by Sacchi Green
T. C. Mill
It was the kind of day when you could smell the sunlight. It poured down, warm rather than hot; the walk to the corner cafe had worked up a sweat, but a soft breeze dried it on Jenny’s forehead, tugging her ponytail, pressing her thin T-shirt to her stomach or her jacket against her back depending on which direction they turned. Her shirt was damp enough at the neck to approach transparency, legs that had been cramped beneath a desk all week had started to feel floaty with exercise, and when Jenny closed her eyes she imagined the sun shining right through her as if she were as invisible as a window. Tessa’s hand in hers was all that kept her from deliciously dissolving.
The sun drank up the remains of the rain from early that morning, but the grass remained springy underfoot when they cut across it. The air was scented with humidity rising off the green spaces, the baked denim on her shoulders, and water passing under the bridge. You could smell how cool that water was in its depths and shadows.
The river had risen overnight, almost swallowing the rocks in its bed. Jenny slowed to watch it flow, silver and so smooth that she thirsted to dip her hand in it. At the thought, her fingers folded, forming a light fist on one hand and squeezing Tessa’s on the other. The water’s sound was deeper, less the trickling chime it made in the middle of the summer drought and more of a hum, like the rumble that came from the billows of fabric swinging around Tessa’s ankles with each step.
Jenny’s eyes went to Tessa and stayed there.
First her sundress’s skirt, which shaped itself to her legs with each stride forward. The fabric was burgundy with tiny white flowers and coiling green vines. A drawstring tightened the dress at her waist, and the cut-out shoulders revealed skin the sun had turned golden. Beneath her cream-colored hat, her hair was deep auburn, almost the color of port wine, black in the shadows. It was a color Jenny could taste, strong and sweet—and Tessa’s skin, salt and tartness and honey on the flat of her tongue.
She reached up with her free hand and let the tips of her fingers be caught by Tessa’s curls. They pulled free as Tessa turned her head, looking at Jenny over the rim of her sunglasses. Her eyes gleamed and her cherry lips quirked.
“You really can’t resist?” she asked.
“Not even in public,” Jenny admitted unapologetically. “I love your hair. Always will.” She leaned closer and whispered, “You look too delicious not to touch.”
Tessa squeezed her hand. The tip of her tongue passed over her lips teasingly.
A lamppost on the bridge forced them to pass one at a time, so Jenny dropped back to let Tessa walk ahead—keeping her view of wine red and sun honey gold. But Tessa’s hat prevented her from seeing farther ahead, so the shouting came as a surprise.
It wasn’t only loud, it was trying to be loud. Trying so hard that the words took on a hoarse edge, as if rusty. Jenny pictured a machine suddenly, a machine designed to do nothing but shout, loud and repetitive and relentlessly unstoppable. The sweat on her shoulders ran cold. Jenny didn’t do well with raised voices.
What the guy said echoed weirdly down the streets, so she couldn’t make out more than a few syllables here and there. Something about “repentance.” And “sinners.” And either becoming worthy or being unworthy, thoughts that always left her feeling equally unfit. Jenny didn’t do well with that kind of thing, either.
Tessa glanced over her shoulder, steps slowing. Jenny’s hand on hers had tightened to a death grip.
“Where is he?” Jenny asked.
“The preacher? Well, it’s a group, sort of. At the corner of the park, right at the end of the bridge. They’re handing out pamphlets, and, ugh. There are posters. Whoa—” She stopped entirely, wincing. But she didn’t pull out of Jenny’s hold.
“Let’s cross the street.”
Tessa looked next to them, at the parking lot the bridge had become as cars inched toward the Saturday market at the other end of the park. Except it wasn’t quite a parking lot, because then the light on the other side changed and every vehicle lurched ahead, way too fast to duck between them safely.
“We can wait here,” Jenny said.
“We can,” Tessa said, “but we don’t have to.” She started walking again, slowly but deliberately, each step showing her legs against her skirt—muscular calf, full thigh, so gorgeous that even slogans about sin couldn’t distract Jenny from her entirely. And she didn’t let go of Jenny’s hand.
They came closer to the voices.
Unable to shut her eyes, Jenny dropped them to the pavement in front of her feet. She wanted each word to pass right through her the way the sun felt it could, leaving no shadow. Instead she felt them, rusty-edged, hooking onto her. With every step the hooks got better traction. Once they came abreast of the speakers she imagined them pulling her away. Taking her back. Making her listen, and obey, and change from all she had grown into.
They didn’t, somehow. She kept her eyes on Tessa, climbing from her ankles to her waist, up her spine to the sweet nape of her neck, not yet hidden by her growing hair. They were at the end of the bridge, almost before the crowd. It was very small. Jenny didn’t look closer. She gravitated toward the opposite side of the narrow sidewalk, pulling Tessa’s arm behind her back. Tessa glanced at her, sunlight slanting across her reflecting shades, but didn’t let go of her hand, even if the position was uncomfortable. If she had let go, Jenny would have been comfortless; but she also would have been free to get away—across the street, even back the way they’d come.
And then they were past.
Heart pounding, breath short, Jenny stumbled along a few more paces. At least her nauseous anxiety was receding. But in its place came anger. The hand-holding made her feel like a child, but you were supposed to protect children. She wasn’t a child, and god knew she didn’t want Tessa to treat her like one, but some part of her felt helpless, betrayed. Still wishing she could have run.
She released Tessa’s hand, slipping her own fingers free. As quietly as she could—not very—she said, “It’s like you have no fucking concept of fear!”
Tessa didn’t take it as a compliment. Tessa didn’t take it at all. They walked in silence until Jenny swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and said, “I’m—”
“Some things it doesn’t pay to be afraid of.” Tessa didn’t sound upset with her for snapping, just a little tired. But her words, however mild, were a frank reminder.
“Yeah.” They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Jenny didn’t try to apologize again, and she didn’t expect or need an apology from Tessa. After a few seconds, she admitted in a lighter tone, “And I was already nervous.”
Tessa took her hand again. From the corner of her eye Jenny saw her smile. “Let’s get home.”
With the apartment door locked behind them, they started undressing. Tessa tossed her hat onto the table by the door and wiggled out of her sundress, shrugging her shoulders through the straps that had left them bare and twisting her arms in movements that were unself-consciously awkward. Jenny’s heart ached as she watched, as if it was constricted in a cage almost too small to let it beat. Then Tessa let the dress fall around her feet and stepped out of it.
A tan showed on the caps of her shoulders and her arms, and then a little less brightly on her neck and the tops of her breasts. Below that, everywhere she was normally covered, her skin looked cool, pale, both voluptuous and vulnerable. The surgery scars were fading.
Jenny took a step toward her only to realize she still wore shoes. She kicked her feet out of them, then pulled off jacket, T-shirt, and jeans. Her stomach was cool with sweat, making the heat below even stronger. Her pulse beat between her legs as she approached Tessa.
When she was naked, Jenny always felt more powerful—paradoxically untouchable. It was almost as good as being transparent, like sunlit air, like water. She felt strong enough to say, “So . . . you want to do this?”
Smiling, Tessa reached for her.
“I know.” Blushing, she continued with h
er apology: “But . . . this? We could try another day.”
“I think we’ve waited long enough,” Tessa said. “I have.” She stepped closer, still with her arms out, bringing Jenny into them without closing them around her. “We’ve both seen much scarier things.”
Jenny let out a breath so deep she shivered with it. Then she lifted her own arms, meeting Tessa’s embrace.
When she was naked, Jenny became shockingly aware of how much skin she had, every inch of its surface alive with texture—the carpet under her feet, the warm air of the room, and of course, Tessa’s skin. Jenny’s fingers skimmed her wrist, were captured as Tessa turned her hand and pulled them up to her mouth, put her lips around the pads and nails, not quite sucking, not quite nibbling, but something like both. Jenny’s free hand cupped the back of Tessa’s head, moving lightly through her hair.
She couldn’t resist it, always loved it—in some ways she now loved it even more. It had grown in darker after the chemo, thicker, with more curl to it, and was one of the most visible signs of her recovery.
That, and the fact that getting frustrated, snapping, falling apart was something Jenny only let herself do now that Tessa was recovered.
Tessa had never had the stereotypical redhead temper, but she’d become quieter since. Some of it had been exhaustion—she got frustrated, but didn’t have the energy for rage. And after getting through that, she simply seemed calmer. As she’d told Jenny, it had been a change in perspective, one they were still finding their way around.
She stroked down Tessa’s neck, around her shoulders, coming down to her tan lines. As she skimmed the tops of her breasts, Tessa sighed, breath fluttering around Jenny’s fingertips.
Jenny cupped one of them. “Is this okay today?”
“Yes. Harder.” Tessa clasped Jenny’s hand and squeezed it tighter.
After her surgery and reconstruction, the nerve endings were tender sometimes. They’d learned to take it day by day. And now Tessa’s breasts were more sensitive around the sides and at the top, high up. As Jenny gripped and massaged her, she also bent her head to trace her mouth over the start of Tessa’s cleavage, then even farther up toward her neck. Tessa sighed, tipping her face back as Jenny started nipping.
The nips became harder, as did her hold on Tessa’s breasts, stronger and firmer as Tessa pressed close, her legs spreading to fit Jenny between them. “Like this,” she murmured. “Keep going. You’re not going to break me.”
No, she wasn’t. Tessa loved how she made love to her, Jenny knew, because Jenny was the one person willing to treat her as if she were unbreakable. Even though everyone was breakable. They’d never forget that. Yet here Tessa stood—swaying a bit on her feet, but holding her ground—open and unafraid.
Jenny hummed against her neck, paused for a gentle kiss before continuing with a soft but unhesitant nip. It felt good. She had always loved to bite, squeeze, palm—to take, as if having someone else could help to fill the hollowness where she was scared.
She tried to do better. But sometimes it rose up, sickening and nearly paralyzing. It was her worst nightmare to be made a helpless child again. To be up against a force she couldn’t evade or bargain with. To lose what was precious to her, unspeakably precious, like a toy confiscated because she didn’t deserve it.
“Hey,” Tessa said. She must have noticed Jenny’s distraction in a slip of her hands. “Hey.” She held her shoulders without stepping back.
“I know,” Jenny said. “Some things it doesn’t pay to be afraid of.”
“It doesn’t. Not after you’ve done all you can.”
Jenny remembered Tessa’s hands moving over her breasts, a routine check made more than routine by experience. The pads of her fingers traced circles, soft then firm, a touch that was caring rather than sexual but arousing too in its tenderness. And today, those same fingers entwined with hers, holding her as they walked together.
Then Tessa shrugged, a quick, thin smile darting across her face. “Anyway, what really fucks everything up will be something you never expected.”
Jenny laughed with her. The gallows humor was another new development, and maybe an alternative to anger—hints of irony had come to full flower in waiting rooms and under chemo drips, thoroughly fertilized by Jenny’s own sardonic outlook. When they’d first become a couple she’d tried to curb it for Tessa’s sake. An attempt to protect her, she realized now. Pointless and unnecessary, in the end.
She was only a year younger than Tessa, who as every doctor had commented, was herself “so young.” Jenny felt less wise, less experienced, and of course the cancer had only widened that gap. Yet as Tessa pointed out, she didn’t have Jenny’s history, either. They both survived. They both had parts that needed to be handled carefully, day by day—but not too gently, not so skittishly they seemed easily breakable. And they could share both strength and vulnerability.
Jenny knelt, letting her kisses travel down to Tessa’s stomach. Then lower, lips skimming her thighs. Her hands wrapped around Tessa’s hips and legs. She squeezed her ass too, and Tessa sighed roughly in satisfaction. Sometimes Jenny would grip her tightly enough to leave light scratches, but not today—her nails had been filed so close their tips were pink. It’d be worth it.
She nudged, directing Tessa toward the bed. In this small room, it wasn’t far to go. She stood as Tessa took the necessary step.
Tessa spread out her arms, not to catch herself but to pull Jenny with her as she tumbled onto the bed. They rolled over each other, wrapping together, kissing and laughing and gasping for breath, sheets tangling around their feet until they kicked them away.
From the storage bin under the mattress, Jenny pulled out a vial of massage oil, then a pump jar of lube. Tessa lay back, resting on her elbows.
“I want you so much,” she said.
Jenny wasn’t eloquent at moments like these, struck speechless by the gorgeous body spread naked on their bed, words drying in her mouth with emotion. “Me too,” she said at last. “I mean, you too. I want you. Here.”
She knelt between Tessa’s spread legs, pouring the oil over her fingers first. They glided over Tessa’s shoulders and breasts, circling the reconstructed nipples before sweeping back up to trace her collarbone. Muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxed under Jenny’s touch. The warmth of Tessa’s skin sent up the lavender scent of the oil.
“That’s . . . so good . . . ” Tessa was also becoming ineloquent, seeming to melt under the massage. Slowly, she turned over so Jenny could work down her back. “Yes . . . lower . . . ”
She kept her legs wide, and Jenny playfully went over her butt, slipping a finger into her cleft and stroking along it. But she didn’t penetrate her anally, or go any farther forward. They had other plans.
She worked on Tessa’s thighs until they went silken and then started turning taut again from anticipation and arousal. Jenny traveled along her spine, sliding over her body, half lying atop her with a leg slipped between hers. Tessa rocked against the pressure.
“I’m ready, Jen. Whenever you are.”
“I was ready when I woke up this morning.” Jenny kissed her shoulder before Tessa flipped over again. “Don’t know why you insisted on exercise before the exercise.”
“Because if we didn’t get some fresh air this morning, there’s no way we’d get any later. Do you plan on leaving this bed before tomorrow?”
“Maybe for refreshment.”
“There’s water here.”
A carafe of water waited on the bedside table—a beautiful crystal jar that was one of Tessa’s antiquing finds—and Jenny nodded, even though she was mildly annoyed with herself for not refreshing it from the Brita pitcher in the fridge.
“It’s thirsty work.” She trailed her lips and hands down Tessa’s torso. “Mouthwatering too.”
She kissed the edge of the landing strip of dark hair while her fingers slipped between Tessa’s labia. She was wet; not as much as she used to be—another reason cancer blew, as if they needed on
e more—but silky under Jenny’s touch, and the rich smell of her rose, even better than lavender.
Jenny couldn’t keep her other hand away from her own clit, at least for a few strokes, rubbing brief and hard over flesh gone rigid with the excitement building as she explored Tessa’s body.
If she kept it up, she wasn’t far from coming. She loved clitoral stimulation—direct, firm, often easy, and sometimes even too quick. Tessa, on the other hand, preferred to be filled. Her G-spot was dynamite, or maybe Vesuvius. They’d both been counterintuitive for each other at first, and spent some time apologetically explaining how they worried they were “weird.” And then they spent a lot of time enjoying versatile configurations—Jenny riding Tessa’s thigh while fingering her, or the wonderful weekend they’d spent with their first strap-on.
Above all, though, Tessa loved her fingers.
Lots of them.
Jenny slipped the tip of one in, gliding just on Tessa’s wetness. She sank into that hot, tight grip. Both of them caught their breaths audibly.
“The light’s definitely green for more.” Tessa reached for the bottle of lube and thrust it down at her.
Jenny pumped some onto her hand, then let the bottle fall beside them on the mattress, knowing she’d want more of it later. Her first two fingers slipped inside Tessa smoothly, eased by the lube and her arousal. She stroked in and out, a little deeper each time, rubbing the muscular walls and feeling them quiver and relax around her.
She started with a third finger, but Tessa murmured, “Yellow” and she added more lube first, then concentrated on more stroking and circling. At last it made its way in, the tightness a little hotter, each small motion more exciting.
They’d gotten this far before, but the fourth finger could be tricky, and the thumb . . . well, this was the first time trying to go all the way since Tessa entered remission. And even before then, it wasn’t an everyday thing.
“After more than a year,” she had said last night, “I am so seriously ready to feel your fist in me.”
Jenny had been speechless in response to that too.
