Rogue Passion

by Sionna Fox

  With Frannie’s teeth on her neck, Ashley’s brain got stuck between surprised laughter and melting arousal and she huffed out a strangled noise. “You know, I told myself I was watching all your interviews because I needed to know what was going on with the show, but really, I just thought you were super hot.”

  Frannie let out a startled laugh and froze with her fingers tracing Ashley’s bra strap. “You did?”

  “I did.” Ashley sat and pulled Frannie’s hand until the other woman sat beside her. “Can I touch you?”

  “Yes.”

  She slipped her hands around the column of Frannie’s neck, framing her jaw with her thumbs, stroking her soft skin before she leaned over for another kiss. “Can I take off your jacket?”

  “Yes.”

  Ashley trailed her hands across Frannie’s shoulders, over the soft satin lapels, and slipped her fingers under the fabric, following her collarbone to slide the jacket from her shoulders. She lifted each of Frannie’s hands out of the sleeves and left her sitting on the end of the bed, leaning back on her hands, as she took it to the closet and carefully hung it up.

  Frannie’s chest rose and fell rapidly under the fine cotton shirt, her breasts straining the buttons slightly on each deep inhale, her tie askew. Ashley wanted her naked, to taste her skin, to feel the hidden curve of her hip under her palm, the softness waiting at the center of her. But Frannie deserved better than a quick fuck and Ashley sensed she needed it.

  She stepped in front of her, framing Frannie’s legs between her own. “We can stop anytime.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Can I take off your tie?”

  Every piece of clothing she peeled away from Frannie revealed something new. Freckles dotted her shoulders. Her nipples were deep brownish pink and sensitive to the slightest touch. Her hips softly padded, her belly slightly round, every permission she granted Ashley was like a new piece of the treasure map that was Frannie’s body.

  “I want to touch you.” Frannie was down to her black briefs, sprawled on her back on the coverlet while Ashley straddled her hips, tonguing her nipples into sharp peaks while Frannie huffed and moaned under her.

  “You can touch me.”

  Frannie tangled her fingers in Ashley’s hair, pulling slightly as Ashley ran her teeth across her ribs. Her free hand skittered across Ashley’s shoulder, pushing her slightly to the side.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No. Yes. I want…” She patted the bed next to her. With her disheveled hair, blown pupils, and Ashley’s slight teeth marks on her skin, Frannie looked completely undone. Debauched, even. Her normally buttoned-up, articulate self lost in a haze of arousal. Ashley would give her whatever she wanted.

  She lay next to her. Frannie rolled to her side and kissed her, harder than before, as her hand skated over the plain, sturdy fabric of Ashley’s bra, like she was trying to work up the courage to really touch her. Ashley stopped her hand and placed it firmly over her breast.

  “You can touch me. I want you to.”

  Frannie kissed her and stroked her thumb over Ashley’s nipple, the sensation dulled by the heavy fabric. She reached behind her back and unhooked it, wriggling away to strip out of it before pressing their bodies back together, threading her leg between Frannie’s.

  “Is this okay?” She rolled her hips against Frannie’s firm thigh, a spark of pleasure rising up her spine from the pressure.

  “Yes.” Frannie’s hips twitched in response. “God, yes.”

  They twined together, kissing stroking, touching, hips working against thighs in a stuttering rhythm until they were both out of breath. Frannie slowly grew bolder, her fingers working Ashley’s nipples as they writhed, sliding down her spine to cup her ass, fingers digging into soft flesh, pulling Ashley’s body against her thigh.

  Frannie was hot against her skin, her underwear damp where their bodies met. Ashley’s body answered with its own heat, her own slickness soaking through her panties as her body clenched and stuttered against the building pressure, pleasure buzzing in her belly, in her breasts where Frannie’s fingers stroked and squeezed, in the curve of her ass as she guided the movement of their hips, on her lips and tongue, her neck and the sweet spot just below her earlobe as Frannie’s teeth ghosted over her skin.

  The sound of their shared breath filled the room; pants and gasps of pleasure traded between them until the fire in Ashley’s body crested, swelling and rolling over her skin as she tensed and tipped her head back to moan out loud. Frannie’s teeth caught her throat as she stuttered against Ashley’s body with a low gasp, her grip on Ashley’s hip clenching as she ground against her and slowed to a stop.

  She bowed her body against Ashley, the hair at the crown of her head tickling Ashley’s chin. Ashley carded her fingers through Frannie’s hair and in a fit of tenderness kissed the top of her head. Leaving this town, this room, this woman, was going to be so much harder than she’d bargained for.

  * * *

  Frannie would have sworn she was dreaming. It couldn’t be possible that she was lying in bed with Ashley with her head buried in her neck while Ashley stroked her hair. She was sweaty and mostly naked and she’d just come against Ashley’s thigh.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  Ashley’s chest shook under her head as a burst of bright laughter broke the spell. “No, baby.” She petted Frannie’s head again.

  Dear god, she had less than zero game or chill. But at least she could stick her face in Ashley’s naked chest in her shame. “Sorry.”

  Ashley laughed again, the sound filling the small room. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to top that as a post-sex compliment.”

  Right. Other lovers. Ashley was leaving in the morning. She’d never see her again. Once the show left the museum and all the donor prizes had been fulfilled, there wouldn’t be a reason for them to ever talk again. Frannie sat up and reached for her undershirt.

  Ashley grabbed her wrist. “I’m starving. You want room service?”

  Delaying the inevitable by sharing a meal half-naked in bed was a terrible idea. But she was hungry, it was late, and while drawing out their parting with another small intimacy was going to hurt later, Frannie couldn’t say no. She’d stay as long as Ashley let her.

  “Sure.”

  They ended up splitting a waffle sundae, leaning against the headboard, the tray perched on their legs as they traded bites, Ashley wrapped in a robe and Frannie in her undershirt. Ashley had showered while they waited, and the sight of her warm and damp, bare-faced, wrapped in a towel would be burned into Frannie’s brain forever.

  “This is totally what I thought staying in hotels was always like when I was a kid.” Ashley dipped her finger in the melted ice cream and hot fudge on the empty plate.

  Frannie reached and pulled her sticky-sweet fingertip into her mouth. Ashley bit her lip and blinked heavily. They’d talked too much. Frannie couldn’t let herself forget what this was, that they weren’t lovers, they weren’t even friends. She’d crashed into Ashley’s world with a plea for help and now that the work was done, Ashley would go back to her real life.

  She picked up the tray and set it on the dresser before she pulled Ashley down and licked hot fudge from the corner of her mouth. A few more stolen hours. One more time.

  Just before dawn, Frannie carefully slid out of bed as Ashley slept. She gathered her clothes, half-dressed, and sat at the desk with the hotel pen and paper. She didn’t want to be there to say goodbye, but she couldn’t leave without saying anything. She wrote, expressing her gratitude again, saying she understood that there was no reason for them to see each other again, but Ashley could always find her if she wanted. She folded the paper and slipped it in her pocket, finally settling on the words she left behind.

  Ashley,

  Thank you for a perfect night.

  Frannie

  8

  Ashley woke to the shrill sound of the hotel phone, bleating out her wakeup call. She fumbled to
pick up the receiver and set it back down with a clatter. She had to haul ass to gather her things and get herself to the airport, but she would be happy to linger in bed for another minute with Frannie. Who wasn’t there.

  The other side of the bed was cold. Ashley sat up and rubbed at her eyes. Frannie was gone.

  It shouldn’t have bothered her. Under normal circumstances, it would make life easier, to not have an awkward morning-after we both know this was just a one-time thing, right conversation. But after last night, after sex and waffles and more sex, she’d wanted to say goodbye. To make foolish promises about staying in touch and seeing each other again whenever Ashley was in the area. It was probably better that Frannie had left.

  She peeled herself out from under the covers and picked up her discarded dress from the foot of the bed. Her bra had landed somewhere near the desk, where she saw the note. Simple words in Frannie’s clear, firm handwriting. It had been a perfect night.

  A perfect night that haunted her from the hotel to the airport, through green rooms and post-show parties and politely turning down people she might otherwise have made out with on late-night dance floors.

  If it had only been the sex, maybe she would have gotten over it. She could have gotten it out of her system with someone else, some other woman she barely knew. But she couldn’t shake the feel of Frannie’s hand in hers, her back on the floor of the gallery, tears leaking into the hair at her temples while she grieved for Rian all over again. Frannie’s quiet support, her tacit understanding that some losses you never get over, you can only learn to live with, followed her across Europe like a ghost.

  PJ caught up to her, scrolling through photos she’d taken on tour, wishing she could tell their stories to Frannie, getting half-way to starting an email or a text and stopping herself. That note had been Frannie’s final goodbye. Thank you for a perfect night didn’t exactly invite her to continue the not-relationship. They’d done what they set out to do and it was over.

  But for the first time in years—for the first time since Rian—Ashley wanted more. She wanted late-night phone calls from crappy hotel rooms and screwing up time zones but not caring because she got to talk to her person for five minutes before she fell asleep. She wanted a person. She wanted long hugs at baggage carousels and hot reunion sex and lazy makeouts at home. And she wanted it with Frannie, with all her buttoned-up passion and nerdy enthusiasm. She’d eat waffle sundaes and talk about art and music and politics with her forever.

  “Would you just talk to her already?” PJ flipped a chair around and straddled it, long dark hair tucked under a backwards baseball hat, and stared meaningfully at Frannie’s phone.

  “What?”

  “Dude. How long have we been friends? You have been mooning over that woman for weeks.”

  Ashley looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “I know.”

  She glanced at her makeup kit, spread out on the counter. She should have been getting geared up to go on stage, to run around and sing her heart out and put on a show. But she was fucking exhausted. She wanted to go home. And she wanted to go home to someone.

  “So talk to her already.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Ash, I’m saying this because I love you. Rian is gone. Rian has been gone. And they would be so fucking mad at you for moping around after them. Live your fucking life, dude. Go get the girl.”

  PJ’s words hit her hard. They’d had this conversation before. It was nothing new. Rian would be mad at her for carrying around a grief-laden torch for so long. She could practically hear their voice in her head telling her to move the fuck on.

  “I don’t know how.”

  PJ shifted in her chair and grinned. “I might have an idea.”

  * * *

  Frannie paced the green room, wearing a track in the carpet from the couch to the snack table to the bucket of mini water bottles and back to the couch, fingering the folds of the speech in her trouser pocket, rehearsing her words.

  When she’d gotten the call that she was being recognized for her work on the Sampson exhibition in the face of protest, and for the success of the fundraising efforts that allowed the museum to expand its outreach to queer teenagers, Frannie had been shocked. By the time it came, months later, when the show had moved on to another city, when she’d almost stopped waking up every morning with the ghost of Ashley’s skin under her fingertips, when Trenton Everett Markham III had been thoroughly trounced in the primary, not even making it to the general, she had nearly forgotten just how many talk shows she’d been on, how much national attention it had gotten.

  The whole thing was a blur in her memory until Ashley showed up. No matter how much she wished those memories would fade like the others, every moment she’d spent with Ashley in those two days was as sharp and bright as if it had been yesterday.

  Writing her speech hadn’t helped. She couldn’t talk about the show, the fundraising, the free tickets they’d been able to give to gay-straight alliances from all over the state—none of it would have been possible without Ashley. And Frannie couldn’t think about Ashley without thinking about that night, and the note she’d left behind when she slipped out in the bruised light before dawn.

  She’d known when she went back to her room that it wasn’t meant to last. It was a one-time thing, fueled by the adrenaline of success. Frannie had wanted to leave it at that, keep it clean and neat. She didn’t need Ashley to know that she would be holding that one perfect night in her sense memory every morning when she woke up alone.

  But now she was here, and a PA was ushering her to the wings, and she had a speech to give, thanks and acknowledgment to make to Ashley, who was somewhere in Europe based on Frannie’s masochistic social media stalking.

  Except Ashley was there, on stage, behind the podium, in a surprisingly understated red sheath dress. Frannie’s hearing fuzzed out. Ashley beckoned her with an arm raised to her side of the stage, her grin wide. A hand at her back pushed Frannie out of the wings and into the light.

  Ashley took Frannie’s elbows in her hands and kissed her cheeks, her sky-high heels bringing her up to Frannie’s height.

  “What are you doing here?” Frannie resisted the urge to pull Ashley into her arms.

  “Later.” Ashley squeezed her elbow. “You have a speech to give.”

  Shaken, Frannie stepped up to the podium, pulled her speech from her pocket, and inhaled, looking out at the sea of dim faces on the other side of the stage lights.

  “Well this is…unexpected.” The audience chuckled. “I was going to tell you all about how I really don’t deserve this recognition because Ashley Patterson was the reason we were able to raise the money and fund the exhibition after our largest corporate sponsor dropped us, but now she’s here.”

  Frannie turned to see Ashley behind her, laughing and blushing slightly, before she yelled loud enough for the microphone to pick it up, “You deserve it and more, darlin’.”

  Frannie’s cheeks warmed, and she stared at the creased paper in front of her. Giving her speech was going to be one of those things she would only remember if someone showed her a recording of it. Her brain was too focused on Ashley’s presence behind her to form a memory of thanking the board for not firing her, the museum’s supporters for buying tickets and making it the most attended special exhibition in the museum’s history. She wouldn’t remember thanking people for sending a giant middle finger to people who wanted to undo the progress their community had made, or acknowledging the work they had left to do.

  Her memory would only pick up again when she left the stage, and between the layers of curtains, Ashley took her hand.

  “What are you—”

  Ashley put two fingers over Frannie’s lips. “Later. Now all I wanna know is if I can kiss you.”

  Frannie didn’t answer, she dipped her knees, cupped Ashley’s jaw in her hands, and brought their lips together. Past and present tense collided, the press of Ashley’s mouth familiar and new, her fingers tangling in th
e hair at Frannie’s nape somehow right, the thing she’d been dreaming about for months real again, imprinting on her brain.

  “How are you real?” She whispered with her forehead resting on Ashley’s. “How are you here?”

  “I want to stop running away. Or run away with you. I’m not sure. But I think it has to be with you.”

  “Why now?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you. And I don’t want to. I want to tell you things and know how you are, and I want to spend the night with you all the time. I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time, and it scares me. I lost the last person I wanted to love this much.”

  “I know.” Frannie ran her thumbs over the swell of Ashley’s round cheeks, dusted with blush and powder, and kissed her forehead. “But my life is here, and your life is out there.”

  “It is. Some of the time. But I’m so fucking tired, Frannie. I just want to come home.”

  “And you want home to be with me?”

  “I want to try. If you’ll have me.”

  “Of course I’ll have you.”

  Frannie folded Ashley into her arms, Ashley’s head resting on her collarbone, and nothing had ever felt more like home.

  Author’s Note

  Frannie and Ashley’s story takes a huge chunk of inspiration from the funding scandals the National Endowment for the Arts found themselves embroiled in, starting in 1989 with exhibitions by Andres Serrano and Robert Mapplethorpe, among others. Slashing public funding for the arts has been a conservative line-item favorite ever since, despite its already meager percentage of any budget.

  While the surrounding circumstances of the story draw heavily from the episodes the kicked off the “Culture Wars,” Rian’s own work is inspired mostly by artists working in the late nineties and early aughts who were documenting queer and youth cultures. In my head Rian’s work is a mash-up of the portraits of Catherine Opie and the documentary-style work of artists like Wolfgang Tillmans and Ryan McGinley. Throw in a dash of Nan Goldin, a smattering of Francesca Woodman, and you have something like Rian’s style.