Lessons in Love

by Lessons in Love [Bold Strokes FF] (retail) (epub)

  I managed to lift my head from her shoulder. “Was I wrong thinking you were watching me today?”

  “No. I like red hair and I like a femme who is comfortable with her sexiness, and you obviously are. It’s a pleasure to watch you move.”

  “Oh.” I took a deep breath. “Do you make love the way you sweet-talk?”

  Her fingers went to the zipper on the shorts. “Wanna find out?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated, then ducked her head to look in my eyes. “I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “So am I,” I answered, understanding what she meant. Tonight only, and that was fine with me. This kind of fantasy only worked for a night and it had been a really long time since I’d been this bad.

  She kissed my bare shoulders as she loosened the button and carefully unzipped me. With a mutual wiggle the shorts slipped down a little as she swept her hands firmly around my waist, then down to cup my ass. “Oh, very nice,” she murmured.

  I wasn’t shivering anymore. It was something else flooding over my body, ripples of tension and awareness. Her bare midriff was warm and her lips soft against my collarbone. I arched back as she leaned down to flick her tongue over one nipple. I saw her smile at my little gasp, then her teeth closed over it and she bit down just enough to make me shudder.

  Part of me couldn’t believe this was really happening. “How do you know I like that?”

  “I don’t—I’m just listening to my dance partner.” She gave me a long, intent look, wrapped me very tight in her arms, and the next thing I knew my bare ass was on the counter.

  She stripped off the shorts and moved between my knees. I had to brace myself with my hands behind me to keep from swooning onto my back.

  “Perfect,” she said, then she bit my nipple again, a little harder. “Stay just like that, baby.”

  I should have worried someone would walk in on us, but the idea of it excited me too much to care. It was unlikely at two o’clock in the morning, but if someone did we’d cover up and find someplace else. Or let them watch. God, I was in a mood tonight. Her teeth felt fantastic and she seemed to understand what my body was saying. Her hands were feeling my thighs and hips and ass like she could read my desire through her fingertips.

  I lifted myself on my hands enough to press my crotch to her swim trunks. Something hit my clit just right and I pressed against it with a stunned gasp. I was already so close.

  “Uh-uh,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Touch me, then. Please.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” She ran her lips and teeth over my shoulder, making my skin burn.

  I groaned, loud and long, as her hand cupped me between my legs. She was taking possession of me, and I could feel it in the tingling soles of my dangling feet and my burning, sweating scalp. Had I been cold? I was on fire now.

  She made that growling noise again. “You’re ready, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I put my weight on my hands and pushed myself against her.

  She turned her hand over, rubbing my swollen lips with her knuckles, bumping along my clit as she opened me. “Oh. God, you’re wet.”

  “What did you expect?”

  She bit my lower lip in response. “That it would be really fun to fuck you off those stiletto sandals you were wearing this morning. I like you naked.”

  She slid into me then, not slow, not fast, but firmly. My choked cry drew a moan from her as she spread her fingers inside me. She massaged me on the inside, immediately finding the right nerves and muscles. It was so quick, so hot. Gasping, I couldn’t hold back a hard, wrenching climax.

  It was over so fast I wanted to cry. Once was always enough to put me to sleep.

  “Uh-uh.” She squeezed my nipple between her finger and thumb. “You’re not done. We’re just getting started.”

  “Oh, fuck,” I breathed out.

  Her fingers danced on my clit, then dipped inside me, withdrew and played again. “This is really fun. Your body can really move.”

  My thighs trembled as I held them as far apart as I possibly could. I drove myself down on her hand, dying to put out the burning fire she was stoking higher and higher.

  She pulled me to the very edge of the counter, one muscled arm holding me firmly down while she leaned hard into me. I realized she had four fingers inside me and it was her thumb rubbing my throbbing clit. She pushed in with the force of her whole arm, knocking the breath out of me, and I responded with a hoarse cry, feeling as if I was clinging to my sanity by a rapidly thinning thread.

  She could have anything she wanted. She could take everything I offered. I tried to grind myself on her hand but she was holding me down too firmly. She did all the moving and I surrendered to sensation like I never had before in my life. She fucked me the way I’d always wanted someone to fuck me, so good and so deep it was a fantasy come to life.

  My eyes tightly closed, shivers ran up and down my body as another climax rolled over me.

  “Wet,” she said, “is going to give you a cold in this air-conditioning.”

  My eyes snapped open. Her hands were still planted to either side of me. She was starting to look at me as if I was odd, and that wasn’t at all what I wanted. I had to say something, but I could still hear the fantasy echo of my eager, hoarse cries. “About that dare…”

  Her smile was slow and sexy. “You should be careful who you say things like that to. Another butch might have stripped you.”

  My inner femme wailed, “Aren’t you going to?” but I wisely kept my lips clamped desperately together. Thank goodness she couldn’t read my mind.

  She finally leaned away from me and my entire body wanted to go limp. “You can leave my shorts at the front desk or something. I understand why you need them.”

  Gazing at her, at a loss for words, I knew exactly how her arms would feel if she embraced me, and exactly how her hand would feel learning all my secrets. She was a fantasy and yet she was reality, too. I was sure there were surprises about her that would be delightful to discover. “Maybe I could mail them to you after I wash them. They’re a little…wet.” Like me, I wanted to add.

  She shrugged and then tried to cover a yawn. “I’m so sorry. It’s late and that’s not usually what I do in the presence of a half-naked beautiful femme.”

  God, she was sweet and sexy. I bet she was cuddly when she woke up in the morning. It didn’t look like I was going to find out. Not now, not here, at least.

  A true gentleman, she walked me to my room to make sure I arrived safely in my half-clad state.

  I said shyly, “If anyone saw us now they’d never believe we behaved.”

  Her grin was genuine. “It’s because I’m so tired. It’s one of those times when what didn’t happen is far more interesting than what did.”

  She gave me a peck on the cheek that I’m still dreaming about.

  Here’s the big confession. I never did send her shorts to her. I figured I’d give them back at the next convention. Maybe invite her to take them off me again, if I really could get up the nerve.

  Meantime, they’re great shorts with all those pockets. And I even got a free Chapstick out of the deal.

  Every Life for a Thousand Years

  JC Chen

  I was swimming in a lake in the first memory I have of my Beloved. She pretended to enjoy the water as she waded out knee deep to greet me. I’ve learned since then that she loves everything about water except swimming in it. It is one of my favorite memories of her: one hand holding the hem of her dress high above the waterline, exposing the leanness of her thighs, the other hand shading her eyes from the sun while watching me intently and possessively. I asked her what her name was but she only laughed. Her laughter was clear and joyful; the sound of it drew me to her.

  We spent that first day talking on the bank of the lake. She was wise and witty and her stories were exotic and grand. I felt naïve and awestruck around her but she never seemed to tire of my company. At dusk, we agreed to meet
again the next day at the shore of the lake. We met every day for a month. She would bring journals with her. Some of them contained pictures and stories of places she had been. I would lie with my head in her lap as she read to me from her memories. She also brought journals of places she wanted to go. I would sit side by side with her, equally engrossed by the silkiness of her skin and brilliance of her smile as the maps and paintings of these faraway lands. I had never much imagined the world beyond my lake before she brought it to me in her books.

  I was the one to suggest that we go. On the last day of the first month we were together, I turned to her while she was reading aloud about a land with a thousand waterfalls. Although I wasn’t looking at the pictures, I could see the landscape in my mind: cascades of silver, rolling green hills, the serenity of a perfect azure sky. I wanted to see it with my eyes and I told her so. She looked at me then with eyes full of hope. I felt a new kind of warmth burn through me like fire in my veins. I would go with her to this land of a thousand waterfalls. I knew I would go with her to the ends of the earth.

  *

  It is still dark outside and the sun is not due to rise for a while. The wind is brisk and cool against my naked skin and I can hear the surf crashing wildly against the rocks far below. I hear my Beloved approaching and I turn to greet her. Despite the darkness, moonlight ignites the highlights in her hair like smoldering embers in a blanket of coal. She sets a large velvet satchel down on the ground and steps into my embrace. Her long silken robe is warm where I press against her and cool where it flaps loosely around my back and thighs. She smells like autumn, and standing this close I catch just a hint of our morning lovemaking.

  She presses a soft kiss against my neck before pulling away from me to unfasten the silk tie around her waist. The robe slips from her slender shoulders toward the ground where the wind grabs hold and whisks it away. She stands radiant before me. Her pale and flawless skin gleams in the moonlight and the darker tips of her nipples are just beginning to harden against the cold. My breath catches in my throat and my heart beats fast and heavy.

  *

  Our home consists of three buildings: two small bungalows—each with a large workspace and a smaller sleeping alcove—and the main house. The three buildings are situated on the corners of a perfectly square courtyard. The fourth corner—diagonally across from the main house—is open, offering an unobstructed view of the valley below. These days we spend most of our time in the main house, although my Beloved still keeps her painting studio in one of the bungalows.

  I can be found most often in the library. Our collection spans centuries, but our most valuable tomes are not literature at all. Along the eastern wall, behind a thick protective brocade curtain, are the shelves that hold our personal journals. There are hundreds of volumes, each leather-bound and inscribed with our names and the years covered within. Most mornings my Beloved and I read together from them. It is a curious and wonderful experience akin to remembering and learning at the same time. I do most of the writing, but she is responsible for the numerous maps and pictures that adorn the pages. The journals serve as the collaborative visual memory of our time together.

  Along the back windowed wall of the library is my Beloved’s pride and joy: a large screen composed of eight panels with ebony frames encircling gold that has been beaten paper thin and stretched across the frames like a canvas. On this golden canvas is painted a story like no other. It took my Beloved over half a lifetime to complete the painting, and even now she cannot resist fussing over its finer details with her brushes and her colors. Reading from left to right like a book, the panels depict the legend of the Dragon and the Phoenix and their never-ending quest for the Pearl of Knowledge. The first few panels are dark and violent, with the Dragon and Phoenix battling mightily for the Pearl, but successively the images become lighter and more peaceful, ending with the final panel: a triumphant joining of souls with the Pearl as a unifying rather than dividing force. It is a familiar story, painted on gold in vivid colors but also rendered in black and white throughout our journals.

  *

  The sky is slowly illuming. The glow of the predawn is dim above the horizon but strengthening with each passing moment. My Beloved picks up the satchel from the ground and unties the drawstring holding it shut. Her fingers pluck away at the old, heavy knot with confidence. When the bag is finally open, she reaches in with reverent care and pulls forth a large and luminous pearl. The diameter of the pearl is such that her fingertips cannot quite touch when she grips it. Tentatively, my Beloved offers it to me, cradled in the palm of her hand. The surface of the pearl is smooth and iridescent. As I step forward to take it from her I can see the writing etched just beneath the surface, catching and bending the light like facets in a gemstone. It reads:

  Every century a Race to run

  For the Pearl. From rising sun,

  Around the world, ’til day is done.

  Memories kept for She that won.

  For She that lost, a life redone.

  The cliff upon which we stand is atop the mountain where our home is built. We only come up here for the Race since the climb is difficult and the view is almost as grand from the safety of our courtyard. Yet every time I come here I am struck by the majesty of it all. It is the top of the world and on a cloudless day like today, I can see the horizon extend in a perfect circumference around us.

  I take my Beloved by the hand and walk her to the very end of the plateau. Her footing is firm and confident despite our tremendous altitude. I slip behind her, wrap my arms securely around her waist, and urge her closer to the edge for a better view. My body melts into her curves as I pull her against me.

  “Beautiful,” she whispers.

  “Yes, beautiful,” I reply.

  She turns in my arms to face me. Her eyes are wide and brimming with tears. “Is it always like this?” she asks.

  “Yes, my love. Always.” I kiss away the tears that roll down her face.

  *

  The night after I told her that I wanted to see the waterfalls, my Beloved brought me home. She set me up in one of the bungalows, which had a workspace that looked like a small library with a table in the center. There was a stack of blank scrapbooks on the table that she said I could use as I pleased. I spent a little time exploring my new space but it wasn’t long before I wanted to see her again.

  I found her in the courtyard with an ancient journal she had never shown me before. She was wearing a dress made from multicolored layers of translucent silk and when she moved, I could see tantalizing hints of her body beneath. She motioned for me to sit across from her on the grass.

  “There’s a story I want to tell you,” she began, “about two immortal souls, the Pearl that binds them, and a fantastic Race.”

  I watched as she set the journal down before her and caressed the weathered spine with reverence and tenderness. A gibbous moon floated in the night sky, bathing the courtyard with an ethereal glow.

  “The souls are immortal, but their memories are not. Every one hundred years, the two souls must race each other around the world to see who wins the Pearl. The winner retains her memories for another one hundred years. The loser is reborn with no recollection of her past life. The Race must occur or both souls will lose their memories forever.

  “In the beginning, these two souls were fractious and vicious. Each viewed the Pearl as power over the other and they spent their lives battling for advantage over the Race.

  “Over time, the fighting wore them down and they realized that this power they sought so mercilessly brought them only loneliness. This legendary hatred ultimately dissipated and in its place, these two souls discovered something far greater in love.”

  Her voice, like her laughter, was clear and melodious. She spoke the words of the legend with a lyrical cadence. It was a hypnotic and romantic fable that made my heart pound with yearning and inspiration. I reached over and clasped her hand gently in mine. When she didn’t resist, I brought it slowly to my l
ips, rotating slightly to place a single, soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. The sensation was electric, a pulse of desire and intensity that raced from my lips through my entire body. I saw, too, the effect of my kiss on her: the slight tremble in her body and her sharp intake of breath. Emboldened, I reached out and traced my fingertips over the smoothness of her face, imprinting the tactile memory of her beauty. Her skin, normally fair and luminescent, was suffused with a warm flush that extended down and over the curve of her bosom. I leaned in and pressed another kiss gently to the side of her neck, savoring the staccato rhythm of her pulse beating beneath my lips and tongue.

  She was able to undo her dress with her free hand while guiding my mouth to the soft swell of her breast. I continued my kisses around her nipple, feeling it harden with my touch. I took one, and then the other, into my mouth, reverently loving her with only instinct and her gentle moans to guide me. As absorbed as my senses were with the nearness of her, I forced myself to memorize the way the light played across her body as she arched beneath my caress.

  I wanted to wait, to indulge myself in the feel and taste of her, but she urged me onward, her hand on my wrist pushing me lower.

  “I’ve waited so long…”

  She gasped when I stroked her but her hips moved against my hand in hunger, not pain. I traced a path of kisses from her breast over her stomach and down to where my fingers were warm and slick with her desire. I inhaled the intoxicating scent of her arousal—for the first time and the thousandth—and she writhed beneath my tongue as I tenderly stroked her open. Her hips responded to my touch, bucking against my hand and mouth in urgent need. I felt the reciprocal heat that rose within me, flaring ever higher in rhythm to my stroking until we became united in fire, burning beyond thought or feeling. I wanted to wait a little longer, to luxuriate in the wonder of the moment, but her need was insistent and I couldn’t stop. I found myself swept up in her passion, cresting immediately with the first spasms that clenched deep inside her.