Roller Girl

by Vanessa North

  I run my hands up her back. I clutch helplessly against strong muscles, slide my tongue into her mouth, and ride the wave of lust surging between us.

  “God,” she gasps, moving her lips from my mouth to my jaw, then my neck, then a quick nip at my ear.

  Shivering, I scratch slowly down her back, my nails catching slightly in her ribbed tank top. She arches and I lay my head against her chest and catch my breath to the sound of her heartbeat thudding in my ears.

  She tilts my chin up again and smiles. “I’m so wet right now.”

  Her words send a jolt through me, and I groan, desperate to feel her, to taste her. I settle for biting at her nipple through her shirt and sports bra. She yelps, then her sounds turn urgent and needy. I cup her other breast in one hand, teasing the nipple with thumb and forefinger, learning which touches makes her cry out and rub herself against my leg. She’s fearless in sexual abandon, her mouth falling open and her hands pressing me closer to her breast.

  “Goddamn,” I murmur, tugging at the hem of her shirt so I can finally, finally get at her skin.

  “Yeah.” She yanks first her shirt, then her bra over her head. I barely have time to drink in the sight of her full breasts and tight brown nipples before she reaches for my clothes.

  A wave of tension—not the good kind—hits me and I grab her hands and push them behind her back, making her arch and sigh.

  “Let me see you too,” she whispers, her voice ragged with need. “I’m so fucking turned on.”

  “In a minute.” I kiss her again, holding her hands behind her back and teasing her until she softens against me in acquiescence. I’m not sure where the sudden nerves came from, but the way she lets me take over until I get them under control gives me the confidence I need to let go of her hands and reach for the buttons on my shirt.

  “Let me.” She gently pushes my fingers away and slips the button free. “Don’t you think undressing a lover for the first time is like unwrapping a present?”

  A lover. The word sends a thrill through me, and tears sting my eyes. I drop my hands and she works down the front of my blouse, kissing the skin she exposes with each button she frees.

  “Oooh, look at you,” she croons, and the admiration in her voice makes me squirm toward her. She slides her fingers over the turquoise lace of my bra. “I shoulda known you’d go for the pretty, girly stuff. It’s so sexy on you.” She pinches one of my nipples through the rough lace, sending a jolt from breast to groin. Like my body is one big tuning fork, vibrating to some note made just for her. The rasp of lace against skin is hot, but I want more. I want her mouth on me. I want wetness and heat and oh, God . . .

  She unhooks the clasp of my bra and draws it down over my arms. It lands silently on the pile of clothes accumulating behind her.

  Her hands find my nipples, tweaking and pinching, and each touch ignites me. A shiver works down my spine, and my hips rock up to rub against her. I’ll never get enough of the taste of her skin or the way she feels in my hands. I trace my fingertips from the inky blue tattoos on her shoulder across her collarbone and down to tease her nipples the same way she’s teasing mine, and she arches back, laughing.

  How long has it been since I laughed with someone during sex? Have I ever? It feels good, shameless and free. She bites the side of my breast, her breath wet and hot there, then trailing slowly across to my nipple.

  My whole body tightens in anticipation as her lips close over my waiting flesh.

  I shiver, caught in the rush of heat. My limbs go lax as she draws on my nipple, again and again. One hand slides down to cup me through my pants, and instead of pushing it away, I ride her hand as another kind of pressure builds inside me.

  “Yeah, rub off on me,” she whispers, “Can you come like that?”

  I don’t know, but it would take an act of Congress to keep me from trying.

  She moves her hand in gentle circles, and my hips take up the rhythm. I want her hands on me, not my jeans, but I’m too far gone to tell her; instead I’m biting the heel of my palm to keep from shouting as I come, eyes clenched shut, my whole body shuddering under the swell of pleasure.

  “That’s so fucking hot.” She watches me with lust-filled eyes as I catch my breath. She picks up my hand and kisses the heel of my palm right over my teeth marks, wrenching another shiver from me.

  I don’t even hesitate. “Come home with me—please?”

  We stare at each other in the dark—if she comes home with me, that means something. It means more than a furtive grope.

  “I’d love to.”

  We pull up in front of my house and she lets the van idle, watching me as I fidget in my seat. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “I—” I gesture to my house “—I bought this place with Lisa.” And for some reason I can’t really articulate now, it makes me feel bad and ashamed, and so completely unsexy.

  “And you don’t want to bring a new lover into your old marriage bed.” Joe nods. “I get it.”

  That isn’t exactly it, but it is part of it. “It’s more that . . . it’s full of reminders of all the ways I don’t feel good enough to be with someone.”

  “I think there’s two paths this can take.” She reaches across the console and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Because I think you’re wonderful. I think you’re thoughtful, and funny, and fearless, and totally sexy. And I want you to feel good, and I don’t want to do anything that makes you feel bad. You with me so far?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiles then, and brings the back of my hand up to her lips. “Okay, so option one: I go home. We had fun, but you aren’t ready to take it further, and that’s okay.”

  I start to protest, but she squeezes my hand and I shut up and let her finish.

  “Option two: I wait here in the car while you go inside and pack an overnight bag. You get Elvis, and as much food as he needs for the weekend, and the two of you come to my house. I make you come at least one more time tonight, and then you cook me breakfast in the morning.”

  A little laugh bubbles out of me. “I cook you breakfast?”

  “Yup. I have a waffle iron.” She raises an eyebrow. “Just saying.”

  “And do I get to make you come too?”

  “If you like.” Her grin spreads across her face. “My place is a no-bad-feelings zone. Nothing but orgasms and waffles, I promise.”

  How can I say no to that?

  A half hour later, I’m following her through the door to her house, butterflies in my stomach and Elvis at the end of his leash beside me.

  She flicks on the light, stoops, and unclips Elvis’s leash from his collar so he can explore. Then she straightens and takes my hand, pushing the door shut behind us with her foot.

  “Do you want a tour?”

  I shake my head, mouth dry.

  “Good,” she whispers.

  She backs me against the door and rises on tiptoe to fit herself along the length of my body. In the past, my height compared to cis girls has made me uncomfortable, but she just presses into me and covers me with herself until there’s no room for awkwardness. The kiss is gentle, an envoy, an exploration—barely more than an exchange of breath, but somehow heavy with expectation.

  God, I love kissing her.

  I peel up her tank top, and she breaks the kiss and lets me tug it over her head and toss it aside. Beautiful. I run a hand from the whorls of tattoos on her shoulder across the satin-smooth skin of her clavicles, feeling an answering excitement in myself when goose bumps break out under my fingertips.

  “Take me to bed?” I mumble against the side of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin there.

  She backs away from me and leads me down the hallway to the bedroom. She moves through the dark as I stand in the doorway, and turns on a small lamp next to the bed. I get an impression of softness: an artfully peeling antique dresser and creamy drapes, a mountain of gold cushions piled on the bed. It’s pretty—somehow elegant and comfortable together, the
kind of space to invite late nights and lazy mornings.

  Crossing the room, I tumble her down onto that mountain of softness and taste her mouth again, this time letting the urgency rise slowly in me. This time we have the rest of the night to enjoy each other, and the anticipation is a potent turn-on. She tugs off my shirt, and I stand up to kick off my jeans. I pull her cargoes down her legs to find bright yellow boy-style briefs with black piping underneath. So absolutely, perfectly her—as playful as they are sexy.

  Propping herself on her elbows, she smiles and cups the side of my face with one hand. Her thumb travels across my cheekbone, then down to my lips. I turn my face into her palm, close my eyes, and let her hold me like that for a minute, tears stinging my eyelids, because this tenderness from her, this sweetness hurts.

  “Teeeeee-na.” That voice. That broken little singsong makes me blink back the tears and look up along her body. “Take off my underwear.” She gestures toward them with her chin.

  I shake my head, and instead kiss her through them, letting my breath touch her first, then my tongue through damp cotton. Her head drops as I inhale the musky-sweet scent of her.

  “Tease.” She chuckles as she says it, and I ease her briefs to the side so I can slide my fingers through slick heat and rub a thumb across her clit.

  “Oh, fuck yeah.” She’s practically molten in my hands as I lean forward and taste her. Sweet. I trace circles over her swelling clit and stroke inside her with two fingers. The way Joe—gorgeous, take-charge, fix-everything Joe—goes slack and loose-limbed in pleasure sends a wave of heat through me. And then, as she gets closer to orgasm and her movements pick up again, there’s so much trust, so much openness in how she lets her body thrash and writhe.

  “Oh fuck, fuck, don’t stop.” She buries a hand in my hair and holds me where she needs me. I stiffen my tongue against the sensitive underside of her clit and she comes completely, beautifully unglued, her shoulders lifting off the bed and her whole body racked with a deep shudder. I stay with her through it, my fingers working inside her as I lighten the pressure against her clit and gently bring her down from her peak.

  “Oh my God,” she murmurs. “Holy fuck, get up here and kiss me.”

  Laughing, I tug her yellow briefs back into place, giving her one last stroke, and then kiss my way up her body. She seizes my face with both hands as she kisses me, hard and deep. Then she rolls me over and nibbles and licks from my breasts down my stomach, pausing to blow into my belly button and make me laugh. My laughter turns to a delighted shiver when she bites the inside of my thigh, but I stiffen up as she reaches for my panties.

  “Is this okay?” She strokes my side. “Do you want me to slow down?”

  I shake my head. “No. But you’re the first since my divorce. I feel . . . God, I hate talking about this.”

  “You don’t have to say any more. I understand—maybe not totally, but enough. Do you believe me when I tell you you’re sexy?”

  Does wanting something badly make it true? I want to believe her, and maybe it’s that easy.

  “Yes. I believe you.”

  “I’m really enjoying myself—” she traces a hand down my thigh “—and I want to make you feel good.” She nips at the hollow of my belly. “You’re sexy, and I’m into you.”

  And then she gives my panties a tug, sliding them off my legs and tossing them over her shoulder. She takes her time—running her hands over my thighs, kissing the insides of my knees, and lavishing my hip bones with gentle bites until the tension slips out of my body and I sink back against the bed. Then, when my eyes drop closed, she finally touches my clit. I’m so turned on, both from the way she’s touching me and from the excitement of going down on her, my body practically hums with it. The first touch of her tongue is soft and slippery, and her fingers gentle as she slides them into me.

  She looks up. “Touch your breasts; show me what you like.”

  I cup my hands over them, plucking my nipples and pinching them nearly to the point of pain as she watches, still rubbing gently inside me.

  Her thumb rolls over my clit, and the first tremor of orgasm hits me, a hint of what’s in store.

  “Please,” I whisper, pinching my nipples again. She rubs faster and heat washes over me. I can’t keep my hips still; they roll up into her, and I’m riding her hand when she leans closer and sucks my clit gently. The tightness coiling in me releases and I arch up, shaking.

  “So fucking sexy, Tina.” She says it right against my clit, the vibration of her voice sending another shudder through me. Then her tongue is on me and I let go with a wild shout.

  Afterward, she pulls the blankets around us and spoons me from behind. “That was really fun,” she says. “I’m glad we decided to have a sleepover here, because I want you for second breakfast tomorrow.”

  On Sunday morning, we cuddle up on Joe’s couch with coffee and our phones, the smell of waffles lingering sweet and heavy in the air. It’s an easy laziness, with nowhere to be and nothing to do but enjoy her company. Her feet are in my lap, her toenails an appealing glittery teal, and her body shakes with laughter at something on the screen of her phone.

  “Stella changed her relationship status on Facebook to ‘in a relationship’ but Bex’s says ‘it’s complicated.’”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Yeah. Gonna be some dramarama at practice next week.”

  “They make such a cute couple though.”

  “Uh-huh.” She twists around and sits up, moving to straddle my lap. “So, I want to meet your friends.”

  I flinch. Not because I don’t want her to meet Ben and Eddie—that particular introduction is inevitable—but because being with Joe feels too new, and I don’t want to share her yet.

  “Soon,” I whisper, pulling her into a soft, coffee-flavored kiss. “I’ll tell them to come to a bout once I make the team.”

  “Oh, then I’m definitely doing assessments this week.” She pulls away from me, laughing. “I want to meet this Ben dude.”

  “Ha! That’s the perfect word for him. Ben is such a dude.”

  “But he’s gay, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, and he’s engaged to a cute younger guy. At first, they don’t make sense, until they laugh together, and you see the intense way Davis looks at him, like the whole world could be unraveling around them, and nothing else would matter but Ben.”

  “Whoa.” Joe raises an eyebrow.

  “Yeah.” I don’t tell her how I understand what Dave must feel in those moments now, because it’s got to be like what I feel when Joe touches me. It seems too soon, too big, and all of a sudden that ache in my chest is back.

  “Was that weird, when you guys were riding pro? I mean, extreme sports don’t seem to be the most queer-friendly.”

  What? Oh, Ben.

  “Um, not really? He wasn’t exactly out on the circuit. Of course, there were rumors. He wasn’t closeted, and people made jokes about him and Eddie all the time, but he would just shrug ’em off. Said to deny it would insult Eddie, so he’d rather ignore it. And after his accident, it was moot. People don’t give a fuck about you once you stop competing.”

  “So, forgive me if I’m prying, but I’m fascinated by these gay guys you grew up with. They knew you were trans?”

  “Before anyone else did.” And I’m suddenly fascinated by the ice-blue glaze on her delicate little coffee cups. I trace it with my finger. “Before my family. Before my wife.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Lisa has plenty of reasons to be mad at me, but the one I regret the most was hiding my dysphoria and eventually the beginnings of my transition from her as long as I did. Ben knew when we were teenagers. And even though Lisa and I were high school sweethearts, I didn’t come out to her until the night before the press conference where I announced my retirement. I started hormones about six months later.”

  “Holy shit, Tina, the night before?”

  I swallow around the big lump in my throat. “Yeah. I’m an asshole.” />
  “No, you’re not.” She shakes her head and pulls me down into a snuggle. “You’re human. And I’m selfish enough to think maybe things didn’t work out with Lisa because the universe meant for you to come into my life when you did.”

  “I was a mess when I was with Lisa. And I’m not just talking about before my transition. I let her take care of everything, take care of me—and I kept this huge secret from her because I was scared to be alone. And the longer I live by myself, the more convinced I am that my fear was only partly about losing her, and more about having to take care of myself.”

  “You guys were practically kids when you got married though. Don’t you think some of that is natural?”

  God, she’s so sweet. “It’s really nice of you to try to make me feel better about that; I’m not sure I deserve it though. I broke her trust long before she broke my heart.”

  “Why did you stay together so long after you transitioned if there was so much broken stuff there?”

  “We loved each other. I was still crazy about her, and she loved me too. For a while, when everything was changing so fast between hormones and then surgery, she focused on supporting and taking care of me—she was always good at that. We thought there would be some imaginary finish line, after which our marriage would be something different. During that time, the promise of a finish line was enough. And then everything was different, and we were in a relationship she never imagined for herself, and it wasn’t enough anymore. So, she asked me for a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand how relationships are supposed to work. I get that everyone makes sacrifices and compromises for love. But the things we needed—” I don’t realize I’m about to cry until the little sob catches my voice. I wipe at my eyes and shrug. “We both needed things we couldn’t give each other.”

  “I think you’re amazing.”

  And I don’t know what to do with that. I’m not amazing. Because if anyone is amazing, it’s the girl who built a derby team from scratch with nothing but enthusiasm. Not me.

  But before I can say anything, a thud sounds from down the hall, and Elvis’s toenails skitter wildly on the hardwood floors toward us.