Far From Home

by Lorelie Brown

  I stand in the doorway as she switches off the music, then waves toward the love seat for me. She puts the food down on a low table and goes to her credenza. “Sit, it’s fine. I think I have some silverware in here.”

  “They were supposed to put silverware in there. Well. Plasticware, at least.”

  The plastic bag rustles as she pokes around in it. I swear to God I can hear the thump of my heartbeat. I wish she hadn’t turned off the music.

  “Yes, here we go,” she says, and triumphantly waves a white fork.

  It’s like being in middle school and trying to make friends all over again. I wish the ground would crack open and swallow me. It’d be a long fall from this many stories up, but totally worth it.

  Pari opens both takeout cartons and lays them on the table between us. “This looks great.”

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d want. You can have whichever.”

  “We could share?” The look she slants up at me from beneath a thick lock of her hair seems to say something else. Something more.

  Probably my wishful thinking. This is a salad and a roast vegetable tray we’re talking about, not the state of our friendship. “Sure.”

  “Great.”

  I want to stab her with a spork. Instead I wait until she’s slipped a forkful of eggplant between her lips. “You once said you could make me come until I begged you to stop.”

  She chokes. Though she lifts a hand to delicately cover her lips, she sputters. Her eyes are wide and watery.

  I spear a chickpea from the salad as if that’s going to be sufficient to hide my smirk. And I wait. I wait patiently as she gathers her air and chews and finally manages to swallow.

  “I was drunk.”

  “Does that mean it wasn’t true?”

  “It means it was unwise to say.” Pari puts down her fork and leans back in the chair she chose, probably so that she didn’t have to sit too close to me.

  “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “There’s a lot to get ready for the wedding.”

  “Which you’ve been using to avoid me.”

  She’s watching me carefully. I can see her measuring her words one by one. Taking out possibilities and rolling the feel of them between her teeth and cheeks before deciding on a combination she approves of. “It was only a couple weeks ago that, I believe, you were avoiding me. I let you have your space.”

  “You did.” I fold the hem of my skirt over and over, until I’m not folding anymore, I’m smashing the fabric between my damp palms. “But things are different now.”

  “How so?”

  I look up at her, and only with the full punch of Pari’s gaze capturing mine do I realize that I haven’t looked her in the eyes once since arriving at her office. I’ve lived in fear, but now I realize everything I have yet to try for. Every risk that’s worth taking makes living better. “Before I knew that my life will never be the same if I don’t get to taste you.”

  Her chest lifts and drops as if she’s taken a sudden shock. Good. I want to be unmissable. I want her to be unable to pass me by.

  Her lips start to part, but before she has a chance to say the careful thing she’s going to, I lift a hand. Hopefully she doesn’t notice that I’m shaking. It’s the hand with her shining ring on it too. I want her to notice.

  “I know it’s not smart. It’s not wise. We have two years to be married, and then all the paperwork and interviews, and maybe we’ll have to stick together longer to get you actual citizenship, not just the green card, and we’re just muddying the water … but here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure that I’m me, whether or not you have sex with me. If you’re going to get sick of me, it’ll happen no matter what. I’ll still leave wet towels on the bathroom floor and forget to wrap up the bread so that it gets stale, even if I don’t get to taste your cunt.”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

  “Because it’s crude?”

  “Because I like it.”

  There’s a hard beat in my chest, in my body. It takes me a second to realize that’s the squeezing, pulling feeling of heady lust. I swallow. My hand clenches my spork before I set it down carefully.

  She likes it. She likes me. I have a hard time telling the difference between my pulse and my want.

  She crooks a finger toward me. I stand and come closer to her, rounding the coffee table that’s piled with uneaten food. I get close enough that the hem of my sundress flirts with her knees, but we’re not touching anywhere.

  Slowly, oh Christ, so slowly, she uncrosses her legs and spreads them out one by one. Her expensive, decadent high heels bracket me. The carpeting is cream, making the orange leather even more vibrant by contrast.

  “Up here,” she says. Her voice is as lovely and lilting as ever, but there’s no doubting the crispness of an order. “Look at me, not my shoes.”

  I have to swallow before I can crane my gaze upward. I take my time, lingering over the tender curve of her thighs, encased in snug, dark denim. The hem of her tunic is tangled on a belt that is barely sturdy enough to be called a belt. Mostly it’s finely wrought wire, the better to trap a woman’s gaze. But my next reward is the slope of her breasts. I wonder if she’ll bare herself to me today, finally. My mouth waters at the thought.

  “Come closer.” She has both hands draped over the arms of the chair. She looks so cool and composed, but I can see the flutter of her pulse in her throat. I look for it on purpose, because I can’t bear the idea that I’m alone out here.

  Two small steps bring me up against the edge of the chair. My knees graze the inside of hers. Touch and contact. Heat pools deep in my pussy. I’ve felt this weight, this heaviness before, but usually only when I was fifteen minutes into playing with myself.

  “Closer,” she says again.

  I lean down and put my hands on the chair, on each side of her shoulders, but she shakes her head. “No. Closer.”

  The only way to do that is to climb onto her lap. It’s so ridiculous, but I’m instantly a thousand and one times more nervous. I’m way too huge for sitting on anyone.

  But we’re finally galloping down the road we’ve flirted around. If I call no-go the very first chance I have to lick her, I’ll feel even more ridiculous than I will in Pari’s lap.

  I move slowly, giving her the chance to back us out of this. She doesn’t. I end up with my ass on her thighs and my knees tucked along her hips at each side of the chair. I keep my hands on the back in order to keep my balance.

  “Close enough?” I ask in my best flirty tone. My voice is just a little shaky. I’m surprised to hear that.

  Her hands find my ass. There’s nothing tentative about the way she grips me. Her thumbs find my hip bones and she palms me. Then she yanks me closer, so I’m falling over her. Half the space between us is gone.

  She slides her grip from my ass, down the backs of my thighs. She kneads my tense muscles. “Relax. I promise you won’t break me.”

  “You’re tiny,” I protest.

  “If I’m tiny, you’re miniscule.” Her grip is steady, pulling me nearer and nearer.

  All the fight goes out of me suddenly. I melt into her lap. I’m as small as a child and as content as one. I hide my face against the crook of her neck.

  “Your skin is so soft,” I mumble against her flesh.

  “It’s girl bonus.”

  “And your hair smells so good.”

  “Another girl bonus.” I can kind of hear a smile in her tone, but I don’t care if she laughs at me. I’ll be a newbie lesbian any day if it gets her hands coasting up and down my back the way she’s petting me.

  I try to get even closer, wiggling so my knees push more toward the back of the seat and I can get us chest to chest. It’s an improvement, but I wish I were lying flat on her, every inch of me aligned to every inch of her.

  I kiss the neck beneath my mouth. I’ve found treasure that’s just for me. She leans her head to the side to give me more room. I take my time exploring her. Pari, my gift, m
y kind soul, my favorite girl.

  I learn that she likes attention on her neck, but that it’s licks at her collarbone that make her sigh. I learn the soft valley between her breasts, and how she smells most like her in that spot. The citrus hint of expensive perfume, yes, but also earthiness that is simply her. I learn that she’ll let me open my teeth on her flesh, but if I bite too hard she’ll hiss and tug on my braid.

  My mouth is wet when I smile up at her. I feel half-drugged, and it takes too much effort to keep my eyes open more than the barest of slits. I touch her neck, and she’s damp from my efforts. Even better is when I touch her breast and her nipple is hard.

  “No pain?” I tease.

  “Not for me,” and it’s even thicker a tease. She’s hinting at something we could do in the future, a taste that I’m not ready for yet.

  But maybe I will be one day.

  I squirm off her lap, until I’m sitting at and between her feet. I’m coiled around her like a worshipper. Her very own acolyte.

  I tug at her belt, though not too firmly. I don’t want to be responsible for breaking that wearable art. “Will you take this off? Please?”

  She lifts her brow. Her mouth tucks into a smirk. “Just the belt?”

  “And more.”

  “Say it.” The inside of her bottom lip is dewy. The intensity of her gaze burns into me.

  “Please take off your pants.”

  “Why?”

  I swallow. I press my thighs together against the thudding beat that my pulse is using to remind me of my arousal. “So I can lick your pussy. Please.”

  “Lick is such an easy word, isn’t it?” She sounds lazy.

  She doesn’t make me feel lazy though. I coast my hands up her thighs. The jeans are snug. The crease at the top of her leg is sharp with pressure. I scrape my nails over her. “Eat? Devour. Adore. Worship.”

  “You seem to think you can do a lot with that mouth.”

  “I haven’t had any complaints before.” The very opposite, though I choose not to say that. No one wants to hear how slutty their partner has been formerly. It’s not polite to rub it in. “Let me show you.”

  “Men are easier than women.”

  “Do I get points for eagerness?”

  “Absolutely.” She slides to her feet as regally as an empress. I back up to give her space, but not too much because I don’t want her to forget about me. Which is so insane. Like maybe if I back up one step too many, she’ll shake free of this lust and realize she doesn’t want to be here with me.

  But her hands go to her belt first. She slides it all the way free and pools it on the tabletop.

  When she unbuttons her pants, I can’t look away. The sliding skitter of the zipper steals all the air from the room. Her panties are a rich, royal purple. They glow against her brown skin. I watch patiently as she toes off her heels, then pushes her jeans down to the floor and steps out of them. At least I think I’m being patient, because it isn’t as if I’m pushing her back down to the chair with them still around her knees.

  But I’m trembling. I think with how much I want her? Maybe also a little bit because I’m frightened of how big and important this feels to me, and mostly because I’m sure it doesn’t feel that way to her.

  She leaves her panties on when she sits back down, almost as if she doesn’t want to startle me yet. She doesn’t know me that well if she thinks any kind of sex can scare me off. But that’s my fault. If she doesn’t know where I’ve been, it’s only because I haven’t told her. Pari would be interested. She would listen. I don’t want to think about that now, though.

  Especially not when I can see a darker, damp circle at the center of the purple silk. I shove all thoughts of before into one of my small boxes. I can’t seem to look away. I know she’s watching me in turn.

  She trails my braid through her fingers. “Take this out.”

  “I like having my hair back when I’m … working.” I duck my chin. My mouth trails over the inside of her knee, which is soft enough that I scoot all of me forward in order to get closer to her, to get more of her. I’m squeezed between her legs. She helps by looping a foot around the back of my hips.

  She takes the hair tie out anyway and in two snaps has it around her own wrist.

  “Hey!”

  “You can have it back when you’ve made me happy.” She leans farther back in the chair, her hips tipping toward me.

  “That’s not fair. That’s blackmail.”

  “You don’t care.” She combs through my braid enough to loosen the three hanks, but then leaves the rest to unweave on its own.

  “You can’t tell me what I do or don’t care about.”

  “If you did, you wouldn’t be dry humping my shin like a cat in heat.”

  Heat singes the tips of my ears. I bury my face against her thighs in embarrassment, but even I don’t miss the fact that I manage to do so only inches from the pussy I so desperately want to lick.

  I nuzzle closer. Then closer still. My lips are technically on her thighs, but I can smell her so thickly that I swear I can taste her on the air. It’s a dense smell, a smell that makes me aware of myself and her as women. Hot and animalistic.

  I sneak toward my prize, one kiss at a time, until I have silk under my mouth. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I take my time to learn it. The taste of her is sharp and sweet at the same time. I take all I can from the thin cloth, until I’ve rendered it practically useless. Her pussy is fleshy, the lips thick. Her clit is unmissable, even through panties. I roll my tongue over that tight bead. I use my fingers to stretch the material even more taut, and it hits me like a thousand missed opportunities that my tongue is on Pari’s cunt.

  I go harder with my joy. I think Pari likes what I’m doing, because she’s holding the back of my head firmly, but honestly it hardly matters. I like it. I’m enjoying myself.

  I lift only far enough to pull the gusset of her ruined panties out of my way. It’s lewd, the way I want her so much. Her inner lips glisten. Her other lips are swollen and ruddy. She already looks like she’s been fucked hard, and all I’ve done is kiss her a little bit.

  She’s that swollen because she’s needy. Because she’s craving me. An answering thump of need practically punches me in the cunt, and I revel in it. I lean just right so my heel smashes up on my clit. When I go back to eating Pari, the rocking of my hips actually does something for me.

  I insinuate one arm under Pari’s thigh so her leg is resting on my shoulder. The tips of her toes graze over the top of my sundress. I squirm harder against my foot, wishing I’d had the courage to ask her to put her heels back on. Those heels mean control. I’m giving and she’s taking.

  Except that’s happened before, and the difference now is in the way that I’m taking while I’m giving too. I could live on nothing but her breathy cries and the taste of her body forever. Especially when her fingers tangle deep enough in my hair that I can feel her nails on my scalp. Her hips jerk hard enough that I get both hands under her ass and tilt her pussy toward my mouth like it’s my own private chalice to guzzle from.

  I take my sustenance from the beauty that is her orgasm.

  She cries out, loud and in a language I can’t understand but that sounds like triumph to my ears. Her body lifts toward me, as if she can’t bear to be away.

  I keep licking. I keep drinking. The deluge waters my soul. I love the taste of her, especially when it grows stronger as she comes.

  By the time it’s all done, I have her girl cum all around my mouth. I fall backward into a sprawl that stings my elbows against the carpet.

  I throw my sundress up around my waist. My feet are still trapped under my butt, with my knees splayed. The tendons that run down the insides of my thighs are so taut, it almost seems I could strum them. I’ll like that image tomorrow. I’ll take it out of my memories when I’m overwhelmed by the larger picture of what Pari and I have done, and I’ll concentrate on the slender definition of my legs and how they’re getting st
ronger. How my work has been worth it.

  That’s not now, however. Now is thrusting my fingers down the front of my panties and finding myself absolutely fucking soaked. I knew I was turned on, but this is completely ridiculous. I don’t know how to touch myself when I’m like this. Normally I have to coax myself to arousal.

  I’m not usually swimming in it.

  When I rub my clit, I’m too soaked. The motions slide off me like I’m Teflon. I’m industrial. And also apparently a little hysterical with need. I’m rubbing around and around with three fingers, the way I normally like it, but I’m fucking teasing myself.

  “Did you just growl?” Pari asks. She lowers herself out of the chair and kneels in front of me.

  My eyes go wide. “No?”

  “I don’t know.” She tiptoes two fingers up the inside of my ankle, but then she stops at my calf and strokes it. “I’m pretty sure I heard a growl.”

  I’m crawling inside my skin, but I force myself to hold still. I’m rewarded when she reaches for the hem of her tunic and strips it over her head. Her hair flings wild with the motion before swooping to lie about her shoulders and the tops of her bountiful breasts. She’s wearing a dark-purple bra that matches her panties. I wonder what she’ll do with the bra now that her panties are wrecked.

  But really, I don’t fucking care.

  “Will you help me?” I sound plaintive. I hope it’s not pushing into whiny territory. I swallow, trying to drag myself back on track. No one likes a whiner. Definitely not going to be a turn-on.

  She crawls closer to me, her hips swaying in a way that makes me tremble. I let myself droop toward the ground in hopes that she’ll cover me. When she does, my heart leaps. It’s never been this easy before. This right.

  “Do you need help?” She covers my hand with hers, the barrier of my wet cotton panties between us. She makes me rub myself harder. I let out a little noise. “Seems like you’re doing well.”

  “I need more.”

  She slips her leg between my thighs and wedges us all together, my hands and her hands and her legs. So much force. So much pressure. So much traction. Exactly the more that I needed.