“Tell me you want this,” she says, her voice a gasp. Her lips are swollen from our kisses, and her cheeks are flushed, and she is gorgeous, more beautiful than ever. I’ve never wanted anything, anyone, more in my life than I do her, right this moment.
“Don’t stop,” I say, and I take her hand, directing her down into my pants, past my curls, to the wettest, hottest spot. Her fingers curl, stroking, and her hand is pressed to me, the jeans keeping things snug and tight. I drop my head to her shoulder as she strokes, and when she penetrates me, I feel like I am going to collapse, my knees shaking. She feels it, knows it, and she shifts me until we’re at the edge of a row of plants, a metal rack behind me. Her fingers plunge in deeper, then out and in again, and I can feel the metal rails against my back, helping me stay upright.
I kiss her then, putting all my need and want into that touch. I’m sure I’ve soaked her hand and my jeans, and I can feel my end getting closer, nearer, coming to that precipice of pleasure that I’ve always loved. Then she moves her hand, rubbing against my clit while she’s still plunging into me, and that’s what it takes.
The orgasm is more than I’ve ever imagined, more than I’ve ever experienced. It goes on and on, and I lose any sense of my surroundings beyond her, beyond her body and her hand and her mouth. All I can feel is the pleasure and her.
When I open my eyes again, we’re half crumpled against the rack. Lucy eases her hand out from my jeans, triggering a delicious twinge of pleasure, an aftershock.
I snake a hand out, around her waist, under her shirt. She’s warm, incredibly warm. And this isn’t enough. I want more. I want to be the one to make her come the way she made me.
* * *
I did that to her. For her. And it was hot. More than I’d ever expected, ever even fantasized. Kitty’s hand is under my shirt now and her touch is all I can focus on, all I want. She leans in close, her lips hovering over mine, her breath warm on my face, still quickened from her orgasm. I shift, feeling the dampness between my thighs, knowing I’m flushed, ready. I kiss her again, and it turns from tender to needy, devouring and delicious. Kitty nudges her leg between mine and it’s easy to ride her, the friction hot as I rock against her thigh, the seam of my jeans as tantalizing as fingers in its pressure on my clit.
Kitty breaks the kiss to unbutton my shirt and push down my bra, baring my small breasts and pebbling nipples to her gaze. She dips her head, takes a nipple in her mouth, and that hot, wet sensation is more amazing than I’d ever expected. None of my previous girlfriends ever managed to make it so hot, to have my nipple become a conduit of pleasure to my sex the way Kitty has. Her teeth nip and scrape, her tongue laps and swirls, and then she moves to the other nipple and does the same, until both are swollen and reddened from her attentions. I keep rocking against her, my thighs clamped to her leg. It’s a bit like being a teenager again, sneaking those stolen moments, those furtive orgasms.
She tears at my jeans, at the button, then the zipper, and then shoves her hand inside, no finesse, but I don’t care. She’s where I want her, where I need her, her fingers gliding over my clit, putting pressure and a slight pinch that makes me shudder.
I’m not sure how I’m still standing. She’s holding me up, propping me up against the rack, and one of my hands is woven through her belt loops. Not that her jeans are staying put. They’ve sagged since she never did them up. I can see her tiny panties, rumpled and damp from my hand. And oh God, do I want her. I want her to come again for me, on my hand, on my mouth, again and again.
Kitty presses her fingers into me, the heel of her hand adding pressure on my clit, and I lose all sense of time and space, focusing on her hand, on those fingers, on that rocking against my most sensitive place. She curls her tongue around my nipple, then closes her mouth over it, and then I feel her teeth, harder than before, but it’s pleasure, not pain.
And it’s enough. More than enough to send me over the edge, coming against her hand, my knees shaking, my head falling onto her shoulder. I’ve never had it so good. And she drags it out, keeping her fingers in me, stroking, the heel of her hand slowly rocking against my clit. It’s amazing, all the little aftershocks, all those pulses of feeling.
I don’t ever want this to end. But I remember where we are, and the chances of Alice walking in on us. Or Mama. Even worse.
I lift my head from her shoulder. She smiles at me, and I feel a rush of affection, of lust, of perhaps something a little more. Though it’s early, and we’ve only really just met. But does that make a difference? I don’t know. It feels too early, yet not.
“I wasn’t planning for that to be part of the tour,” I say, straightening, taking her hand as she slides it out from my jeans.
Kitty’s expression drops. “You didn’t like it?”
“It was incredible,” I assure her, and lean forward to drop a kiss on her lips. I take a glance behind us, back toward the greenhouse door. “I just don’t want to have company.”
Kitty flushes, a beautiful sight.
I let go of her hand, but not before dropping a kiss on her palm. I do up my jeans, straighten my bra and my shirt, and hope that I don’t look like I’ve just had sex next to the blackberries. Kitty does the same, and even slightly rumpled, I think she looks even more gorgeous than she did earlier.
I take a moment to tidy up the punnets, putting the two full of blackberries aside. “We’ll come back for those. Want to see more?”
Kitty giggles and the sound is warm, delightful, and surprisingly girlish. “I don’t know if anything can top that.”
Now it’s my turn to flush. I shouldn’t really, but I can’t help it.
“We have vegetables too.” I keep going, because if I don’t, I’ll want her again, and it’s too soon. And Alice might come into the greenhouse. Kitty follows me down the rows, and I feel a tug on my belt loops.
“Just trying to keep up,” she says, and I slow, letting her lean right up against me, her warmth delicious. We kiss again, but it’s brief, a momentary touching.
I show her the rest of the greenhouse, and she’s interested, but when she spots another of my sculptures, this one a pair of mice made from old motorcycle parts and some spare wire, all her attention is on them and away from the plants.
“I still can’t believe you do these,” she says, as she drops to one knee, looking more closely at the mice. They’re not my best work—I probably should have shaped the old clunky carburetors more, made them more organic. One day I might make more of those, but these days, it’s the dragon.
“Do you have more?” Kitty asks, rising to her feet. I look out toward the outbuilding, and I know I should just say yes, but…I don’t know. Art is vulnerable, more vulnerable even than sex. It’s judgment, definitely. Nothing like being called crazy when your art doesn’t fit over someone’s sofa, or doesn’t look like a bunch of dogs playing poker, or Monet’s water lilies. I used to put old parts together even when I was a kid, and my dad encouraged it, handing me little bits and pieces. He taught me to weld, against Mama’s wishes. That was a boy’s work, a man’s work, she said. Not a girl’s. But she doesn’t mind it now. She knows I’m sensible and safe. Although she finds my sculptures quirky. Mind you, I’ve made her useful things as well. Fixed a few lamps, made her a bed frame when the cheap one failed. That sort of thing. But there’s still that fear there, that bunch of nerves.
“Where’d you go?” Kitty asks, and I feel her hand on my cheek. I refocus, and she’s looking a touch worried, a bit of a worry line forming between her eyebrows.
“Just thinking,” I say, shrugging.
“About what?”
“Art.” I take a deep breath. Time for the plunge. “Want to come see?”
Kitty’s smile widens, brilliant. “Do I ever.”
Chapter Eight
Lucy seems tentative, somehow worried. I’m not sure why, and I don’t quite get it. Her art is incredible. I only wish I could be so creative. I’ve never been. Always too sensible, always too busy
trying to do the right thing. Coloring between the lines. Making sure there were lines. But it’s what makes me feel better, makes everything work out. It’s safe, of course. And I’ve had other girlfriends who hated me being safe, but I can’t help it.
“We’ll head over there,” Lucy says, pointing to a larger shed, or small barn, whatever it’s called. To me it looks as big as a barn, but I’m just a city girl. Leaving the warmth of the greenhouse makes the outdoors feel chilly, even though it’s late May and the weather is gorgeous. Lucy leads me to the shed with purpose, her hesitation of earlier seemingly gone. There’s a padlock on the door, older and a bit worn, and the hardware on the door is starting to rust. The wear matches the weathered and gray look of the shed itself. She takes a set of keys from her pocket, flipping through until she finds the right one, and unlocks it, pulling the lock free and tugging the door open. It creaks and squeaks.
“I keep meaning to fix that,” Lucy says.
“Better things to do?” I know what that’s like, having to rush to finish something instead of taking care of the little things.
“Usually.” She seems nervous again, a bit hesitant. She holds the door for me. “After you.”
I step inside. There’s a smell of oil, of something I can’t quite place, maybe…metal? A bit like stepping into my car dealership’s service area, I guess. But no smell of rubber. Lucy flicks on the light, and in front of me is a mass of twisted metal. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be, if anything. I feel like I should know.
There’s a workbench along one wall, and more tools than I can ever identify, although I can recognize an anvil when I see one. I walk forward and reach out to touch one rounded piece on the work-in-progress in the middle of the shed. To me it looks a bit like a rib, since it’s one of several in a row. It’s mostly rusted, but I can see where something has been grinding on it, showing through to the metal. And there are marks, maybe solder?
“What is it?”
Lucy steps up next to me and runs her fingers over several ribs. “Not much yet,” she says, “but one day, it hopefully is a dragon. I have a lot to do, though. The cleaning and grinding of the pieces takes a while, and then I have to weld it into place.”
I’m in awe looking at all her work. I wouldn’t even know where to start. “Where do you find all this material?”
“I know a lot of farmers,” she says, “and there are a lot of old machines rusting in the fields.” She chuckles. “I’m a bit of a one-woman cleanup crew.” She points out a stack of metal bars, some rusted, some not. “Those are old plowshares, and they’ll be part of the wings, I think. If it works out.”
I can’t picture it. And I think she knows it.
“It’s hard to see,” she says, “but it’ll get there.” She grabs a couple of bars, then takes what looks like a sharp blade from the top of the workbench. “This one’s an old scythe,” she says, handling it carefully. It’s rusted. She lays down a few bars, then the scythe end, and it curls over in a neat arc. “The blade is the end edge of the wing,” she says, “and with multiples of these, it’ll be like a bat’s wing with its bony ridges.”
“How do you think of all these things?”
Lucy replaces the scythe on the workbench and shrugs. “I just do. Always have.” She wipes her hands on her jeans, leaving a bit of a rusty smear. “It passes the time, especially in the off-season. Though we do grow some things all through the winter.”
Lucy’s work seems much more interesting than my own. I do like being a lawyer, but there’s something about working with your hands, making something that you can see, something that you can eat and enjoy…It’s so much more substantial than paper shuffling, signing contracts, and placating clients.
I move around the central mass of metal and spot a few smaller sculptures hidden behind, resting at the far wall. “What else do you have?” I ask, heading closer. I kneel down, resting a knee on the wooden slat floor. The light isn’t as good over here. The sculpture closest to me is small, rounded, but it has a head, a body, legs. It’s somewhat curled up, and when I carefully shift it, I can see the triangular ears, made of what look like tiny jags of a thin sheet of metal. There’s a rounded head, a small, somewhat triangular-shaped nose, and thin wire.
It’s a cat! A cute little metal cat, made of metal bits—I can see a few screws, a couple of old wrenches, and other parts I can’t identify—and curled up as if in sleep. I love it.
The light’s blocked, and I look up.
“I wasn’t sure of a home for that one,” Lucy says. She’s smiling, but her face is in shadow, and I can only really tell by her tone of voice. “But I think I know where it needs to go now.”
I rise to my feet, coming face to face with Lucy. “Where will you put it?”
“With a kitty of her own, of course.”
It takes me a second to clue in, but when I do get it, I’m grinning. “Really?”
“Really.” Lucy bends down to pick up the cat. I reach out for it and she puts it into my hands.
It’s heavy. Really heavy. Like, iron doorstop heavy. I have to hold it with both hands against my abdomen to keep from dropping it.
“We’ll take it to your car,” she says. “You wouldn’t want to forget it.”
“It’d be hard to miss,” I quip, and Lucy chuckles. We head outside and over to my car. Once we’re there, I realize a problem. “I can’t get at my keys.”
“Which pocket?”
“Front right.”
Lucy digs into my pocket, and the touch of her on me again warms me to the core. Our gazes meet, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. Her face is close to mine, but she hesitates, her gaze flitting up to the farmhouse. She gives a small smile. “Maybe later.”
She hits the unlock button on my keys and the car beeps, its lights flashing.
“Back door, I’ll put it on the seat,” I suggest.
“Better on the floor, it might get the upholstery dirty.”
I set the cat on the floor mat, then straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. They leave rusty smears too, but I really don’t care. This is my day off, after all.
“Ming Nhon!” I hear a voice from behind us, and Lucy turns. She says something in Chinese to her mother, who smiles and replies in the same language. Lucy turns to me.
“My mother wants to know if you’d like to stay for dinner,” she says. I’m not sure what to say. I have feelings for her, and we have spent a lot of time together today, but I don’t want to impose. “It’s not crashing our party,” Lucy assures me. “Mama loves to cook.”
“I will, then,” I reply. “What are you making?” I ask Lucy’s mom. If it’s as good as what she made for lunch, then I’m game.
Lucy’s mom rattles off a list, but of course, it’s not in English. Lucy smiles. “She doesn’t know the English names for the dishes,” she says, “but it’s a good selection of Chinese food. And my favorite dish again. Shanghai-style rice cakes.”
“I’d love to stay.”
* * *
I’m so glad Kitty is staying. I knew our afternoon was starting to come to a close, and I didn’t know how to encourage her to stick around. We are only just getting to know each other, and there’s no way I want to come across as too needy, too wanting. Rushing only gets you in too deep, and then it hurts even more when it’s over. But I love seeing her follow Mama into the house. Like she’s a part of the family.
Once inside, in the kitchen, we sit down with cups of tea from the pot Mama has on the stove. It’s a bit stronger than usual as it’s been brewing for a while, but it’s delicious. Mama putters around as she always does, taking out pans and a cutting board and her favorite knife, and starts putting greens and vegetables on the counter to prepare. It’s a routine I’ve seen thousands of times over the years.
Kitty hops up. “Can I help?”
“No need,” Mama says.
“I really would like to,” Kitty replies, and I can see her hands clasped together, almost like a little kid
at Christmas, or in a toy store wanting just that one toy.
“You are a guest,” Mama adds.
“I think she wants to cook too,” I say to Mama in Cantonese. “She might really like it.” Mama turns to me and nods.
“You cook?” she asks Kitty.
“Not as much as I would like,” she says. “But I’d love to help out. I used to work in a restaurant kitchen when I was a student.”
“Okay.” Mama smiles and shows her the knife, and the cutting board, and the carrots she has piled by the sink. “These have to be cut in small sticks.” She moves her fingers out to about an inch and a half.
Kitty grins. “I can definitely do that.”
She sets to work, and I stay in my seat, sipping my tea. Mama works on her portion of the meal, and she and Kitty together are quite the team, rarely getting in each other’s way and moving with a synchronicity that amazes me. In some way, it’s like Kitty’s always been here. That warms me to the core.
I drink more tea, and Kitty preps more vegetables at Mama’s instruction. But it’s when the wok comes out that Kitty comes alive, watching Mama intensely at each step, asking questions, and listening carefully to the answers. Mama shows her what to start with, how to cook properly in the wok, when to stir, when to add the next part of the dish, when to add a sauce. I remember learning those lessons myself when I was younger, standing on an old wooden stepstool to reach the stovetop when I was barely old enough for school. But it worked. I can cook all sorts of things now, though I don’t often get to. Mama doesn’t relinquish control of her kitchen very often.
“Go call Alice,” Mama says to me. “She is coming to dinner tonight too.”
I rise and go to the house phone, an old push-button phone that hangs on the wall, an incongruity in this age of cellphones. The plastic handset was once white but is now beige, and it’s started to crack. I pick it up, dial, and Alice answers after two rings.
City Kitty and Country Mouse Page 5
