Take Me Home

by Lorelie Brown

  We’re so close that I see the tips of her lashes where they almost seem to disappear. They turn so fine they’re like gold filaments. I try to sit still, but I can’t help the wiggle my body gives. Trying to get nearer to her.

  She groans, and whatever words were dwelling behind her lips are traded for more kisses. Harder kisses. This time she pushes me back until I’m flat on my couch. She follows me down. Her weight on me is almost nothing and almost everything all at once.

  “You’re such a goody two-shoes,” she says, pushing my hair out of my face. Her own pink hair falls across her forehead in a shock of color. Her elbow is wedged between my shoulder and the back of the couch.

  We’re folded into a tiny box of our own making. We haven’t even stretched across the cushions. “Good girls don’t have one-night stands.”

  She traces my hairline from the middle of my forehead all the way to my ear. “Is that what this is?”

  I know how to seize opportunity. Momma didn’t raise no fools. “It doesn’t have to be. I like you. A lot.”

  “I like you too.” Her mouth folds into a cheeky smile. “Or maybe I just like your dog-snatching tendencies.”

  “Isn’t liking what I do the same thing as liking me?”

  As if on cue, the puppy starts whimpering. I slide out from under Brooke and crouch next to Snowy. “False alarm. She’s still sleeping. Her toes are twitching. I hope she didn’t try to move the broken one.”

  “Probably chasing a deer in her dreams.”

  “Deer?” I laugh. “She wouldn’t know what to do with one if she did catch it. She’s the size of a lunch box.”

  “I bet she’s bigger in her dreams.” Brooke’s twisted so that she’s sitting in the spot where I was a moment ago, but her skirt is all tangled around her thighs. Her lower legs are pale and one is decorated with old-fashioned calligraphy type. I can barely make out what it says.

  “‘RIP … Daniel’?”

  “My dad.” She rises abruptly and the skirt falls back into place. She holds out a hand.

  I take it and stand with a hop. We’re face to face and could be lips to lips with barely an inch of closed space.

  “It’s your call,” I offer. “My bedroom is nice and my sheets were changed yesterday.”

  “If I come to your room, it’s not because I care about the condition of your sheets.”

  “Maybe I care. Maybe I don’t like getting shagged on dirty sheets. Maybe cracker crumbs distract me from orgasm.”

  That quickly, oh. She switches from alterna-chick with a heart of gold to the bad girl I’ve always dreamed of. It’s in the way her eyes narrow and her smile most certainly doesn’t say friendly girl next door. She takes my hands, fingers curling in the cups of my palms. She lifts our joined fingers to her mouth. I hold my breath, and I’m split between watching her naughty gleaming eyes and wondering if she’s really doing what I think she is. She brings my knuckles to her lips and kisses me. Air soft. Butterfly-kiss soft.

  Hard enough that I’m going to feel her brand there for the rest of my life.

  I shudder. My breathing is off the charts.

  “Nothing will distract you from orgasm,” she tells me.

  I don’t know if it’s an order or a promise, but I squeak out an okay either way. “I’m cool with that.”

  I’d facepalm except that’d only make my geekiness worse. So I kiss her. Better that way. She’s absent and I’m blissful.

  Especially when her arms wrap around my shoulders and neck. She goes slowly, as if she’s afraid of hurting me, but that’s not likely.

  Not when the want is hurting me worse.

  I kiss her back, taking and giving. Her lips catch my tongue and she sips the tip. I shiver. Weight and mass collect in my body, centering low between my thighs. I try to squeeze in the tension and it only gets worse. She palms my hip. She knows what I’m doing, rocking against the pressure coming from inside me. I don’t care. I can’t stop. Not with the way she’s kissing me, egging me on.

  Her hand turns hard and mauls my ass. I shouldn’t like this. I usually like running the show, or at least something that’s more about equality and exploration. She hauls me up to her lean body. Her full skirt swirls around enough to touch the backs of my knees.

  I want to melt into her in a big heap of helpless. “My room?”

  “Lead the way.”

  She’s panting too. Fucking excellent. There’s nothing worse than the feeling that what’s good for you is mechanical for them.

  It’s not far to my bedroom. A hop, skip, and a jump, pretty much. As I shut the door behind us, I take one last peek at the puppy. Still completely conked out. At the last moment, an attack of conscience has me leaving the door open two inches.

  I’d be so upset with myself if I let orgasms get in the way of a baby in pain. Even the temptation itself should probably mark me with a scarlet S for shitty.

  Except when I turn around, Brooke is waiting for me. She’s watching me.

  She’s wanting me.

  I can feel it, the wave of static electricity that rolls from her to me and twists my nipples until they’re sharp enough to cut glass. The throbbing in my cunt is so strong that I cross my legs just to feel the squeeze. Good. So fucking good.

  She crooks a finger toward me. I stay right where I am. I want her to work for it, work for me. The way she smiles … oh, it tempts me to flip my usual script over. She smiles from the inside out.

  I like the look of her against my oasis of calm bedroom. She’s a splash of life that counters the oatmeal duvet and carefully chosen watercolor above the headboard. My hands curl in on themselves.

  I wonder what I have to do to keep her here forever.

  “Get naked,” she tells me.

  “You’re not going to say ‘please’?”

  “You don’t want me to.”

  She’s right. I unbutton my blouse. The room is so quiet that I can hear the swish as linen slides over my shoulders and drops to the floor in a cloud of hope. I shuck the Carolina Herrera skirt and let it fall to a clump that I’ll regret tomorrow morning. I’m so glad I wore my Gossard underwear. The pale nude isn’t a remarkable color, but the way my ample breasts are held up by netting and some scraps of lace is modern lingerie at its best.

  Completely worth it when Brooke’s eyes light up. “You’re quite fancy, aren’t you?”

  I strike a bit of a pose, twisting so I can wave my bum at her. “Yup.”

  “Fucking A.” She comes close enough to grab my waist, to slide her thumbs under the band of the old-fashioned suspender belt. “Do you wear things like this all the time?”

  I shake my head. “I have plenty of Target stuff too.”

  “Just often enough to make your partner wonder which kind it is today.”

  I have my hands on her shoulders. Light. Little kitten paws, with only a hint of nails scratching through her dress. “Maybe.”

  “There’s no maybe to it.” She stretches close enough that her mouth is at the soft underside of my jaw and against my neck. Every word she whispers is a caress. “That’s the kind of girl you are. Some women wear stuff like this just for themselves. But not you. You wonder who knows. You want to flash people your see-through panties. Whatever it takes to get them slobbering over you.”

  I shift against the uncomfortable hint in her words. “Just you. I only want you slobbering over me.”

  Her mouth quirks, and I think of all the things she doesn’t say. Just this once, I want to tell her, let it be as perfect as I’m imagining. As I dream about. Don’t show me how screwed up humans can be. Not yet, at least. Give me a little time.

  Maybe she hears my mental pleading, because she doesn’t say anything else. She lays a series of openmouthed kisses along my shoulder, to my collarbone, to my neck. I look up at the ceiling and let out a shuddering breath. Very few lesbians are afraid of using their mouths in exploration, and Brooke doesn’t seem to be any different.

  She tastes my skin the way a blind person m
ight feel my face. Reaching for every nuance of me. It doesn’t take long before her lips find my nipple. Through the bra’s netting, the touch is light. Prismatic in how the layers of touch and breath and my want and our need combine to make sensation. It’s hard to break apart. Easy too, with how I’m trembling.

  I bury my hands in her hair and some small part of me is surprised to find it as cool and silken as hair usually is. She’s made of drama—shouldn’t her hair be touched with flame? I work my fingers underneath the strands and across her skull, feeling the subtle flex at her temples as she works her tongue over me.

  I melt, making it not quite to my bed. Instead we land on the accent rug. The faux fur pets my nearly bare ass. Brooke kneels next to me, her skirt pooling over my hip and thigh. I know how I look against the rug in my innocently filthy lingerie. I could be a virgin princess. Does that mean Brooke is going to sacrifice me? I’m okay with that. Probably more okay than I should be.

  “Want to play bride and bartender?” I hook my big toe against the inside of my calf and let my back arch. “I’m the sweet young thing who’s at her bachelorette party. You just can’t let me tie myself to a man without a taste of what I’m missing.”

  “You’re naughtier than you look, princess.” She rubs a thumb over my bottom lip, pulling it down. I touch my tongue to her skin.

  “I never said otherwise.” I scratch my short nails over my hip, over my stomach, up to the underwire of my bra. Every touch feels good, and when Brooke follows my path with her fingertips, it feels even better.

  “Sit up.”

  I obey. She pushes my hair off my neck and opens her mouth on me. I breathe out my astonishment. I’m tingling so much because I see so many maybes. So many good ways this could go.

  Brooke unsnaps my bra and carefully slides the straps down my shoulders. The lace is reluctant to give up its hold on my full tits, and I expect Brooke to tug, but she nuzzles her face against my cleavage instead. I gasp. My hands lift to the back of her head. She drags the cups away with her teeth.

  Oh Jesus Christ, she’s good. She’s so good. I knew she would be. Her mouth brings heat and her teeth bring danger and her tongue is the soothing that brings it all together. She swings a leg over my hips. Her skirt hides her skin and mine too. I think she’s wearing little panties, because I can feel her against my upper thighs. Her legs are strong and she’s holding herself away from me, but it’s hard to notice because she’s still doing those magic things to my breast.

  When her mouth moves to my other breast, she pinches my still-wet nipple between finger and thumb. She works me until I hum.

  I plant my hands behind my hips and lean. I let my tits lift. Just to help her out. Just so she can get better access. I’m willing to sacrifice myself like that.

  “You don’t look like a bride now,” she says against my cleavage. She tilts and looks up at me from under her lashes. Her eyes are gleaming.

  “I could be. Swearing myself to someone tomorrow.” I trace my fingers over my heart in an x, then comb through her hair. “Want to woo me away?”

  She strokes down my ribs, over my waist, over my hip. Her fingers delve beneath her skirt and still she finds the center of my pussy. She cups me, and I’m so wet that the netted lace slides over my flesh as close as a lick. “You’re wooed.”

  “I am.” I melt backward. I could have stayed seated, it wasn’t as if I’m completely without reason. But I want to be flat, I want to look up at her. She’s my conquering heroine. “Thoroughly wooed.”

  She rubs two fingers over me, pushing firmly enough that she dips between my lips. The panties hold her from diving into me. They are my barrier. My protection. I hate them with every scrap of me.

  I tug on her hem. “Take this off? Please?”

  “What if I want to stay dressed?” She plants one hand next to my shoulder and leans down over me. Her hand is still between my legs, working sweet little pulses of need out of me. She’s got my clit. Unerringly.

  I make a noise that’s something close to a moan. I’m not faking, not this time. Not like other times. She’s watching me like a hawk. She’d catch anything false.

  Or maybe I just want to believe she would.

  Maybe I just want to believe someone, anyone could see through me. That I won’t be alone in the dark forever.

  She takes her hand from my panties and slowly, oh so slowly, lifts her fingers to her mouth and licks them one by one. Her lashes flutter as if she’s enjoying my taste. Good.

  But even better is how she grabs her hem next, with arms crossed over her stomach. She flips the dress off and over her head in one move, and suddenly she’s equally as bare as me.

  She’s lean. Made of bone and tendons, it seems. Her ribs are the arch of a harp’s strings. I’d expected her to be covered in ink, but there’s more pale skin than dark lines. What she does have is as graceful as the curve of her waist.

  I sit up again, fold my arms around her. I bury my face against the plane of her sternum. I like the way her shoulders are sharp as a bird’s bones but strong with muscle too.

  I open my mouth over a fat pink dahlia inked on her upper stomach and lick. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

  “Bella did that one.” She traces her fingers in between mine, following the outlines. Pink brightens into yellow at the centers of the petals.

  “Bella?” I ignore the flash of jealousy that flares up. It’s stupid.

  “She owns the shop.”

  “Oh.” I squeeze her ass. It’s firm and resilient. I want to ask if Bella’s nice. I want to know if Brooke likes her job.

  I kiss her instead. Because we’re half-naked on the floor of my bedroom and there’s nothing like my timing to screw up a good lay. She takes the kiss and bounces it back at me stronger and harder. She’s working me over, and I’m letting her. I frame my hands at her ribs, and she balances hers on my shoulders. She pushes me down, and this time I don’t think I’d have had a choice if I hadn’t wanted to lie down for her. She’s got a surprising amount of strength in her wiry arms.

  She aligns herself to me, and when our breasts pillow against each other, our toes almost touch. Her mouth seals to mine. I let my knees separate, and Brooke settles into the arch of my hips. I hiss with the purity of it. Softness on softness with the bite of her hip bones to remind me this is real. My hips lift. The pressure is enough to wreak havoc on my nerves.

  There isn’t anything better than this.

  Brooke finds my pussy with two fingers again, this time sneaking under my panties from the side. They’re flimsy and maybe they’ll rip, but I don’t care. She strokes between my lips, seeks my clit. Circles it and circles it, and I try to still be generous and kiss her, but it’s more than I can handle because she’s putting me on a wicked ride.

  I’m going to come, and it’s going to be glorious.

  “Please, there,” I tell her. I blink up at the ceiling, then look back down at Brooke’s pink hair. “Please. Fuck. Don’t stop.”

  “Here?” She flashes me a cheeky grin. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing, but she slows down. The circling is going to wrench me out of this plane of existence. If it stops, that is. “You like this, right here?”

  I make a noise. There are no words to it. There’s a sudden jolt in my pussy, like my insides are so desperate that they’re clenching on nothing.

  “Or is it more … here?” She shifts the diameter of the circle inward by just a fraction, until she’s rubbing the edges of my clit, not just around.

  And it’s enough. I explode. I suck in a huge, keening gasp, and my head skips against the floor. The words that spill from me are gibberish. They mean nothing and everything at the same time, and I grind my hips upward and my shoulders down and fuck. Fuck.

  I come and come. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing. It draws out my pleasure. I wouldn’t stop her even if I could get myself together. I go until I’m gasping, until I’m practically hysterical. Completely hysterical. I giggle.

  She’s grinni
ng at me. Elation is a taste in the air, or maybe that’s the scent of my come. Doesn’t matter. It’s beautiful. We’re beautiful. Her smile grows into a chuckle and then into a laugh. I throw my arms up over my head. She flattens herself on me so we’re stretched out again. Our giggles blend into high music.

  “You’re not off the hook yet.”

  “Give a girl a minute to catch her breath.” I stretch, as contented as a kitten in morning sunshine. “It’s not my fault you’re so damn good.”

  “Can you keep up?”

  I laugh again. “You’ll be begging me to bottle it up so you can take me with you.”

  “I think any lesbian who figures out how to bottle up what they’ve got would make a million bucks.” She nestles against my side, her chin on her fist and elbow above my shoulder.

  “They’re called vibrators.” I twirl a lock of her hair around my finger. It’s so fucking vibrant. “Billion-dollar industry.”

  “Good, but not the same.” She leans down and licks me from the top of my stomach, through my cleavage, all the way to my sternum.

  I give a choking, gurgling gasp. “Fuck. Okay, I get your point.”

  “There’s something about girls. About women. We’re amazing. Beautiful and special and different and something altogether made of miracles.”

  “I like that. Lesbians, made of miracles.”

  “Like girl juices are the Gatorade of the sex world.”

  “Straight men would get laid a thousand times more if they gave head like a dyke.”

  “So true. I think.” She tilts her head. “I’ve never been with a guy.”

  “At all?” I am so content with the world. Every bit of me is happy with every bit of star stuff in the universe. “I kissed a boy once. At a bar. I was so drunk.”

  “What did you think?”

  My nose wrinkles. “Meh. He was so pokey. Like, he’d shaved, but it was still all rough and icky. Do you like toys?” I ask, and I’m surprised at what I find myself thinking about. I want to use my Crave Lux on her.

  “Why?” she asks, heavy on the doubt.

  Like any self-respecting lesbian, I have a handful of sex toys that speak to my own preferences. But it’s not like I keep a selection waiting for use with new partners, and anything I’ve used on a girlfriend before, I’ve purged. If I use my Lux on her, I’ll either be forced to throw it away or accept that it’s forever imbued with Brooke’s juju. “I want you to try my favorite vibrator.”