Cruising the Strip

by Radclyffe

  Marian laughed and gave her an indulgent look. “I’ll go to my workshop and you play the tables. But stick within your budget, okay?”

  “I know.” She gave Marian her most innocent look. “I can stretch a dollar a long, long way.” She glanced around—they were a long way from the openness of Iowa City—and there seemed to be plenty of coupled up women nearby. With a resounding smooch, she bounded away to the change machine. Video poker was her first stop.

  Twenty minutes and twenty dollars later, she thought if she wanted to just throw her money away, she could play keno. Buy an Edge or Top-Bottom ticket and kiss ten bucks good-bye. Or she could buy tickets to one of the many shows. The ones she could afford were likely still more entertaining than slot machines that ate her quarters like Marian’s dog ate kibble, and that included the Engelbert Humperdinck imitators. She wished she could win something and afford tickets to Melissa or Madonna.

  Banish that thought, she told herself. Feeling desperate to win attracted losing. It wasn’t logical, but it was true.

  She had her employer’s hundred dollars, a gift for “research” Dana Moon had said. She was to spend it on blackjack, then write down every last impression she had of being an unskilled player at a middle stakes table.

  Ten minutes later, she tapped Loser from loserville, that’s what it feels like into her PalmPilot. Swear to freakin’ god, she’d never seen cards so bad. She’d had twelve, three times, and gotten a ten every hand. Nobody busts with twenty-two three times in a row, ka-ching, ka-ching. The dealer had looked a little chagrinned.

  She glanced at her watch. Marian would be another hour at least. She would have gone along to watch her mostest favorite librarian participate on a panel discussion of cultural sensitivity in the labeling and display of young adult titles, but she was sort of banned from the proceedings because of last year. Not officially banned, but that idiot guy had so not known what he was talking about, and in her opinion any librarian who supported a censorship position ought to go to work at the department of motor vehicles alphabetizing license plates.

  Marian had tried to calm her down after the altercation. “Liddy, honey, I know you love to ask questions, and I have never seen anyone who loves a good debate like you—”

  Liddy had snarled in the general direction of petty fascists the world over. “Debate? I was kicking his ass, and if he calls you little lady one more time, I’m gonna kick his ass for real.”

  “Honey, I know you feel strongly about it, and I know you really can kick his ass because I saw you get your black belt, but you can’t go around kicking the asses of the members of the board. Especially when you’re not a librarian and you aren’t even a paid attendee at the conference.”

  When Marian was right, she was right, and Liddy had learned to accept it. And when she’d asked Liddy not to go into any of the sessions this year, and hinted she was just passing on a more or less official request, Liddy had promised to be good.

  The panel was probably boring Marian out of her mind. She could hear her love right now explaining that librarians did not act in loco parentis, and that any so-called child with the wherewithal to find a book ought to be able to check that book out, and any parents who wanted to keep a firm grip on what their children were reading had the perfect recourse of not letting their children have their own cards. It was that simple. But no, parents wanted to park their children at the library after school for a couple of hours, and then got upset when their children actually used the library to look up stuff that interested them. Number one search for males aged fifteen to eighteen was sex. Number two, sex. Number three, cars. Number four, cars and sex in cars.

  So, she could see about making her next twenty dollars last an hour—unlikely—or she could think of something else to amuse herself.

  Text messages were free, she thought. She punched up Marian’s number and asked her if she was able to get texts.

  Marian replied her bit was over and she was seated in the audience and asked what was wrong. Liddy loved the economy of Done, off dais, okay?

  1 Liddy texted back. A walk in a thunderstorm.

  ?

  2 Your shirt soaked to your skin. There was no reply, and Liddy was pretty sure she had Marian’s attention. 3 My shirt soaked to my skin.

  Well, maybe she should play a little bit more video poker.

  Her next twenty bucks lasted longer because she stopped after every dollar or so lost to send Marian another text.

  4 Chasing drops of rain down your throat with my tongue, followed an ill-advised attempt to draw to an inside straight.

  She had drawn a spade to go with four diamonds when a reply from Marian arrived. She smiled fondly as she read: 5 You make love like you eat.

  Maybe she could find a pint of ice cream and a spoon and invite Marian upstairs for a memorable lunch. A couple of clicks on the poker machine brought her a modest return in the form of three of a kind. For ten minutes, she played happily, not quite losing, then her fortunes took another turn for the worse.

  6 Against the door.

  Immediately she got back: 7 You naked. Me not.

  She shivered. Five years and that still turned her on. Marian the Librarian was really playful, and the best part was nobody suspected, so there were no nympho-femmes trying to poach her girl. Liddy hadn’t known she was a nympho-femme until Marian.

  She looked down when her phone buzzed. 8 Shower?

  9 Your favorite word, yes.

  Marian didn’t answer, so it was possible she had to actually talk to people or something. Liddy cashed out what was left of her money in the poker machine and carried the quarters to a good ol’ Lucky 7 slot machine. Plink-plink-plink, spin-whirl-click, gone-gone-gone.

  Maybe she should try a different casino, but she didn’t want to leave. It was rather nice to have more women than men in the hotel, and there were librarians everywhere. Attendees for the Escort Services International group were also in evidence, and there were even some faces she recognized as famous romance writers.

  Marian said that writers and librarians were natural pairings, and even if Liddy wasn’t a writer, she did research for one, which made them even more ideal as mates. What Liddy couldn’t find, Marian could. They’d lie in bed at night talking about search strings and cataloging, total geeks, then Marian would take off her glasses, take off Liddy’s clothes, and in the morning there were towels and sheets to wash. Marian’s favorite flannel sheets hadn’t survived their first year.

  Her phone buzzed. 10 All my fingers, all over you.

  Well, okay, Liddy had started her little game thinking to make Marian crazy, but at the moment, Marian was getting the upper hand. She laughed, startling the man on the stool next to her. What else was new? Marian always had the upper hand, and they both really liked it that way. 11 plus your tongue.

  12 Our first night together, you.

  Oh, Marian was not playing fair. Liddy abandoned the slot machine as the memories of that first night washed over her. She’d not known just how multi-orgasmic she could be. She’d not been that way with anyone else, and wonderful Marian had decided that just because Liddy didn’t know she could, that wasn’t the same as knowing she couldn’t.

  Marian, again. 13 The next day and night.

  Now she was just showing off. 14 Hours it took you to call me after.

  15 Times I’ve said sorry.

  16 Times I’ve said sorry for bringing it up. Oh dear, things were not going the way she intended.

  17 Favorite thing: Make up sex?

  Liddy laughed, relieved. Her steps turned toward the conference center. 18 Yes, please. Now.

  19 Minutes I have left in this session.

  20 Minutes till I see you in our room.

  21 This afternoon, you.

  Liddy blushed and was so glad no one else could see the display. When Marian got in these moods and wanted to see how often Liddy could… Nympho-femme, she thought, and don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.

  She sent back: Gam
e over. I’ve won all I need, all I want.

  *

  “What I love,” Marian whispered against Liddy’s breasts, “is feeling like I make your fantasies come true.”

  Liddy was incredibly pleased with the status of the world, the cosmos, and the praline truffle ice cream that had not quite melted all the way. It had made for a wonderful snack before Marian decided they should shower and go back to bed. “You make fantasies come true that I didn’t even know I had. That’s the really amazing part.”

  “Want some more to come true?”

  “Not right now—I mean, yes, actually.” Liddy grinned at her lover.

  “You have the most amazing eyes,” Marian said. “The goddess was playing with the most beautiful blues and greens when she conceived you.”

  Liddy redirected Marian’s hand from between her legs to her breast.

  “If you don’t want that, what do you want?” Marian tweaked Liddy’s nipple, which responded as it always did even after the hours of fun.

  “You.” Liddy ruffled the short hair that curled ever so slightly on Marian’s forehead. “You don’t need the way I do, but I know that you need. I told you the first time we were together I wasn’t a pillow queen.”

  “You never have been. That you let me play with you the way I do is one of the ways you make love to me.”

  Liddy tweaked Marian’s nipple exactly the way Marian was touching hers. She’d learned that the confident lover who could be so aggressive and so thorough needed a few minutes to fade before a more vulnerable woman emerged, one who could let Liddy see her need.

  Tapping into a patience she did not normally possess but had learned to nurture, Liddy stroked Marian’s hair. They had already had five years of passion—passion for their work, their friends, each other. Learning to take and give had been so important.

  “We’re going to miss out on baseball theme night,” Marian said. Her playful tone was at odds with the need now showing in her eyes.

  “Don’t let me be selfish,” Liddy whispered. “It’s not good for me.” She touched the tip of her tongue to Marian’s earlobe, then rubbed her lips along Marian’s cheek and jaw.

  Marian exhaled, a small sound that Liddy knew was surrender to Liddy taking control. With a purr of pleasure, Liddy peeled Marian’s T-shirt off, glad that the skittishness that she had first encountered when making love to Marian was long gone.

  “I love you,” she said, knowing Marian needed to hear it. She slid one arm under Marian’s shoulders, pulling her close while her other hand explored the wonderful, full breasts. She wanted to say, “Beautiful,” but Marian’s gentle butch objected to the word. Instead, she held the word in her mouth as she kissed Marian slowly, luxuriously. No one had ever made her feel as if she could read minds, interpret the most subtle body language the way Marian did. It was a powerful feeling that sprang from intimacy, not the mind games they had both endured in their exes.

  Marian loved her touch, and it still went right to her head, a different kind of dizzy arousal than what she’d already experienced. She stayed close, drowning them both in kisses while her hand finally dipped between Marian’s legs.

  The explosion of wetness made her whimper. She drenched her fingers with it, brought them to her mouth, tasted and licked, then painted Marian’s lips with the wonderful essence. More kisses, her fingers again dipping, pressing, then finally, sliding inside.

  “Oh, yes.” Marian arched into their kisses, shuddering under Liddy’s hand.

  “I’m right here, darling.” Liddy breathed out the reassurance, felt it unknot the tension in Marian’s shoulders, spreading down her body until her legs parted. She was suddenly so wet that Liddy’s hand was swimming. “I know this is what you need.”

  She pressed inward, smooth and steady, drawing a hoarse, sharp cry out of Marian that turned into an ecstatic, exultant, “Yes!”

  My favorite word, too, Liddy thought. Our favorite word.

  After a few minutes of increasingly languid kisses and murmured reassurances, Liddy smooched away the faint hint of tears in the corners of Marian’s eyes. “Love you, and I love doing that to you.”

  “Baseball night,” Marian mumbled. “We’re missing out.”

  “Sleep.” She watched Marian’s eyelids droop.

  “But it’s our last night. You wanted to gamble.”

  “Don’t need to. I’m already the winner.”

  Marian’s hand tightened on hers, then slowly went limp. Liddy smiled into Marian’s hair, and after one more sigh of contentment, joined her in sleep.

  No Limit

  by Radclyffe

  I wondered if she thought I wouldn’t notice that she was staring. Even though I sat on a raised platform at a table with five other panelists in a crowded conference room, I could feel her eyes on me. All 300 seats were filled, being as The Erotic Transformation of Romance Fiction was a popular topic for writers, booksellers, and librarians—like me. I didn’t write books, nor did I sell books. I just loved books. I loved the way they felt, the way they smelled, the way they looked lined up on a shelf with the spine text all neatly aligned. I loved the anticipation of the first page and the bittersweet pleasure of the final sentence. Most of all, I loved the adventure, the discovery, the wondrous revelations that held me captive and, every so often, if I was very lucky, left me wanting.

  Someone in the audience asked me a question and I answered automatically, smiling by reflex after years of dealing with the public. I made eye contact with the questioner, before broadening my gaze to take in the entire room, including everyone in the discussion. But always, no matter where I pretended to look, I was aware of her standing at the back of the room, her face partly shadowed by the column she leaned against. She should have been too far away for me to see her clearly, but I could make out her features as distinctly as if she stood before me. I knew she was a stranger, just as surely as I recognized her in some deep, visceral way. Her eyes were dark, as was her thick, slightly wavy collar length hair. Her body was long and slender, almost thin, and the deep-charcoal tailored jacket and trousers accentuated her austere appearance. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, one shoulder tilted against the cool white marble support. A flash of gold winked at her waistline and on the small finger of her left hand. She had been watching me since the moment she walked into the room, her gaze like hot sunshine on my cheek.

  “Thank you all so much for participating,” I heard the session moderator say, and in an instant the stage was deluged by eager audience members. I answered questions, made reading recommendations, and handed out the bibliographies I had prepared for those who wanted to research the topic further. When we were finally forced to vacate the room for the next session, I made my way down the central aisle, my focus on the far corner of the room. She was gone, and I laughed inwardly at the sharp pang of disappointment. Of course she was gone, as far from my reach as the women in the pages of the books whose passion I guiltily took as my own.

  With my briefcase in hand, I quickly crossed the lobby, skirting around the long line of conference goers that had formed to pick up a complementary box lunch. I preferred to eat alone, somewhere quiet, with my thoughts and, yes, my fantasies for company. Balancing the social requirements of an event like this against my innate need for privacy was a constant challenge, and one that tired me. Unfortunately, Las Vegas casinos were not known for quiet or privacy—everything was geared toward constant stimulation, feeding the adrenaline rush that kept people on the edge, kept people awake, kept people taking a chance. As I crossed the gaming floor, I envied the jubilant, almost frenzied gamblers. They were so alive, the very air reverberated with the collective pounding of their hearts. In contrast, I felt like a shadow, a closed book waiting to be opened so life could begin.

  Shaking my head, I tried to dispel the unsettling images. I didn’t often allow myself the luxury of self-analysis. Despite my frequent feelings of being not quite part of the world around me, I had work that I loved and pleasures th
at satisfied me. I spied an overstuffed chair next to a small table tucked into a corner of one of the many lounges bordering the main casino, and changed course to claim it. That was when she stepped out of the shadows as if she had been waiting for me. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon in August, inside the casino it was perpetual “any time,” neither night nor day. With no clocks, no windows, and only the artifice of fabricated worlds as a backdrop, it was easy to lose touch with reality. Or whatever passed for reality anywhere but here.

  “Chase Rogers,” I said, recognizing her now from book cover photos that didn’t do her justice. Up close, I was struck by the perfect pallor of her skin. Not so much the absence of color, but an ethereal translucent white that made her appear flawless and timeless and as nearly untouchable as Michelangelo’s David. Nearly untouchable, because I had an overwhelming, completely irresistible desire to run my fingers over the faultlessly etched curve of her cheekbone. And I did, with just the tips of my fingers. Her skin was as smooth and cool as I expected. Carved marble.

  “I’m sorry.” I dropped my hand. “I have no idea why I did that.”

  “Perhaps because I wanted you to.”

  The rich timbre of her voice struck me deep inside, like tinder bursting into flame, and I knew I would do anything she desired. Distantly, I was aware of people passing by, but it seemed as if we existed in a circle outside the everyday realm of ordinary lives. Her gaze never left my face, and she hadn’t moved closer to me, but I felt as if she was exploring my body in the most intimate of ways. My face flushed and I felt a stirring between my legs. Incapable of moving, I clutched at the gossamer strands of reality before they completely slipped away.

  “I love your books.”

  “You don’t find them too violent? Or too dark?”