“I think she just had to tell somebody, after all those years. Somebody who wasn’t quite family.”
Somebody who was Kaitlin. I couldn’t resist pouring myself into her, and Jenna spilled the most intimate secrets, so why should I be surprised at my grandmother’s vulnerability? But I had never been allowed to think of the arrogant old woman as vulnerable. Or even human.
“What else did she tell you? Did she say…were they….”
Kaitlin just nodded. Lovers. I looked down into the picture again. My grandmother’s eyes, with a glint of fierceness even in that long-ago sunlit afternoon, told me what she had never told me in life. Dammit, she had owed me that much! I came close to hating her for what she had withheld, for what she had let me suffer alone.
And then I realized some fraction of what she had suffered.
“Vengeance? How? She must have told you more!”
“No. And I couldn’t ask. It hurt her enough to go as far as she did. After that she changed the subject to gardening and gave me the seeds for that weird ridged zucchini I’ve planted ever since. The one you call ‘the French tickler of the vegetable world.’ ”
The wild thought crossed my mind that the implacable matriarch of my family had, in fact, meant the seeds as just such a joke. Impossible. But…. I eyed the seven-inch brown-papered cylinder Kait was beginning to unwrap. No. Please, no. There are some things you just don’t want to inherit from your grandmother, no matter what.
Kate glanced sidelong at me, and the corner of her mouth twitched. She knew perfectly well what I was thinking. “Don’t worry. I think I can tell what it is.” She went on unwinding coil after coil of paper, until the object’s shape began to emerge, and when at last she held out the little stiletto-slim dagger I took it with something as close to reverence as I’m ever likely to feel.
“Her vengeance.” I ran a finger along the blade. “It’s cold,” I said, somehow surprised.
Kaitlin stood and took the dagger from me, laid it flat in the deep valley between her breasts, and pulled me up so tightly against her that our bodies held the steel. “Her heart,” she said. “Still fiery.”
She was right. I felt its heat radiating outward, not from the blade alone but from fiery hearts back through the years. We pressed against each other, Kait clutching at my back, my hands filled with the glorious curves of her ass, rocking almost imperceptibly together.
Tension mounted as the need grew for flesh to move against beloved flesh. A fine and poignant torture, worth prolonging, except that the fear of the sharp edge shifting and slicing into Kait’s delectable skin made me cut it short. And made me realize just how weak I really was.
I’ve always needed to feel strong—to split the firewood, shovel the snow, even carry Kait, in spite of her protests, across the occasional stream. Now, as I tightened the grip of my left hand on the compelling fullness of her ass and reached between the equally compelling swells of her breasts with my right, I faced my own deepest fear.
“I couldn’t do it,” I said, and tossed the dagger onto the bed. “I couldn’t do what she did.”
“Take vengeance?” Kate’s green eyes looked deeply into my dark ones, knowing me so well that she already half-understood what I meant. “Nothing could have stopped you! I can see you now, going into battle with pipes skirling and banners flying, or slipping silently through the darkness if stealth was what it took.”
I dropped my head to her shoulder and wrapped her even closer in my arms, thighs, everything that could grip her, trying to hold all of her inside me. “But you wouldn’t be there to see me,” I muttered into her neck. “I would avenge you, no question, preferably with tooth and claw instead of a knife. But afterward…. How did she go on living? I couldn’t do that—go on without you.”
Kaitlin had been stroking the nape of my neck, but at that her fingers tightened and her thumbs pressed into my windpipe just enough to get my attention. I raised my head.
“Don’t!” she said fiercely. “Grieve for her, but don’t judge her!”
“I’m not….”
“Yes, you are. You think she shouldn’t have gone on, shouldn’t have married, raised a family, given me you!”
“No!” There might be some truth to it. But it didn’t matter. The thought of life without Kait was what tore me apart.
“And don’t even think about losing me, because you never will!” Her green eyes were brilliant with anger, or unshed tears, or both. She dropped her hands to my shoulders and then, in strokes so hard and furious they hurt, ran them over all of my body she could reach while I still held her so tightly. “And if…if you ever dare to say that this flesh I love wouldn’t go on, if only to carry the memory of mine, I’ll take that knife, Nazi germs and all, and carve my name into you where you won’t ever forget it!”
My grip on her had loosened a little, maybe to give her hands more territory to punish. She managed to get them on my breasts, and then, while I was distracted, twisted away from me and picked up the knife. She backed off a step and raised her arm—and even then, even as the blade shot past me to lodge, quivering, in the wooden headboard, the undulation of her flesh in motion sent resonating waves through mine.
Then she pushed me down onto the bed, and followed to nuzzle all along my inner thigh, making me melt and tense in ecstatic contradiction. “So,” she murmured between kisses turning into bites, “just where shall I mark you? Here…or here where your fine Sicilian fur would hide it…or in this tender hollow…?” She teased me, stroking and licking until my readiness verged on pain and I arched into her touch and fought to control the raw cries clawing at my throat—a battle I needed more to lose than win.
“Kait!” My voice was knife-edged with desperation. The teasing ceased, as her wide mouth moved wet and hot and demanding against my pounding clit. Tongue, hands, divinely heavy breasts pressing my thighs; no need to sort it out, no need, impossible, to keep control. She drove me surely on and on, making my voice tear free from all restraint, forcing the agonizing tension to swell, and surge, and burst at last into dark, searing brilliance.
As peace flooded in behind the slowly ebbing glow, I pulled Kait up along my body until I could kiss her, deeply, and feel her tongue on mine. I’m never more sure of who I am than when I taste myself on Kaitlin’s mouth.
We lay entwined, her thigh pressed gently now against my still-throbbing mound. I began to move my mouth over her seductive skin again, and felt her ripple of response, but I felt something else, too, something I recognized. I wasn’t surprised when she swung her wide, powerful hips to the edge of the bed and stood up.
She crossed to the open window, and for an instant I wished I were watching from below, seeing Kait’s curves outlined in the lamplight, and wondered whether Jenna might be out there. Then I went to stand beside her, looking out over the valley at the mountains dark against a twilight sky of Maxfield Parrish blue.
Kait gripped my hand and held it against her breast. I felt, more than heard, the tremor deep within of music being born. A fragment of melody took shape, evoking the mountains before us; then came a subtle change of tone, in that mysterious way Kait has of overlaying the mellow richness of her voice with a harsher power. The tree-furred slopes became the stony sides of Sicily’s bare mountains, far away in space and time.
The tune faded, but the music was still in Kait’s low voice when she spoke. “Write the words for me, Andri. Her story. Her song.”
“Yes,” I said. “ ‘The Sicilian Dagger.’ ” Images, phrases, already stirred in my subconscious. “It’s coming.” My throat was still raw from cries I had made without hearing, drowned out by the storm within. I put my arms around her and bent my face into the soft, sweet warmth of her shoulder. “But for now, just hold me.” She knew how deeply into me she was already etched, with no need of any blade. She knew, too, when it was time to set thought aside and let the flesh tell what was in the heart; and, when comfort gave way again to hunger, she let me tell her once more all that burned in mine
.
Cop-Out
Rosalind Christine Lloyd
Troi was into picking up girls at straight clubs. Tonight, her destination was Butter, a hip-hop club in Tribeca.
An ex-Marine and former college hoop all-star, Troi was now a New York City police detective. Her preoccupation with combat and competition defined a quiet but powerfully aggressive demeanor. She kept her 5’10”, 160-pound body buffed to masculine perfection with rigorous daily workouts that involved pumping iron with the muscle queens at a gay gym in Chelsea where she matched their workout regimen to achieve similar macho results. Every inch of her was solid, sinuous, rippling muscle.
Her skin was like dark fudge, as rich and even in tone as a sinfully delicious chocolate cake. When she laughed, a mouth full of perfectly spaced teeth framed by thin, silky lips accentuated a smile that ignited the light in her unusually light brown eyes. Her hands were massive: hands designed to palm basketballs, handle heavy artillery, and apprehend suspects, among other useful things.
Tonight she opted for a pair of soft brown leather pants and a suede camel-colored shirt. She had a knack for choosing loose-fitting clothes that enabled her to neutralize any semblance of femininity. Her breasts were almost always held hostage, bound tightly beneath her clothing. She selected one of her larger dildos, the one she’d named Shaft, along with her new leather travel harness. Shaft was handmade, designed precisely to her specifications to include, among other things, a skin tone that matched her complexion. The startling replica even came equipped with a fake foreskin that made it feel that much more authentic. It served its purpose. It set her back quite a lot of money but she quickly discovered it was worth every cent and more. She finished her outfit with her favorite designer square-toe boots (for men, of course), splashed on a men’s designer cologne, and dared to accessorize with a fat ruby in her left ear and a matching pinky ring for that hint of gangsta.
To throw people off her trail, she would often flash her police badge on her way into the clubs she cruised. Besides being allowed admission at no charge, she avoided being carded. This particular evening, it was obvious that Butter was seriously implementing its ID policy because of the excess crowd of underage kids hanging out behind the ropes, trying to get in.
Hip-hop clubs were perfect venues for her obsession because the social element was fiercely dark, wild, uninhibited, and crowded enough for her to move around freely without inciting any suspicion. The carnival feeling reminded Troi of her freaknik college days. Most of the men were typical in their badass attitudes, adhering to the typical negative stereotypes of male posturing, and taking the pessimistic connotations of the music way too seriously. Talk about game—all of this worked in Troi’s favor because she offered an alternative. Her meticulous, classy, cash-money look attracted the girls’ attention every time. The only problem she ever encountered were the down-low, bisexual switch-hitter boys prowling around who correctly detected her on their gaydar, but incorrectly assumed she was a gay man or something even more ambiguous. Troi found these occasions amusing but off-putting. For this reason, using the restrooms, any restroom, was strictly out of the question.
Scanning the club, she easily found her mark: a tall, red bone with the face of an angel dipped in honey, with two long French braids that went down her back tickling a fat, juicy ass squeezed into a cheap, tight, Lycra hoochie dress. The slinky fabric stretched and strained against the milk-fed curves of her breeder hips. Her calves, sprung from svelte, golden thighs, were incredibly sculpted in a pair of chic platform ankle boots that had a sci-fi effect: the entire boot, including the heel, was encased in stretched black leather. Troi liked the way they made her calves look. Long and wispy eyelashes like the fringe on a gypsy’s shawl draped huge, sensuous eyes. Wearing too much jewelry, she was definitely into “bling-bling.” Her nail tips were long, decorated in startling designs and colors; but her tits, piled into a push-up bra, were voluminously for real. Ms. Thing was ghetto fabulous in all its glory.
Troi watched the girl closely, studied her standing at the bar as if waiting for a bus. At least three men asked Braids to dance, but she declined them all. Braids was waiting for Mr. Right. She was waiting for Troi.
Troi sent her a glass of champagne with a shot of Hennessey poured on top (commonly known as thug’s gold) and waited for the young lady’s reaction. Initially, Braids hesitated with suspicion, refusing the cocktail. But when the bartender pointed at Troi, Braids stared for a moment with those eyes, assessing her admirer before smiling seductively and mouthing the words thank you with lusciously burgundy-coated lips. She then proceeded to sip slowly from her glass as if digesting something very precious. Troi would not allow her much time to think, knowing she would have to crank up the charm to get Braids where she wanted her.
Their eyes locked and remained so while Troi slowly walked to the end of the bar, as if she was a pimp strolling along a catwalk. Unable to read anything from the girl’s eyes, Troi relied on her feminine intuition, and she felt the adrenaline surge through her. It was the same feeling she got before taking the winning layup shot or the feeling she had during a stakeout—the feeling of victory in enemy territory. Flexing her muscles, she walked right up to Braids, suddenly feeling the aura of heat emitting from the girl’s body. This startled Troi for a moment. As if reading Troi’s mind, Braids took another sip of champagne. Taking a deep breath, Troi leaned in toward the girl, telling herself not to inhale her whole.
“I can see you appreciate the finer things in life,” Troi whispered in her ear, letting her nose brush against the length of her neck for a trace of her scent.
“Is that your best line? Now I know you can come better than that especially when you sending over champagne and everything. What’s your name, Mr. Got-all-the-Right-Moves?” The dark pools turned into magnets, drawing Troi in.
“I’m Troi—and what do they call you, Ms. Got-all-the- Right-Moves?”
“If you’re nasty.”
“Oh, I’m plenty nasty.”
“I bet you are. I’m Staci.” She sipped from her glass again, her eyes lowering, her comfort level improving.
The dance floor was a virtual free-for-all. No respect was given and every liberty was taken with the feminine gender. The brothers practically mauled the girls alive and the girls appeared to enjoy the attention, but whether this was really the case was another matter altogether. But this kind of atmosphere played in Troi’s favor as she gently removed the glass from Staci’s hands and led her onto the crowded dance floor.
It was so hot it seemed like everyone was simulating sex. Staci wrapped her arms around Troi’s neck, rubbing herself against Troi’s thigh like a puppy in heat. Something was on this girl’s mind.
Troi was enamored by the overture and didn’t waste any time stroking Staci’s back very provocatively and grabbing her ass, positioning Staci so that she was gyrating on the head of Troi’s dildo.
“You a big boy, Troi. You could hurt a girl,” She purred in Troi’s ear.
When Staci stuck her hot, wet tongue into that same ear, Troi wanted to sink her cock right in the ass she held, but she settled for plunging her fingers through Staci’s lacy thong and in between her meaty lips.
Staci felt so good riding Troi’s dong and fingers, her soft breasts crushed against Troi’s bound, puckered nipples. Troi could feel Staci’s muscles clench in the palm of her hands. Staci found Troi’s lips with her own, forcing them into a kiss so provocative it made Troi’s head spin. Sucking tongues, lips, mouths like they were sucking on the world’s best-tasting treat, each of them settled into some serious dry-humping, riding the crest of their quivering horniness. Before Troi realized it, the front of Staci’s dress was hiked up against her hips and Staci began stroking Shaft through Troi’s leather pants: a great big no-no.
Troi reached behind her belt for her handcuffs, and placed them on Staci.
“Am I under arrest, officer?” Staci was unfazed.
“Yeah, I’m taking you into custody.”
Troi made only a small spectacle leading Staci out of the club in handcuffs. Security and other patrons looked on suspiciously as Troi flashed the badge attached to her belt. Staci loved every minute of the crude public display.
Troi’s truck was strategically parked on a secluded side street. Listening to the sounds of their heels clicking against the slick cobblestone street, Troi continued to steer her “assailant” by the cuffs. Her eyes were locked on Staci from behind, while Staci enhanced the view by shifting her ever-ripening ass with every step she took, her calves casting a spell over Troi’s mind. They stopped once they reached Troi’s jet-black Lincoln Navigator.
“I like your big, black truck,” Staci whispered over her shoulder.
“Oh, we’ll see just how much you like it,” Troi whispered back, gently pressing Staci up against the hood of the truck, the girl’s hips and thighs shivering as they met the cold fiberglass.
Staci giggled nervously but obediently spread her legs apart. Troi pushed herself against her; the girl was built like a gazelle, tall and graceful, with limbs so delicate and fine they seemed breakable. If only Troi could feel those long, thin hands wrapped around her Shaft, it would be a sensual nirvana. If only Troi could watch those burgundy lips wrapped tightly around her Shaft, her strong hips pumping into that burgundy mouth like a piston, she knew she could fall in love. Instead, she would have to settle for the ass, which she exposed to the cool November air, her super-tight, lacy, tiger-print thong encasing two fleshy mounds of delight.
“Cool air couldn’t cool this ass off.” Troi was kneeling now, her eyes taking in the vision before her.
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