by Jae
But the company (Sam’s less than subtle business partner and friend) was just about to leave, and it wasn’t long before Hermine and Sam found themselves alone in the apartment. It was a gentle spring night, and through the open window, a blossoming tree sent a sweet scent of lilac their way, filling their nostrils with hope and purity.
O, please. Filling their nostrils with hope and purity? Blech.
On a happier note, Lara seemed to be upping the ante here. Kate could just sense it. Apparently, Lara had taken last night’s scene and moved both Carol and the winter out of the way. Good call.
Hermione couldn’t help but picture Sam naked.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Kate said to the empty room. “Do me proud.”
Again.
But by now, even Hermione’s creative mind had stretched her imagination to its outer limits, and where she had been able, before, to arouse and excite herself to the point where she screamed for release (Kate exhaled loudly as a delightful shiver went through her) by simply imagining herself and Sam in the throes of passion, it wasn’t enough anymore. She needed the real thing. She needed to touch Sam, the real Sam, not some image of her. Needed to feel her skin, to touch her in that most intimate of ways (tell me how, exactly!).
As they sat side by side, sipping wine, Hermione moved closer, brushing her thigh firmly against Sam’s.
Sam’s breath hitched.
Kate snorted derisively. Lara imagined her breath hitching at the brushing of a thigh? She’d have to do a little better than that.
Neither of them spoke. It was too late for that. Tonight was all about a wordless acting-out of their fantasies. Hermione put her hand on Sam’s thigh, feeling the strong muscles beneath the smooth spandex of her pencil skirt.
Sam leaned into her (not that easy in a spandex pencil skirt!), her full lips like a sweet promise, moving closer. Hermione closed her eyes. It was better than anything she could have ever imagined. The tender gentleness of her lover’s lips on her own, the soft touch of her hands on her face—she was afraid of fainting.
“Go easy on the vanilla, sweetheart,” Kate said, flipping through the pages excitedly. “This is so not going to lead to having sex while flying.”
Things went into a tailspin from that moment on. Hermione could control herself no longer. She took Sam by the hand and led them to Sam’s bedroom. Once there, Sam lay down on the bed while Hermione began to perform a slow striptease. Sam watched Hermione’s every move, her eyes large and blue as the ocean, her breathing ragged. Hermione took off her shoes and socks, her jacket. She pulled the tight, black top out of her jeans, removed it, and threw it on the floor. She unhooked her bra and slid it down her shoulders. Sam stared at her small breasts, mesmerized, watching the nipples grow dark and erect.
This time, Kate’s breath did hitch.
She unbuttoned her tight (tight was definitely Lara’s thing) black pants and took them off. She was naked but for her panties. Sam’s breathing became heavier still as she sat up, pulled Hermione toward her, hooked her fingers under Hermione’s panties, and slowly slid them down her legs. Hermione stepped out of them. She was finally whole. There was something incredibly arousing about standing completely naked in front of a Sam who was fully dressed.
Sam looked at her with eyes full of lust. Hermione sat down on the bed. Sam brought her face close and began to kiss her, more eagerly this time, pushing her tongue far into Hermione’s mouth—a sweet merging that made Hermione want more, much more than this. Sam’s hands were all over her. Her mouth trailed down, her tongue drawing lazy circles around her nipples. She took one nipple in her mouth, sucking on it, and then went over to the other one, making them harder still. Hermione felt herself getting wet, getting flooded, and as Sam kept her eyes locked with Hermione’s, she began to move her hand, trailing it maddeningly slowly over Hermione’s breasts, over the taut stomach, and down to her core. Sam’s hand found the wet folds waiting for her. Allowing her fingers to play and explore endlessly, she finally entered Hermione, and Hermione, pushing against her, climaxed almost instantly, in a way she’d never climaxed before—in glorious waves of pleasure.
Kate swallowed hard.
Sam caught Hermione in her arms, kissing her as the convulsions subsided. Hermione closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Sam was naked beside her. She gasped for breath—this was what she’d been dreaming of for so long. Sam’s perfect, alabaster skin, the bountiful breasts (Kate looked down her naked torso—not sure she’d call them bountiful, exactly), the perfect legs, meeting in that most mystical of places (well…), a place where she wanted to dwell, and drink, (??) a place she could call home.
As if there was no time to waste, Hermione ran her warm hands along the length of Sam’s glorious body, shivering. She drew a trail of hot kisses along Sam’s perfect skin, her mouth teasing, sucking, caressing. A moan escaped Sam that wouldn’t be stifled.
A familiar throb started somewhere deep inside of Kate.
Hermione moved along Sam’s body, slipping between her thighs, spreading them. She groaned as she took in the beauty of the perfect rose (Oh God—no corny flower euphemisms!) with the delicate dewdrops (ew!) that was the center of Sam’s body and now the center of Hermione’s universe—the place where everything came together.
She brought her mouth there, and it felt almost like a sacred act. Hermione teased Sam with her tongue, drawing circles, tormenting her. When Sam could take no more, Hermione brought her hand close to her face, and while she continued to suck on Sam’s clit, she inserted two fingers into her wetness, withdrew them with a stroke, and then entered her again, slipping in and out of her, and again, and again. Sam’s hips bucked against Hermione’s fingers, and as she cried out Hermione’s name, her body stiffened and convulsed, as a mind-blowing orgasm ripped through her.
This time, it was her own moan Kate couldn’t stifle. For in spite of the distractingly baroque style, the prose was alluringly sexy and yet, in a way, dark and mysterious—much like Lara herself. Kate had to admit that reading the scenes, while imagining herself and Lara as the leads, had gotten her into a definite…state. A state that required…taking care of. She put the manuscript down and closed her eyes, her hand trailing down her body.
But then, she stiffened, and her eyes flew wide open.
Surely, there was a better way to deal with this!
She got out of bed, smelled herself for traces of the wine (it would just have to do), put on a clean shirt (no bra) and some jeans, picked up the manuscript, walked out of the apartment and, once in the hallway, knocked on Lara’s door. Loudly, because it was… What time was it anyway?
She went back to her apartment, checked the clock on the wall, and then once more positioned herself in front of Lara’s door. One in the morning. It was one in the morning. But all bets were off now. Lara may be asleep, but she only had herself to blame for this.
The door was opened wide. Lara wasn’t asleep, and by the looks of her, she hadn’t been (did she ever sleep?), because she looked the same way she always did—sprightly and beautiful.
“Kate!” she sang. “I was just thinking about you.” She moved forward and arched her back. “Have you—?”
“I read it.” Kate held up the manuscript. “Well, parts of it.”
Lara smiled seductively. “Good parts?”
Kate nodded, feeling weak in the knees. “Very good parts.”
“Oh, Kate.” Lara swooned. “Did you get who—?”
“Yes! I totally got that.”
Lara sighed deeply and stepped closer still, ending up practically in Kate’s arms. “What’d you like about it?” she whispered, her lips almost brushing Kate’s.
“Everything.” Kate looked deep into Lara’s eyes. “It’s brilliant.” She wrapped her arm around Lara’s waist. “My place. Now.”
Lara kicked ag
ainst her front door with her boot to close it, and Kate led her into her apartment. Once inside, Kate took Lara’s hands in hers. “Listen. I want to do this exactly the way Hermione and Sam did.”
Lara brought her lips to Kate’s ear. “Me too,” she whispered. “That’s why I wrote it the way I did.”
Kate shivered as she kissed Lara’s fingers. And while they were headed for the bedroom, leaning into each other, Kate’s head all but exploded when she realized that any minute now, Lara (Lara!) would be naked in her bed, licking the delicate dewdrops off her perfect rose.
She could only hope she’d survive it.
CRUISE
BY JACELLE SCOTT
“I can handle it, really,” said Cathy. She’d been followed down the narrow gangway of the North Star by a young porter anxious to earn a generous tip merely for showing her the way. “Seriously.” She swiped the key card through its slot at B-298 and motioned for him to shoo.
The porter slunk away. Cathy dumped her backpack—full enough for an expedition to Everest—onto the bed with a thump.
Her respite was short-lived.
The stateroom door swung open. A smiling, slender woman entered, slipping a polyester scarf from her neck. “I promise you, Ramon, my bags aren’t filled with cement,” she said to yet another porter. The young man struggled with her three pieces of matching green Samsonite, including the makeup case, and a buckled leather satchel. “Oh, hello! You must be my ‘shared accommodation’!”
“That would appear to be the case.” Cathy turned from her task and offered her hand. “I’m Cathy Mackenzie.”
“Louise—actually, Lou,” she said. “Lewandowski.”
Cathy could see that the strain of holding Lou’s bags was testing the porter’s stamina. Tiny beads of sweat glistened in his unevenly plucked eyebrows.
“Miss?”
“I’m sorry, Ramon! Here, just set them down.” Lou immediately crossed to the vacant bed.
“Not to worry, Miss,” said the young man. “I am very strong.” Despite his dismissal of her concern, he grunted as he wrestled the bag onto the luggage stand at the foot of the bed.
Lou gestured for him to hold on as she dug into her handbag. In a small change purse with an old-fashioned pinch-clasp, she discovered two dollars and pressed it into the luggage carrier’s hand.
“Oh thank you, Miss,” he said, backed out of the room, and pulled the door closed behind him.
Lou sighed as she returned the change purse to her handbag. “I hope that was enough.” She ran a hand through her slightly mussed hair. “I really don’t know the rules for tipping.” She looked at Cathy as she spoke, as if waiting for some advice.
“That won’t be the only tip you’ll be giving,” said Cathy, knowing full well the confidence of the room service people, stewards, and excursion guides. Since no ports of call were scheduled for the Cruise to Nowhere, she could only imagine how much more indulgent the staff and crew might be. “You’re fine.”
Lou pivoted and squinted at her reflection in the mirror opposite her bed. “I look a fright. My taxi from JFK got snarled in awful traffic. I didn’t think I’d make it for our departure time!”
Even as she spoke, a low, long bellow of the ship’s horn sounded, and a subtle rumble indicated that the engines were firing.
“Well, you’re here now.” Cathy glanced at her watch. “We’ll be underway before you know it.”
Louise rubbed a finger over her teeth. Apparently satisfied, she lifted her eyes and set her hands on her hips. “The space is pretty small for the price, I think.”
“I guess that’s how they get you into the shuffleboard matches,” said Cathy. She pulled four hardcovers out of her backpack and tossed them on the bed and then continued rummaging. “I can’t believe I forgot my toothbrush,” she mumbled.
Lou perked up at the mention of shuffleboard. “Do you like it?”
“Like what?” Cathy was determined to paw down to the bowels of her bag.
“Shuffleboard.”
Cathy snorted. “Pa-lease. I detest games of any kind.” In spite of her athletic build—well muscled, trim—she eschewed virtually all kinds of sports, with the exception of pistol shooting. Deirdre had hated that Cathy owned the compact, powerful Glock. But there was something comforting about the solitary mastery that target practice required. After Deirdre decamped from their house and relationship, Cathy’d relished some afternoon solace as she took aim at Deirdre’s left-behind collection of Schlitz and Billy beer cans. But, of course, her new roommate didn’t know any of that. “I’m sorry,” she said with mild chagrin. “I shouldn’t assume. Do you like games?”
“Scrabble, mostly. Trivia, sometimes. Bingo, occasionally. I like the casino, but only for the penny slots.” Lou opened her suitcase and extracted a tissue-wrapped statuette.
“Right,” Cathy said. “I see you’ve brought your good luck charm.”
“You mean the Infant of Prague,” Lou said with a curious pride and fussed with the statue’s garments. The gold imperial regalia was pristine, and a tiny bird was firmly affixed on the Infant’s right hand. “Is He good luck?” she murmured softly. She kissed the Infant’s face briefly, and positioned Him on the edge of her dresser. “Something like that.”
Warily, Cathy regarded her cabin mate. Two thousand passengers and I get stuck with the superstitious bingo-playing keeper of St. Christopher or whoever the fuck he is. They all look alike in those weird getups. She’s probably got the homemaker’s grotto in her backyard—a bathtub turned upright and painted a robin’s egg blue on the inside. She definitely had to get her hubby’s permission to go on vacation.
Lou gestured toward Cathy’s books. “Looks like you plan to do some reading. What are you into?”
“Non-fiction, mostly. Right now, I’m on the latest biography of Anna Freud. And that top one,” she said, as she pointed, “is new. Critical essays on Virginia Woolf.”
Lou began to forage in the narrow closet next to the mirror.
“Some extras in here,” Lou said, her voice muffled. A small mountain of pillows began to accumulate on the bed. She leaned back. “You want a couple?”
“No, thanks.” Cathy’s backpack, finally empty, would fit in the cupboard beside the sink.
Lou must have realized how foolish she looked. Still hugging the last of the pillows to her chest, she settled herself on the foot of her bed. “It’s my back…for support when I’m reading. I don’t mean to take all of them, but if you’re not—”
“How about you?” Cathy asked. “What do you like?”
“Literary fiction.” Louise began, quite unceremoniously, to arrange the pillows in a throne-like structure. She then opened the makeup case and stacked a wobbly tower of glossy romances on her bedside table.
“Really? Literary fiction?” The collection of paperbacks didn’t seem to support Lou’s assertion. Cathy swallowed to mask her amusement. “Very nice. Tell me what you’re reading. I might know it.”
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t,” Louise said kindly, palms outward and wavering like two Chinese fans. “Right now I’m working on Daphne Heartwell’s Love’s Eternal Passion. I’ve got manuscript pages in my satchel. It’s quite good. I’m a beta reader for Tryst House. I plan to finish it tonight and start on the sequel tomorrow.”
“A beta reader?” asked Cathy. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with the term…”
“My contribution to the literary world, you know. The publishing house enlists beta readers to generally comment on the state of a manuscript before they’re invested with the costs of publishing. I’m intrigued with plots and characters, but if I find something I don’t like, I let the press know. It’s volunteer work—they pay me in copies—but I love to do it!”
Cathy frowned. “Sounds like love stories, right? What’s the title of the se
quel?”
“Love’s Passion Rekindled, I think. Same characters, though.”
“Well, that saves time,” Cathy said wryly. “With their complex lives and all.”
Louise’s face lit up in a broad smile. “Exactly! So, you’re familiar with Heartwell! Isn’t she wonderful? A genius, I think. You know, a lot of people don’t realize she’s written seven books in the last three years.”
“Yes,” Cathy mumbled sarcastically under her breath. “Remarkable.”
Louise finished patting her pillows into place. Another blast from the ship’s horn was followed by an announcement. The ship was ready to weigh anchor.
“I think I’ll go out to the rail,” Lou said. “I want to watch New York fade into the distance. Do you want to come?”
“No, thanks. Go ahead, though, and enjoy the show.”
Lou gracefully re-wound the polyester scarf around her neck. “Do you know anyone on board?”
“Just you, now,” said Cathy.
“Shall we have dinner together?” Lou’s hand was on the cabin door.
How could she say no? Why not get all of the required courtesies out of the way on day one? Then, hopefully, the cheery Catholic might leave her to read in peace.
“All right. See you back here in a while,” said Cathy. “Six?”
“Perfect.”
After Lou left, Cathy glanced at the statue once more, as if it had been rigged with a nanny-cam. After a split second’s hesitation, she strode to the table and the shaky pillar of paperbacks. She flipped over the topmost book. On the cover, a brunette with long, wild hair (and whose semi-buttoned blouse fell dramatically off her left shoulder down to a hint of cleavage) lay in the passionate embrace of a muscular man with wavy black hair and a tight shirt. He appeared desperate for a kiss. Cathy shook her head and chuckled. So. Louise Lewandowski, Ambassador of the Holy See, likes Harlequins. She turned the book face down on the tottering pile, suddenly regretting that she hadn’t gone on that South Dakota backpacking trip instead.
