Date Knight

by Bridget Essex

  I think the real problem here is that this just doesn't feel like a natural storm. I know that sounds silly, but it's true. And if I'd been paying closer attention the night that the portal opened, the night that Virago and the Boston Beast appeared in my backyard, locked in an epic, otherworldly battle, I would have noticed a lot quicker that there was something unnatural about the storm that night, too.

  Here and now, along the edge of the horizon, a single bolt of lightning flickers, dazzlingly bright. I glance over my shoulder, toward the festival's opening gates, and I'm relieved to see a familiar silhouette making her way toward me through the darkening afternoon. As Virago opens the car door a few moments later, another ragged bolt of lightning rips open the sky, and I'm trembling as I put my key into the ignition. For some reason, right now...I really, really want to get home.

  “Hello,” Virago says companionably as she leans down and glances at me through the passenger-side opening with a soft smile. She watches me through her long, black lashes, her blue eyes sparkling just as much as the lightning. Then she turns and opens up the back door to deposit her jousting armor, her leather clothes and her sword and scabbard.

  “Virago,” I begin, glancing nervously up at the sky as she folds her long, lean length into the passenger seat. “Do you think... Um, I know this is weird,” I say, worrying at my lip. “But don't you think that storm came up awfully quickly?”

  Virago lifts her chin and glances up at the clouds, regarding the lightning with a careful, calculating expression, her blue eyes narrowed.

  “I'm not certain,” she tells me then, her voice a low growl. “Why has it unsettled you, my love?” She casts me a sidelong glance, concern making her full mouth downturn as she reaches across the space between us and settles her long, bare fingers, on top of my thigh.

  “I don't know,” I tell her, suddenly distracted by the fact that she's gently stroking my thigh through my skirt, her thumb smoothing back and forth, back and forth. It's very distracting, but it's also somehow calming. “When you came through that first night,” I tell her, “that storm was exactly like this one. I don't know. It just seems...odd,” I finish weakly, with a little shrug.

  “Do not worry yourself,” Virago tells me, her chin lifting up and her frown turning into a smile almost instantly. “For there is nothing to fear. The beast is held safely. There is no way that she can escape from her prison. All is well,” she tells me, still stroking my thigh. Her fingers against the fabric of my skirt are warm and strong and soft, all at once. I concentrate on her touch, concentrate on the good, slow, soft sound of her breathing. I concentrate on the fact that she's right here, right here beside me.

  It's silly to be unsettled by a thunderstorm. I know better. I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel, give Virago a sidelong smile, and then I'm pulling off the lawn/parking lot surrounding the Knights of Valor Festival, and I turn onto the highway.

  Along the cloud bank, the lightning is getting thicker, larger, more jagged as it dances along the curves of the clouds. There hasn't been any lightning striking ground as far as I can see, no spears of electricity arcing down from the sky...but that doesn't mean it won't happen.

  When we get home, the clouds along the edge of the horizon have, well, migrated. Because now the entire sky, that just a half hour before was blue and cloudless, is almost as dark as night. It's nearly August, and the sun doesn't set until nine o'clock. But here it is, six o'clock in the evening, and the sky outside is ominously black. Lightning makes the clouds flicker constantly now, but I can't see any more bolts, just flashes of light.

  The strange thing is, that with all of the clouds overhead, with the constant roar of thunder and flickers of lightning...there still hasn't been a drop of rain.

  It's as if the clouds are hovering overhead, waiting for something.

  I pull into my driveway and turn off the ignition, tossing the set of keys in my purse as I turn to look at Virago. Along with the dark pair of fitted jeans that she's magnificently filling out, she's currently wearing the hell out of a black, button-down shirt, her equally black, satiny mane pulled back with that leather thong into a messy ponytail. There are loose wisps of blue-black hair framing her face, with its high cheekbones and those large, bright blue eyes. She's wearing no makeup, but her long lashes blink slowly at me, her gaze piercing me through, her full lips wet because she just licked them—slowly, sensuously, her tongue dragging across them as her mouth turned up into a slow, seductive smile.

  Everything is still and quiet in the car. The windows are rolled up, and the car's off, but it's been a cool enough day (surprisingly, for a summer in Boston) that the car is simply comfortable to sit in. In the stillness, all I can hear is the distant rumble of thunder, the somewhat closer sound of Bill, the guy who lives next door, mowing his backyard...and the sound of our mingled breathing, slow and steady.

  But as I glance sidelong at Virago, as I watch her lick her lips again, as I watch her lean a little closer to me, hearing the rustle of the fabric of her shirt, hearing the soft shush of her jeans moving against the seat beneath her, hearing the whisper of her hair falling over her shoulder...my breathing starts to come just a little faster.

  Virago holds my gaze for a very long moment as my heart rate skyrockets. And then she murmurs three words in a gentle, growling voice; they invade my senses, making me tremble.

  “I want you,” Virago whispers across the space between us, as—overhead—a rumble of thunder makes the car shake.

  But I don't pay attention to the thunder, and I'm certainly not paying attention to the ominous sky anymore as Virago reaches for me with maddening ease, and slowly, with a great deal of self-control, traces a single finger across my right breast, down my side, and along the inner curve of my thigh. She accomplishes all of this over the fabric of my clothes, but her touch, in that moment, is searing. I gasp out loud.

  Virago is the mistress of the slow seduction, something I've never been good at, as much as I keep trying to beat her at her own game. Ha. It's pretty pathetic when I try to hold out, try to be all slow and sensual when I'm arching over her in the middle of the night—and I suddenly have zero self-control, and Virago is chuckling under me as I lean down and kiss her or do any of the million-and-one acts I was just teasing her would be excruciatingly slow in coming...and then totally isn't.

  But there's something about the energy of the air tonight—it's too alive. Too electric. It's as if there's no time for lingering, sultry endeavors.

  There's only this moment, right now. And there's a deep, abiding urgency...

  Virago leans forward as another rumble of thunder echoes overhead. She wraps an arm around my shoulders, drawing me close smoothly, quickly, threading her fingers through my hair, cupping my cheek with her palm as her breath intensifies, hot against me. She captures my mouth, in that instant, with another kiss.

  But this is not the languid kiss that we shared post-joust, as she smiled against me, as the horse stomped impatiently next to us and Carly teased us. No, this is the kind of kiss that makes my toes curl, that makes me gasp. It's a full-of-passion kind of kiss, full of blatant, obvious need and desire, a need and desire that I return instantaneously as my knight draws me close, wrapping me tightly in her arms, pressing my chest against hers, her breath hot and quick, her fingers curling tighter in my hair as her mouth finds mine.

  Okay, so this is kind of embarrassing, but I haven't made out in a car since...well, I don't think I even made out in a car, not even in high school. In my defense, I came out pretty early in my teens, and there weren't any lesbians or bi-ladies besides me who were out at my high school at the time, so my dating life back then was pretty sad.

  But my driveway is hidden pretty well from both sets of neighbors by some robust, I-have-to-constantly-trim-them hedges, and, anyway...what the hell. I honestly don't even care if someone sees us. If Mrs. Whitter saw us, it might even do away with her “When are you going to start dating a man, dear?” comments, once and for all.


  And as I taste Virago, as my hands find the top few buttons of her blouse, fire races through me. I trace my fingertips under the edge of the neckline, feeling the searing heat of her skin against my own—and then the sky erupts.

  A torrential downpour deluges my car. It sounds like a million metal trash cans being knocked over. As the rain roars against the roof, it covers the windshield in water, making it impossible to see out. I stare in surprise as I realize that I can't even see my house, which is a mere few feet away—and has bright purple shutters, so it's usually visible from space.

  All I can see is the rain. And Virago, who is watching me with luminous blue eyes, her cheeks reddened, her lips open, wet, panting...

  Again, Virago draws my attention away from the storm.

  My earlier worries about the storm being somehow magical or malevolent evaporate as I consider instead that making love in the middle of a violent rainstorm...yeah, that sounds pretty damn sexy to me.

  “Come on,” I whisper to her, my voice almost squeaking, I'm so excited, as I open my car door.

  And, yes, it is a deluge out (thoughts of childhood Sunday school classes and cartoon Noahs on boats with giraffes peeking out of the windows pop up into my head unbidden). The roar of the water drowns out everything else as we empty out of the car and run, together, up the walkway and the few steps onto the front porch.

  Maybe it's the energy of the storm; maybe it's the closeness of this incredible woman, this woman that I'm so deeply attracted to—body, soul and spirit... Maybe it's the dazzling blue of her eyes as she looks at me, every atom of her being desiring me. Maybe it's a combination of all of these things, but every inch of me feels alive, more alive than I've ever felt before, as I fumble with the keys at the door, shoving my soaked red curls out of my face as I finally shove the damn thing open.

  We're through the doorway in a heartbeat, and Shelley, my crazy, wonderful dog, is jumping up on us excitedly, ecstatic that we're finally home. She keeps pushing her big white paws on my stomach, practically using it as a springboard, and I'm laughing, trying to push her down, back onto four paws, as Virago gathers me up in her arms again, as she holds me tightly to her, the both of us drenched from the rainstorm. And she kisses me.

  The door is still wide open behind us, but Shelley is super-aware of the fact that she is not allowed out the front door without a leash, and for some reason, this is the one law in the universe that she obeys. So, instead of bolting outside, she sits beside us, staring adoringly at the both of us, blinking her long, brown lashes and sighing contentedly.

  Outside, the thunder resounds so loudly that it rattles the windows in their casements. I'm breathless as we kiss each other, highly aware of Virago's curves pressing against me, of the muscles of her stomach (Her stomach has muscles. I mean, seriously.) against my fingers as I drift my hands over her torso and then wrap my fingers around her hips, digging into them with my fingernails. I gasp against her. Because Virago has wasted no time; she is lifting her long fingers to the piece of string that I use to keep my costume bodice cinched up.

  I think it says a lot about me that I've fantasized about a moment like this, where Virago is about to unlace my not-historically-accurate-but-it's-all-I-could-afford costume bodice. I know that the image of unlacing bodices is traditionally synonymous with straight romance novel covers (that is, again, quite a bit less than historically accurate), but who cares? Because this moment? This moment is as not straight as you can get, considering that an incredible female knight is pressing her breasts against mine, grinning slyly and tucking her long fingers into the lacing, raising a single brow suggestively.

  I feel, for half a heartbeat, that I've died and gone to some incredible version of nirvana, that I've seemingly done everything right in life and been given everything I ever desired, all wrapped up in the body and mind and heart of this woman... But as I kick the front door closed behind us, intent on pretty much doing it right here and right now, Shelley starts to jump around us again, determined to interrupt us in a way that can't be ignored. Because this time, she's leaping quite a bit more emphatically, propelling her front paws off of my stomach as if I'm a walking trampoline.

  “Urgh... I'm really sorry,” I manage to croak to Virago as I take a step back, holding an arm over my stomach so Shelley will stop bouncing off of it. “But, um...Shelley really has to go outside,” I tell her with a sigh. And Virago, who—amazing woman that she is—understands about animal needs, takes a step back, raking a hand through her messy ponytail as she holds me in her bright blue gaze.

  “Of course, of course,” she murmurs, taking a step back from me, her mouth still parted, still drawing my gaze like a gravity. “This,” she tells me, raising one brow and chuckling a little, “can wait a moment. Small beasts in our care must come first,” she tells Shelley indulgently, who is practically in raptures at her feet, her white-gold tail blurring as she wags it violently, staring up at Virago with her adoring brown eyes.

  “She's going to get so soaked,” I moan, walking past Shelley, who turns and pounces across the floor after me. “But there's no help for it,” I mutter, glancing up at the dark sky through the sliding glass door in my living room. The curtains and blinds are open, and outside, after another bit of jagged lightning rakes across the sky, I can hardly see the yard for all the torrential rain, coming down in waterfalls against the glass.

  “Sorry about this, girl,” I mutter to Shelley, and open the door for her. But my crazy dog doesn't care about the rain as she rips right out of the house and scampers across the back porch, leaping down the few steps and onto the lawn, euphoric to pee on every inch of my yard to inform the other neighborhood dogs that this is her turf.

  I turn to glance back at Virago, who has padded stealthily up behind me. She wraps her arms around my middle, pressing her front against my back and her chin onto my shoulder. I reach up, wrapping an arms around hers. We stay like this, tightly embracing, our bodies interwoven, as we gaze out into the backyard. The backyard where everything happened, where my entire life changed forever, just a little less than a month ago.

  As we wait for Shelley to finish her business—she's currently racing across the backyard, her nose down to the ground, while she follows the trail of an animal who probably scampered over the grass hours ago—I can feel Virago against me, can feel the heat of her breath on my neck. The rain is turning cold outside, and as I turn my head slightly, as I lean forward just a little, the heat of her breath passes over the bare skin of my neck, and I can see her exhale standing in the air, like smoke. It's cold enough to see breath. I shiver.

  Virago's arms slowly loosen around me. Her movements are purposeful, sensuous, as she reaches up with her long fingers, her front pressing against my back. And her fingers wrap loosely around the laces of my bodice.

  She pulls.

  The bow comes undone, and the tightness of the bodice, squishing my boobs up in customary Ye Olde Renaissance Fashion, causes the laces to unravel pretty quickly. Virago tugs at the lacing, pulling it out of the grommets along the bodice until the entire front comes loose.

  This is one of my favorite, most comfortable outfits that I have to wear to Renaissance festivals, and it's pretty common. The bodice and overskirt, both in a bright, happy red that go well with my natural red hair, are layered over a baggy white chemise with bell sleeves, then tied tightly to accentuate all the curves. So when Virago undoes my corset, there isn't immediate skin accessible to her—as much as I wish there was. The bodice is just now undone, and that means the skirt and chemise are still on, still between me and her.

  But Virago is well versed in the workings of Renaissance-type clothing (even the kind that comes from the Halloween store and is very, very cheap, apparently), because she trails her fingers up my arms to the elastic top of the chemise.

  She tugs it down, over my shoulders. I shiver against her as she places one hot kiss on my right shoulder, trailing her tongue over my skin, over my neck, as I tilt my head t
o the side, gasping as she kisses me there, there, there, a lot of wet, hot kisses, until she shimmies the chemise lower, the elastic giving easily.

  There are hedges along my fence, and—honestly—it's too stormy for me to worry much about any of my neighbors watching my girlfriend strip me of my bodice and chemise...

  I turn to her now. I can't take it anymore. She's being too slow, too tantalizing, and since I watched her jousting this afternoon, I've been wanting her. Well, since I woke up this morning, I've been wanting her. She is everything I want, everything I'm attracted to, everything I love, and I want her. I can't take this teasing. I need her now.

  Virago was just about to pull the chemise below my breasts, but when I reach up, the chemise pulls up again, because I'm wrapping my arms around Virago's neck, drawing her in for a kiss.

  Shelley is still tearing around in the backyard, so we leave the back door open for her, the rain slanting in the direction opposite of the open door, and Virago pulls me toward the couch. The couch is where Virago usually sets her sword, Wolfslayer, so—out of force of habit—I glance behind me before I sit on the couch, pulling Virago after me.

  She must have left the sword in the car, because it's not on the couch. I immediately lie down on my side, pulling Virago after me, hooking my fingers in her leather belt as she rises over me, an indulgent smile tugging at her lips.

  “You're loving this, aren't you, milady?” she asks me, her voice a low, sexual growl as she dips her head down, brushing her lips along the elastic hem of my chemise.

  “Yes,” I tell her, panting, tugging at her belt. “You have no idea how badly I've wanted to make love to you while wearing this damn thing,” I tell her, gesturing down at myself with a free hand.

  “Wouldn't you rather,” she whispers, kissing the hollow of my neck, “that I was wearing,” she growls, kissing my bare shoulder, “my armor?” She trails her tongue down, down, pushing the chemise lower, my breasts straining against the elastic now.