Free The Space Between by Kate Canterbary Page B

groaned in satisfaction as the pulsations radiated from my core and spread up into my clit. My fingers circled my throbbing bud in time with the vibrator, and my hips started rolling to find an outlet for the pressure building in my nerves. Small gasps and moans passed my lips, and I clicked to a higher speed.
    I felt the quivering inklings of an orgasm deep in my core, and closed my eyes to focus on the sensations traveling through my body. My fingers quickened in their frantic circuit over my clit when my knees lifted off the bed to offer better access, yet I struggled to find the tipping point that would bring me closer to warm, pulsing release. So close, yet so far.
    As the minutes ticked by, I fought my body for more—alternately pinching my nipples while running the vibrator over my clit and swiveling to rest my feet on the headboard to get a new angle. I was always this close—and it darted away from me every time.
    My elbow ached, and my fingers were numb around the toy’s base when I finally deposited it on my side table. My other hand continued circling my clit—after a week of nightly self-love sessions, the last things I needed were raw, chafed ladybits. That and a bout of carpal tunnel syndrome, and I’d be the spokeswoman for crimes against orgasms.
    I laughed out loud at the prospect of telling Patrick I couldn’t sit down or operate a screwdriver because I tweaked my wrist and elbow after an hour of furious orgasm hunting. I could see him narrowing his eyes at me while he crossed his arms over his chest. He’d lift an eyebrow, letting the tension rise between us and waiting for me to explain myself.
    Or he’d throw me on his desk and fuck me.
    Groaning, I curled on my side and squeezed my eyes shut. My dreams would most certainly feature that new fantasy.
    *
    Two hours of Bikram yoga drained enough energy from my body to temporarily forget Patrick and his abs, though it also left me sweaty and starving. After a quick shower, I headed to the winter farmers’ market with the hope of finding a co-op or CSA opening to keep me supplied with local fruits and veggies.
    I preferred unconventional pastimes—reading Patrick’s thesis and yelling at DVR’d HGTV shows came to mind—and farmers’ market shopping was no exception. It’s not that I didn’t love shopping for clothes or shoes—I did—it’s that I loved heirloom greens and discovering new produce from local farmers more.
    Wandering through the stalls, my cloth bags rapidly filled with an assortment of goodies. I stopped at a table advertising community dinner parties to experiment with Persian recipes and practice Farsi. New town, new job, and maybe a new opportunity to explore my heritage. I added my name to their email list.
    Only a few of the Farsi words and phrases my father taught me before he died remained in my memory, along with vague stories of his family and childhood. He loved Tehran yet preferred Isfahan, and promised we’d spend an entire week exploring the bazaar there. We were going to visit the ruins of Persepolis in Shiraz, and Qeshm Island and the Hara marine forests. We were going to go just as soon as it was safe for him to return to Iran.
    Everything I knew about my dad’s culture and family came from the internet—my mother stopped talking about him after a year in Maine. She said it was too painful, and I didn’t want her to suffer.
    When I buried my face in a bouquet of basil, I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder.
    “I’d know that hair anywhere!”
    Shannon Walsh stood before me, her arm linked with a petite blonde’s, both beaming at me with bright smiles. For a moment, I struggled with her friendly familiarity, but soon remembered I now worked at a third generation family firm where only a handful of outsiders joined the ranks. Of course she was friendly outside the office. I realized I should figure out how to do that, too.
    “You’re so awesome…already found the farmers’ market and everything.”
    I