by Radclyffe
“No,” my friend replied, shaking her head as if I were slightly slow, but unwittingly endearing. “I want to see.”
The word hung in the air, a thundercloud of challenge and change.
“Just a minute.”
As I followed the woman through the doorway and up the narrow stairs, I almost forgot that this was not a dream, not a fiction I had spun. The room she led me to was less tawdry than I had expected, small and surprisingly warm. A single bed—a clean white sheet turned back like the flap of an envelope waiting to be filled, a single lamp—its rose-colored shade tinting the muted glow with innocence, and a single chair—deep-seated and broad, pushed back to the edge of the room beyond the circle of illumination. The street noises, fragments of laughter and rumbling engines, floated in through the open window, reminding me that this was real. She stopped by the side of the bed and waited, allowing me to observe her. Far braver than I, for though we were strangers, we would touch more than flesh.
She was lovely actually, my aesthetic eye told me—beyond young but full bodied and well proportioned, her eyes clear and her gaze calm. As she slipped out of her blouse and slid the sheer material of her thigh-hugging skirt down her legs, she did not look to the shadows behind me where my friend sat in the deep easy chair. She looked at me.
She watched me watch her, and when she smiled softly at the appreciation in my eyes, I knew it was going to be all right. She must have recognized my astonishment, my wonder, my longing, for her expression became tender, saying wordlessly that she understood.
“Do you want to help?”
Her voice was throaty and full.
“Not yet,” I murmured. “I want to look at you.”
She wore a crimson thong and a scant froth of lace across her breasts that could only imaginatively have been called a bra. It barely covered her nipples, and the round, hard thrust of them against the whisper of silk brought desire twisting into my throat. Her breasts were average only in their size—naturally high and round and begging to be released from the fragile constraint of cloth. My hands trembled, eager to reach out, to gather the soft weight of them in my palms. I was still fully clothed, in a white cotton shirt and blue jeans. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and the slight space between my flesh and the denim grew smaller, tighter, as heat and need made me swell and throb. She was beautiful in the way women can be when they smile at you, full of secrets and the promise to reveal them all for the simple price of a perfect touch. I wanted her like an ache in my bones, not to take, not to possess, but to worship.
“I know what you want,” she whispered.
I watched her breasts rise and fall, more quickly with each passing moment. A faint flush deepened to rose on the creamy skin of her throat. The need in my belly opened and closed like a fist, and I moaned quietly.
So softly only I could hear, she beckoned. “Give me your desire. I am not afraid.”
As I moved close to her, I no longer heard the voices from below, or the occasional blare of horns, or the quiet steady breathing of my friend. What had begun as a gift to one had become homage to another. In the dim light and dancing shadows, there was only this woman waiting for my touch.
I reached behind her with trembling hands, her nipples just grazing my chest, and slipped the clasp on her bra. As it came away in my hands, I brought my lips to hers, tracing the gentle arch and warm, firm curves with my tongue. She grew still, seemingly surprised at the kiss, and only after I persisted, gently pushing past the reluctant barrier into the oasis of her mouth, did her tongue hesitantly touch mine. As our tongues tumbled and twined together, I cupped her breasts in both hands, brushing my thumbs over her nipples, curling my fingers around the sides, squeezing gently. I pressed them together until they rose, firm and white, and I was forced to bury my face between them. My teeth scraped skin and her hips pressed forward against my pelvis. I eased away and found her lips again, brushing mine over hers as I thumbed her nipples faster.
She murmured something against my mouth in a language I didn’t understand as she reached for the buttons on my shirt. I hadn’t expected that either, but I let her expose me. She peeled the fabric down my arms; I released her breasts long enough to shrug the shirt off, then caught in my fingers the thin triangle of silk that slashed across her thighs. While she smoothed her hand through the hair at the back of my neck, I leaned down to guide the thong along her thighs, over her calves, and away.
With my face close to her gently rounded belly, I caught the scent of her arousal—rich and thick and heady. So I was not alone in my need. My own desire pulsed like a living thing from my depths, soaking my jeans, slicking my ready flesh.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmured.
She laughed and squeezed the back of my neck, then rapidly turned her palms to my chest and swept her fingers once across my bare nipples. The movement caught me by surprise and I gasped, lifting my breasts to her touch, but her hands were already gone.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to touch you?” she asked, her fingers in my hair again. “I know how wet, how hard, how aching...”
“Yes,” I choked, rising to press my denim-covered thighs to hers. Our breasts met as arms encircled backs, pelvis met pelvis, and lips strayed over sweat-moistened skin. My legs trembled. I heard the air pass harshly from my lungs. “I’m all of that,” I murmured with my mouth to her ear, “from needing you.”
“I’m here.”
As we stood alone in the still circle of our desire, I had no awareness but the urgent need for her pleasure. I slipped my hand between our bodies, skimmed down her belly and between her thighs, and clasped her softly. With a short, deep sigh, she moved against my palm, anointing me with her essence. With a single finger, I parted her, scarcely breathing myself, and stroked slowly between swollen lips, ending at the full prominence of her clitoris. When I caressed her there, she gave a small cry and jerked slightly in my embrace. The exhilaration pierced me so strongly I thought I might fall, and I moaned a prayer of thanks.
“Is that good?” I questioned softly, two fingers caressing her length. She was very hard and so fragile.
“Too good, unless you mean for me to come now.”
When she leaned heavily against me, shaking, I stilled my fingers and guided her backward to the bed. “No. Not so soon.”
She sank down gratefully and rested back on her arms, facing me as I stood between her parted thighs. “But not too long, please.”
As I knelt to complete my adorations, I wondered fleetingly what image my friend saw as she looked at us. Did she witness the supplicant at the shrine? Did she sense my awe, my gratitude? If I did not think she could, I would never have come this far with her. She had asked to see beyond the surface of my pages to the heart of my story, and now she would. I could not stop now, not with my body set to bleed.
The scent of welcome captured me then, and I thought of the one in the shadows no longer. Warm and rich, like fertile earth, this woman’s arousal called to me—drawing me down as if hypnotized. One hand above, exposing her, one below, entering her, I opened her to my devotions. I drank the evidence of her desire, astonished anew at the sweet heady taste. Her need beat against my lips like a desperate caged bird, and I didn’t have the strength to resist any longer. I took her quivering clitoris into my mouth, first sucking gently, then pulling her deeper so that my tongue could tease the turgid shaft, working it rhythmically from side to side, then circling to ease the pleasure so much like pain.
Her muted cries shivered along my spine, and as I held her tightly in my mouth, I fumbled open the buttons on my jeans. Senses reeling, I touched myself, stroked her. Gasping, feeling the answering surge of her hips, I worked myself harder, careening toward orgasm. I felt what she felt—the burgeoning pressure inside as muscles contracted around thrusting fingers, nerve endings dancing as exquisitely sensitive flesh readied to explode. I heard nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing—nothing but my mouth on her and my fingers squeezing, pulling, tug—
She cried out, and that sweet sound stilled my hand as only her pleasure could. This was for her. When she pressed upward against my face, I sucked once, hard, and I felt her spasm between my lips. I shuddered as she came, a stroke away from joining her. I closed my eyes tightly, waiting, until she began to quiet, and then I gently brushed my fingertips over my tense clitoris. The orgasm broke over me and carried me helplessly away. If we were not alone in that moment, I never knew it.
How much later I stirred, I do not know. I eased my fingers from inside her, and she moaned a soft protest. I stood, lifted her legs onto the bed, and pulled the sheet over her. I brushed away a stray lock of hair caught in the corner of her mouth, and she rewarded me with a kiss against my palm before closing her eyes with a long sigh.
I turned from her, my legs still shaking, and buttoned my jeans. A hand extended from the dark, offering my shirt. I took the shirt in one hand and reached for my companion’s with the other. We would walk for a while. The night was not over, and there were other stories to tell.
HART'S DESIRE
Rian Hart slammed the desk drawer and sent a tremor rippling across the floor, up the metal rungs of the associate editor’s chair, and into his ass with enough force to nearly knock him over as he leaned back, contemplating the pattern on the acoustic ceiling tiles.
“Something wrong?” he asked cautiously, lowering his shoes from atop his blotter and tipping forward until his elbows met his desk.
“No,” she snapped, pushing aside a stack of files so violently that several caromed off onto the floor. She ignored them, hunched her shoulders, and pounded her keyboard relentlessly. “Deadline.”
“Plenty of time yet.” He tapped a pencil aimlessly, producing an annoyingly unsyncopated patter. “Doing anything special tonight?”
“No,” she answered again, quietly this time. She didn’t look at him. She tried to ignore her disappointment. It’s not like Valentine’s Day really means anything, for heaven’s sake. It’s just another excuse for commercial exploitation. So she forgot. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me.
She stared at her monitor, the words a blur. Does it?
A tiny sliver of uncertainty pricked at her consciousness. She had been out of town a lot lately, traipsing back and forth across the country following yet another missing-wife case. They hadn’t had much time alone—or much time for much of anything when they were together. There had been that quick visit she had made to the hospital between a morning flight in from California and an evening flight out to New York City at the beginning of last week. She smiled at the memory. She did enjoy their grappling like teenagers in heat on the narrow bed in Bren’s on-call room. But it was hardly the height of romance. Had it really been almost two weeks since that brief flash of intimacy?
A surgeon and an investigative reporter—whatever had made them think they could keep a relationship afloat? But they had. So far. So she thought.
Maybe they were losing the romance. They were well past the honeymoon period. They didn’t live together but they slept together every night—well, except on those nights when Bren was on call or Rian was chasing a story. Such day-to-day intimacy could dull the excitement. Was Bren getting bored with her?
Rian sighed, crammed her notes into her briefcase, and snapped it shut. She glanced at the clock. It was after six p.m. already. “I don’t think we’ll be doing anything. Bren hasn’t called. She’s probably still in the OR.”
“Maybe she tried sending flowers and the guy couldn’t find the office.”
“Yeah. Right.” But she smiled faintly as she gathered her things and headed for the door. “Night.”
The hall was empty and most of the adjoining offices were dark. Her footsteps echoed eerily down the long, dim corridor. She’d just reached the sidewalk in front of the Tribune building when a man stepped forward and inquired politely, “Ms. Hart?”
Rian stopped, instantly alert, but not particularly worried. Medium height, middle thirties, neatly dressed, totally nonthreatening posture. Hands at his sides—no evidence of a weapon. “Yes?”
“I’ll be your driver this evening, ma’am,” he continued, taking a few steps toward a white limousine idling at the curb. “If you’ll allow me.” He reached to open the rear door.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Rian informed him, shaking her head.
He smiled and handed her an envelope. “No, ma’am.” He remained by the open door, patiently waiting.
Frowning, Rian opened the envelope, pulled out a cream-colored card, and read the familiar bold script.
Remember the time at your mother’s with your sister in the next room? You cried when you came. You were so beautiful. Come to me tonight.
Rian colored involuntarily at the recollection of trying desperately to be quiet, a pillow clenched firmly in her teeth, as Bren stroked her gently but relentlessly to a climax. The note could only be from her. Rian looked at the man beside the vehicle, searching for any hint of danger, anything that didn’t feel right. He smiled benignly; she laughed quietly and slid into the luxurious interior. Sometimes a rose is just a rose.
The dark leather smell surrounded her, and on the seat she found a real rose with a small white card pinned to its stem.
Have I told you today how much I love you?
Let me tell you now...
More, my darling, than I can ever say.
Rian read the words again, at once warmed and mystified, still unable to believe the changes in her life since Bren. She had never expected this love—never sought it, nor dreamed it, nor longed for it. And now she could not imagine living without it. Without Bren. The mere thought was physically painful. She held the card tightly, trying to see the street signs through the tinted windows in hopes of gleaning their destination. Logan Square—God, she hoped Bren hadn’t planned anything too classy. She wasn’t dressed for it, and she was bone tired. She had been working nonstop on one breaking story after another for weeks, and she was running on empty. Still, the thrill of anticipation had her rapidly forgetting her fatigue.
A few moments later, the limo slowed, and her heart plummeted.
Oh, God—not the Four Seasons! I am absolutely not prepared for dinner there!
Her driver pulled around the curving drive to the entrance and hurried to open her door. To her surprise, he accompanied her into the spacious foyer with its high ceiling, vast marble floor, and Federal-era furnishings. To her relief, he steered her away from the Fountain dining room toward a private elevator tucked away in a corner. A dignified man in an elaborate, brocade-laden uniform stood by the open door.
“To the Presidential Suite, Henry,” the driver said, then quietly slipped away.
“Madam,” Henry said in a deep formal tone, gesturing for Rian to precede him into a beautiful elevator car adorned with plush wall coverings and dark walnut wainscoting.
Rian smiled at the appellation as she entered. The car rose with the barest whisper of motion and glided soundlessly to a stop. She stepped out into a private foyer carpeted in thick broadloom with Wedgwood-blue wallpaper in a pattern of fine stripes and a Sheraton table against one wall holding a vase of long-stem white roses. The elevator door swished closed just as the single door opposite opened.
Bren, obviously freshly showered and wearing a royal blue silk dressing gown that Rian had given her for Christmas, stood framed in the soft yellow glow cast by the shaded lamps in the room beyond. Her legs were bare below midthigh, where the robe ended, and Rian was quite certain that there was nothing but the sash and smooth cool silk over satin skin above that point.
“I see you got my message.” Bren’s voice was deep and sensuous, her smile slow and dangerous. Her dark hair was combed straight back from a face that made angels weep. Strong jaw, deep-set dark eyes, and a mouth made for pleasure.
“I don’t know what to say,” Rian admitted, walking forward to the threshold of an enormous suite of rooms. She felt shy for no reason that she could imagine. This was the woman who had h
eld her countless nights and touched not just her body, but her life, more intimately than any other person ever had. Yet seeing her now, so absolutely stunning, Rian had a moment’s insecurity. They had made love dozens of times, but she had never before been quite so aware of Bren’s sexual magnetism.
Why me? Why do you want me?
“You don’t have to say anything,” Bren said quietly, extending her hand and drawing Rian into the suite. Standing behind Rian, she took her briefcase and set it down, lifted off her overcoat and laid it on a nearby sofa, and nuzzled her face in the crook of Rian’s neck. Inhaling deeply, her hands just skimming Rian’s arms, she murmured, “Mmm. You smell so good.”
The warm breath caressed her ear, and Rian shivered.
“Cold?”
A soft mouth traveled down the column of her neck and back up again, lingering to gently suck her earlobe between hot, clever lips.
“No,” Rian sighed. “Melting.”
Bren chuckled and slid an arm around Rian’s waist. “Come with me.”
Bren led her to the bedroom where a king-sized bed, its ivory coverlet thrown back to reveal pale blue satin sheets and a mountain of pillows, dominated the room. A silver ice bucket stood nearby with a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. The surroundings were opulent, the atmosphere hopelessly sensual, but it was the woman—the woman whose touch ignited her every sense—that held Rian enthralled. Every time with Bren was like the first time—aching anticipation combined with dizzying desire. She turned and threaded her arms around Bren’s neck.
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t forget.”
“You’re all I thought about all day.” Bren dipped her head and pressed her lips to the hollow at the base of Rian’s throat. She touched the rippling pulse point with the tip of her tongue, then sucked the tender skin until Rian whimpered. “You’re all I think about every day.”
“I’ve missed you.” Rian arched into Bren as her muscles and nerves tightened, her skin burning with the relentless rise of arousal. With the fingers of one hand tangled in the damp, thick hair at the nape of Bren’s neck, she slid her other hand between them and pulled on the sash at Bren’s waist. Bren quickly caught her hand and prevented her from opening the robe.
