Hæra growled. She cupped Madeleine’s rear end, just like in her dream, only Madeleine wasn’t naked this time. Layers of clothing separated them, and Madeleine whined in the back of her throat at the deprivation. Skin on skin—oh God, what a delight that would be, what a necessary thing, and she didn’t have it⁠—

But Hæra’s hands were warm through the thick fabric of her jeans. And her thigh pressed between Madeleine’s own, urging her forward, making her rock.

Pressure. Divine pressure in her most sensitive place. Madeleine cried out softly against Hæra’s mouth, her hands scrabbling over Hæra’s shoulders as she rose up on her toes, seeking more, and then more.

She got more. Hæra gave it to her, rubbing Madeleine back and forth on her thigh with that inexorable strength, making Madeleine sob with need. It couldn’t be possible. How was she this turned on, this quickly⁠—?

Not quickly. It was the work of decades, and Madeleine was starving too. She ground on Hæra’s leg in search of more while they kissed and kissed, moaning against that ferocious mouth. Back and forth, faster, harder.

“More,” Hæra gasped, as if she’d read Madeleine’s mind.

Faster. Harder. “Yuh-yes⁠—”

“More!”

Her thigh withdrew, taking the glorious pressure with it. Madeleine bucked her hips forward, a gasp of protest escaping her, but then—then something else was there⁠—

Hæra’s hand⁠—

Madeleine’s knees buckled. It wasn’t enough. She didn’t know anything could feel like this much, and she still didn’t have enough.

Hæra cupped her through her jeans, finding the same perfect rhythm. Her other hand still grabbed Madeleine’s rear, holding her firmly in place to be fondled, stroked and rocked and cradled. She created the pace, dictated the speed of Madeleine’s pleasure, as if it didn’t occur to her to do otherwise.

It got Madeleine wetter than anything ever had in her life.

She cried out again, muffled by kisses. Between her legs she was heavy, swelling. The seam of her jeans was a torment, but she rutted against it anyway because it was stimulation, it was something after decades of nothing, and even discomfort was better than lack. She’d had so much of lack. Now she might have⁠—

“I can make you do it.” The words curled in a hot promise from Hæra’s mouth into Madeleine’s. “I can make you come.”

“Oh!” Madeleine’s hips rocked faster, chasing that promise. More, she still needed more. She was so wet—was it enough to soak into her jeans? Could Hæra feel how wet she was?

“You’re so beautiful!” Hæra tore her mouth from Madeleine’s, and suddenly that mouth was at Madeleine’s neck, nuzzling at the skin above her jacket collar. “I’ll do it to you. I can do it, I know how.”