (not the cock) as slowly as she can. She grinds her hips, rocking slow circles against him, and only breaks eye contact with Ramona to look back at it. 

He looks about thirty seconds away from asking her to marry him, and fifteen seconds away from ruining his pants. She can't help the smirk that curls her lips as she plucks a black American Express card out of his hand and turns back to face Ramona. What she isn't ready for is the way Ramona surges forward and pushes them both back as soon as she does, sandwiching Destiny between his button down and her neon orange spiderweb leotard. 

Ramona’s face hovers inches above Destiny's as she grinds over both of their thighs, pressed together under her curves. She nips at Destiny’s chin and the kid underneath them begins to shudder. When Destiny drags her hands up Ramona’s thighs to her ass and squeezes, he starts to hyperventilate into Destiny’s ear, babbling about the best day of his life. 

Ramona stands, pulling Destiny with her, and leaves Chad a semi-conscious mess on the couch. She peers at him over Destiny’s shoulder, then stifles a snort. “I think you killed him.”

We killed him,” Destiny corrects, glancing back at his blissful, bordering on comatose expression. “At least he gave us the card first.”

They share a breathless chuckle, Destiny’s face tucked in Ramona's neck and Ramona’s lips against her temple. 

(They also share his uncapped spending limit.)


Destiny can’t deny that looking at her bank account after the last several weeks makes her cry in disbelief instead of broke sadness, even though it's been months since she met Ramona and the money started rolling in to begin with. 

Only now Ramona's touches outside the club feel freer too. Unless—except... wait. Have they always felt this way? Hasn't she always draped herself across Destiny's back just for fun? Big spooned her on couches or in the kitchen at home, nuzzling into her hair and asking for the thousandth time what shampoo she uses?

Ramona nudges her bared hip with an elbow at the sink over post-dinner dishes, runs a hand under her crop-top to rub at her shoulder blades during their bye-see-you-at-work-tomorrow-at-nine hug when she leaves for her own apartment and Destiny panics the whole cab ride home. What if she’s the one suddenly noticing what was already there?

For example: 

It makes her stomach take a funny hop, when Ramona swoops in out of the blue to kiss Destiny's neck on the train platform as the L crawls in, screeching all the way. Keeps the patter of her story going, as if nothing had happened, like she hadn't pressed her lips under Destiny's ear between breaths complaining about Juliet's math teacher and his "endless fucking parent-teacher conferences at 7 o' clock in the morning. I'm fucking exhausted! I don't understand all this pre-algebra shit and advanced track stuff he's suggesting anyway, and I especially don't get it on three goddamn hours of sleep." 

When they bundle themselves onto the subway, Destiny notices how Ramona stretches an arm out on the seat behind her, how her legs cross toward Destiny, and how she fits perfectly into the embrace Ramona's offering. This is how they've done it since forever.

But the hand that comes up to squeeze the back of her neck and comb through her hair a little bit while she critiques the fashion of other commuters is new. (Right?) It makes Destiny's scalp tingle, and she decides to lean further into it with a happy sigh. There's a smile in Ramona's voice after that, and Destiny can't tell if she's just a little bit of an idiot or if she's officially losing her mind.

But they've got ten stops left and Ramona's nails scrape gently over her skin and she decides for now she doesn't care.