“Thank you. So do you.” And of course it was true. Rian wore a stylish charcoal Armani suit and open-collared silk shirt that was several shades lighter. Platinum links glinted at her cuffs. Cyn noted absently that the stylist had done an excellent job trimming Rian’s thick locks without making them look too tame. Cyn leaned toward the bar, steadying herself with a hand on Rian’s thigh even though it wasn’t necessary. The limo cruised smoothly with barely a bump or a whisper of sound. It was the first time she’d ever touched Rian other than casually, and she knew the position afforded an excellent view of her braless breasts. She smiled in satisfaction when she felt the muscles tense beneath her fingers. “We won’t be picking anyone else up. Unless you mind if I stand in for your date?”
“No!” Rian responded. “That’s…fine.”
Cyn picked up two glasses and passed the bottle of champagne to Rian, then settled back against the curve of her boss’s body. “Would you pour?”
Rian just nodded.
Cyn had never seen her speechless and found her even more attractive when flummoxed. As Rian filled the glasses, Cyn noticed her hands trembled slightly. Watching the long, tapered fingers grip the bottle and cradle the glasses, she felt herself getting wet. How many nights had she brought herself to a screaming climax imagining Rian’s fingers inside her or gliding over her distended clit? She moaned softly at the memory and played her fingertips up and down Rian’s thigh.
Rian jerked and champagne trickled down the side of the glass onto her hand. Cyn lifted Rian’s hand, still holding the champagne flute, to her mouth. But instead of drinking, she licked the fine wine from Rian’s skin. She teased her tongue between each finger, chasing the golden droplets. She purred like a satisfied cat, still licking, and shot her gaze upward. Rian’s gaze was fixed on her as if she’d never seen Cyn before. And she hadn’t. Not this way. Not as a woman who intended to have what she wanted.
“What about the benefit?” Rian murmured, leaning forward to skim her mouth over Cyn’s ear.
“Don’t worry. The driver has her instructions.” Cyn sipped from the flute and then tilted it to Rian’s mouth. “And we have plenty of time.”
Rian’s eyes darkened as she licked wine from her lips. “I hope so. Or else we’re going to be late.” She set the champagne bottle into a bucket on the floor and put both glasses in a holder next to it. Then she pulled Cyn onto her lap and kissed her, one hand on her hip and the other thrust into the hair at the back of her neck.
Cradled sideways across Rian’s legs, Cyn wrapped both arms around her neck and took her tongue deeply into her mouth. Rian kissed like she did everything else, with confidence and power. Cyn loved the way Rian felt inside her mouth, firm and hot, and the thought of that tongue between her legs, licking and fucking her, made her whimper.
“Why haven’t we done this before?” Rian whispered, toying with Cyn’s earlobe.
“Always too busy working…oh…” Cyn arched her neck as Rian nipped at the muscle drawn taut beside her bounding pulse. “Ohh, I’m so wet already.”
Rian groaned and skimmed Cyn’s dress up until she could slip her fingers under the edge. She drew it to mid-thigh and stroked delicately along the inside of Cyn’s leg, tracing the top of her stocking, then following the silk garter upward. “Let me feel. Cyn…I’m going to make you come so sweet.”
Cyn wanted her to, ached for those fingers on her swollen cunt. Her stomach quivered with the need for Rian to fill her up, to caress her hard clit until she spilled over into her hand. She’d fantasized it so many times that her body was already primed, and oh, she needed to come so badly. But she remembered the secretary spread out on the desk, Rian’s hand thrusting with mechanical efficiency, and she didn’t want to be her. She wouldn’t be just another forgettable fuck. She grasped Rian’s wrist and gently but definitely moved her hand down, away from the heat boiling between her thighs. “Not yet.”
“Please,” Rian whispered, her face nestled between Cyn’s breasts, her lips roving over the soft swell of skin. Her hips jerked rhythmically, silent testament to her desire.
Cyn arched her back and pushed her unbridled breasts against Rian’s face, her nipples tight balls beneath the black silk. It wasn’t enough. She reached inside her dress and lifted one breast free. “Suck my nipple. Put it in your mouth, Rian.”
Cyn cried out as teeth closed on her breast and her nipple was pulled into an inferno. Her clit jumped and pulsed. She tangled her fingers in Rian’s hair and held her head to her breast, aware of Rian thrusting beneath her. When the relentless sucking threatened to make her come, she pulled away and slid off Rian’s lap with a choked cry.
“Let me inside you, Cyn,” Rian said hoarsely, her hand beneath Cyn’s dress again. “Let me make you come.”
Panting, Cyn shook her head. “That’s not on the agenda. Yet.”
Rian framed her face and bruised her mouth with a long, hungry kiss. “What is, then?”
“This.” Cyn slid to her knees on the carpeted floor between Rian’s thighs and grasped her belt. Rian stared down at her, her shock evident. Cyn opened her belt and then her fly. “Lift your hips. And watch.”
Never releasing Cyn’s gaze, Rian complied. As Cyn dipped her head and licked her slowly, Rian moaned, her breath coming fast, her eyes glazing more and more with each stroke of Cyn’s tongue. Cyn toyed with Rian’s clitoris, nudging it from side to side with her lip, poking delicately beneath the thickened hood, swirling her tongue over the firm head. She danced her fingers lightly between Rian’s lips until she brought her clitoris to full erection.
“Suck me,” Rian groaned. “Oh yeah, like that.”
Cyn kept her on the edge, sucking fast, then slow, then even slower when she felt Rian’s thighs tighten and heard her breath hitch. When she knew she wouldn’t be able to prevent Rian’s orgasm much longer, she slid two fingers inside her. Rian pushed down against her hand and began to mutter and gasp.
“You’re going to make me come in your mouth, Cyn. Do you know that? Is that what you want? Cyn. Oh, Cyn, baby, you’re going to get your wish. Gonna make me come in your mouth, gonna come…soon, coming, soon…”
Cyn sealed her lips around the base of Rian’s rigid clit and whipped it with her tongue, her fingers deep inside her. Rian’s body bucked off the seat.
“Here I come, here I come, Cyn.” Rian’s voice was tight, strained, desperate. “Don’t stop, oh goddamn it suck me…suck me…oh fuck coming.”
Cyn cradled Riane’s clit between her lips until it softened and Rian slumped against the seats. Then she kissed it once more, tenderly, and climbed up to straddle Rian’s thighs. She leaned down and put her mouth against Rian’s ear. “You can feel me now.”
Dimly, she heard Rian laughing as Rian’s fingers glided between her thighs and inside her. She’d held back her orgasm for so long that when Rian’s palm brushed over her quivering clit she climaxed almost instantly. Pleasure coursed through her in rippling showers that left her shivering uncontrollably in Rian’s arms. She whimpered and pressed her face to the curve of Rian’s neck.
“Can you come again?” Rian murmured, gently massaging Cyn’s clit. “I love the way you sound when you come.”
Cyn shook her head, unable to get enough air to speak.
“Maybe later?”
Cyn took a deep shuddering breath, lifted her head with effort, and smiled into Rian’s shining eyes. “It’s possible. I’ll have to check the agenda.”
Rian kissed her. “Just tell me when and where. I’ll be there.”
10 Quick & Easy Salads
Karin Kallmaker
I’m a nice girl and there are things nice girls don’t do. My mother was quite clear on that point, but my mother did not live downstairs from Jaycee Sofino.
Walking from my car to my apartment as I did most evenings, tired from the bland office work that paid the bills, I’d seen Jaycee lounging, as she did most evenings, on her balcony while smoke curled from the small grill near her feet. The aroma
of something sizzling in teriyaki made me faint with hunger. The sight of her bare back and the armband tattoo on her right bicep woke up many other kinds of hungers.
Nice girls—my mother’s authority again—did not go for boys who wore tattoos. Jaycee Sofino was no boy, as her habit of going shirtless while she made her dinner had amply demonstrated. She also wasn’t straight, as the moans and screams from her bedroom a couple of times a month had more than proven. Since I’d moved in downstairs six months ago, there had been at least a dozen Sundays when my search for my newspaper had brought me face-to-face with a departing blonde or redhead or brunette.
They had all looked tired, and in a really good way.
I took care of one hunger by devouring the burger I’d bought on the way home from work. I’m all thumbs in the kitchen, much to my mother’s despair, and cooking is something I’ve never aspired to master. The long parade of boxes and buckets made Jaycee’s aromatic dinner all the harder to ignore. I tried to sublimate the other hungers with some chocolate and a movie, but in the end, like many other nights, the only thing that helped was my well-practiced left hand.
*
A nice girl, I thought several evenings later, would wear a shirt if she was barbecuing on her balcony right above where a single, frustrated lesbian lived. My chicken bits tasted like dust and the yogurt I found in my nearly empty refrigerator was expired. It didn’t sport any growth, so I ate it anyway.
I paid for that decision around two a.m. After I cleaned up the bathroom I quietly opened the sliding glass door to let in fresh air. The summer night was cool to my cheeks. It cleared my head and settled my stomach.
I was about to slide the door closed again when I heard voices above me. I wasn’t sure at first what the low whispers might mean.
“Out here?”
“Yes, out here. It’s too hot inside.”
Jaycee and some girl, I realized. Flirting and—
“Oh, yesssss…right there…”
Not flirting, fucking. Yet another encounter, and at an hour when nice girls were sound asleep.
I was so over wanting to be a nice girl.
I wanted to be her, that girl, the one up there. The girl who was moaning, and even though she had a somewhat limited vocabulary, I couldn’t help but listen. She was groaning and coming while Jaycee did delicious things my imagination had no trouble at all picturing.
Peering up through the slats in the decking, I could make out the silhouette of their frantic movements.
Jaycee said, low and intense, “I know you can come again.”
“Oh, fuck, baby, don’t stop.”
I could hear it. What was Jaycee fucking that other girl—the one I wanted to be—with? Her hand? A toy, strapped on for gusto? Each stroke, each little gasp that girl let out, was loud in my ears. How long had they been fucking? How many times had that girl—I so wanted to be her—how many times had she come already?
“I’m going to get splinters in my knees if you do that,” she said a few minutes later, after a long string of “oh gawd, oh gawd, oh my fucking gawd.”
Jaycee said something I didn’t catch. The shadows moved and I heard the screen door open, then, Jaycee said with a half-growl, half-laugh, “Carpet burn okay with you?”
“Yeah, baby. Oh gawd, oh gawd, oh my fucking gawd…”
And then I couldn’t hear anything but the occasional hint about what was going on over my head. But I could imagine hands gripping hips, tongues teasing skin, fingers finding slippery heat until the air was heavy with the smell of sex and the sound of satisfaction.
The only way I got any sleep the rest of that night was through the useful application of my vibrator. Twice.
*
Fresh yogurt, frozen dinners and toothpaste—the contents of my shopping cart were boring. The line was long and I tried to pass the time with headlines about celebrities but for the most part, I simply didn’t care.
Hearing a voice I recognized, I focused one line over and spied Jaycee swiping a card to pay for her groceries. She was wearing boot-cut jeans and a brightly patterned medical smock. I wondered what she did for a living. She said something to the clerk, and the memory of her voice saying, “I know you can come again,” washed through my brain and down my back, leaving me as drenched as I had been the last two nights.
She left and I was still waiting, idly scanning the magazine racks. I wondered what she was making for dinner and how good it would smell. Why couldn’t I just bring something upstairs and invite myself in? It couldn’t be just anything, like a pre-made salad from the deli—Jaycee could have that any time. If I was going to barge in and ask for nourishment and nooky, I needed something good in hand. But I don’t cook…can’t boil…
Just a bit larger than a deck of playing cards, the little booklet was called 10 Quick & Easy Salads. Feeling as if I was studying something written in a foreign language, I thumbed through the first several pages, then glanced through recipe one, Sweet and Sour Broccoli Slaw. I eyed the three fully laden carts ahead of me, the clerk’s glacial pace—I’d chosen badly—and took off for produce. Back to the cart in time to move it up one, then down the spice aisle. What was a balsamic, anyway?
*
Mesquite and pepper curled down from the balcony and into my living room. I stirred together a bag of shredded broccoli, vinegar—with balsamic—and four different spices—that stuff is expensive—with a pinch of salt. It smelled okay, and tasted okay. Kind of sweet. Like it might be good with mesquite.
I dumped the salad into one of those inexpensive plastic containers and snapped on the lid. Hell, I was crazy. Jaycee’s long legs clad in those boot-cut jeans and the glimpse of her bare shoulders as I passed under the balcony with my groceries, the memories of her sexy, intent voice urging that girl to come again, and again—it was all making me crazy. So crazy I was cooking. Surely the world would spin backward any moment.
Three minutes in the bathroom didn’t improve my hair, but I decided if I wasn’t a nice girl any longer I could saunter upstairs without a bra on. Jaycee wasn’t going to look at my hair. One last look had me concluding that the tight tank and skimpy shorts said I was available, the permanent earring with rainbow rings said I was as gay as she was, and the itty bitty sandals said “Fuck Me. Now.” No more nice girl. I could do this.
I went out my front door, up the stairs to hers.
Rang the bell.
Put the salad down on her welcome mat and ran down the stairs, lucky not to break my neck. I was easing my door closed when I heard the door over my head open.
About five seconds later it closed again, and it was easy to trace the footsteps overhead to the balcony. Jaycee settled on her lounge chair and I heard the lid on the container being peeled back.
“Huh,” Jaycee said quietly. “Well, it smells good.”
In the morning, as I passed the communal mailboxes, I saw the container on the shelf. It looked to have been washed. Inside was a note with large lettering saying, “Thank you!”
Glancing around, I saw Jaycee’s 4x4 was gone. I hurried home with the container, magnetted the note to the fridge, then dashed to work. I’d stop at the grocery on the way home.
*
Recipe two was Black Bean and Corn Relish over Field Greens.
Even though I was safely downstairs again when she opened her door, I plainly heard her laugh. Did she know it was me? Had she ever noticed the dyke who lived downstairs beyond those nods and “how are ya” greetings in the parking lot?
The next morning the note in the clean container said, “That was tasty. I’d love to thank you in person.”
*
Mixed Peppers with Arugula used all the same spices I’d acquired before, but I’d no idea bell peppers had all those seeds. If she wanted to thank me in person then I’d let her. The same sandals as before, the same shorts, but I would wear a bra. That was why I’d run away before. Jaycee might strut around with that molded body of hers on display, but I was still clinging to the idea that I
was a nice girl even if I wanted to do very naughty things.
Opening the green pepper was easy after practicing with the red and yellow. I could do this cooking thing, sort of, especially when no actual heat was involved. It wasn’t until the first sting hit my eye that I realized I’d unconsciously flicked at a loose lash with fingers coated with green pepper juice.
Cursing, my eye streaming, I stuck my face under the faucet in the kitchen sink, hoping cool water would rinse it clean. The burning finally abated but when I checked out my reflection my eye was red and puffy. Jaycee was on her balcony, and there were noises that sounded like she was transferring the items on the hibachi to her plate. If I wanted to deliver the salad and not get caught I’d have to do it then and skip being thanked in person.
Still blinking tears out of my eye, I flitted up the stairs, set down the container, rang the bell. In spite of the absurdity of it all, I wanted to giggle as I heard her noisily running for the door. I was safely home, listening through a tiny crack, and I plainly heard her say, “Well, damn. Who is this?”
Stupid bell pepper juice. I ought to be up there with Jaycee right now, shyly flirting and saying that I’d love to share what smelled like chicken teriyaki. If a little game delivering salads caught her attention, then I’d make Chilled Pasta Primavera every Monday and twice on Thursday if that’s what it took.
*
She was watching for me now and nearly caught me delivering Beefsteak, Mozzarella and Basil with Vinaigrette. She had a date Friday night—not the oh my gawd, oh my gawd woman—and I wasn’t cooking for anyone but Jaycee. Saturday night she didn’t barbecue and Sunday I went to my mom’s for dinner. She really liked the black bean and corn thing and was amazed that I knew how to tell when the noodles were done. I didn’t tell her I’d learned it all for lust.
Extreme Passions Page 5