by Nell Stark
Storm’s swallow was audible and her entire body trembled. “Good.”
“Yeah?”
Another nod.
The triumph was so sweet. “You think I’m your hero now?” Corrie murmured as her hands drifted beneath Storm’s top. “Just you wait.”
And then she was easing the bra up to cup Storm’s breasts, and Storm banged her head lightly against the door as Corrie squeezed and pinched and twisted. Every tiny movement forced another small sound of need and pleasure from Storm’s throat. This, this was a buzz, a rush far more potent than alcohol. Creating this need, holding it in the palm of her hand—trapped, desperate for release, totally dependent on her will.
She kissed Storm again as she let her touch wander down beneath the waistband of Storm’s skirt and stroked the muscular abs with her knuckles. “You have an amazing body,” she whispered into Storm’s ear before curling her tongue around the sensitive lobe. Storm’s hips bucked involuntarily. “I want to fuck you.”
Storm froze. Corrie pulled back a little, but kept her fingers where they were, still lightly stroking.
“I—” Storm struggled to speak, wetting dry lips with her tongue. She cleared her throat. “I’ve never...I mean...”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Corrie said steadily. She kept her gaze focused intently on Storm’s swirling, dilated eyes, like the restless summer sky before the first thunderclap. Give in to me, she urged silently. Let me feel you.
“I want you to.” Storm trembled again.
Corrie kissed the side of her neck, laving the spot with a gentle tongue. “I’m glad,” she said against Storm’s hot skin. Her kisses trailed down to Storm’s collarbone as she gradually hiked up the skirt with her right hand until she was touching the narrow strip of cloth resting in the hollow between Storm’s hip and thigh. Corrie nudged Storm’s legs further apart with one knee and slowly followed the hem in toward the centerline of her body, in and down.
She bit down lightly just as her fingers brushed Storm’s swollen clitoris through the fabric.
“Oh—” Storm called out, releasing her grip on Corrie’s waist to press her hands back against the door.
Corrie returned her lips to Storm’s ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Shall I do that again?”
“P—please,” Storm stuttered, her hips shifting vainly.
Corrie’s blood thrilled to the sound of that word—the needy, helpless plea. Right now, she needs me more than she needs to breathe. So what if Denise didn’t want her, didn’t need her? There were so many who did. Who would. This kid was just the tip of the iceberg.
Corrie stroked her with one light fingertip until Storm was whimpering with every breath, her head twisting against the door, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the unbearable pleasure. And then Corrie slipped beneath the scrap of cloth to dip into Storm’s wet folds with her middle finger, her wrist tendons straining as she simultaneously pressed her thumb against Storm’s clit.
Storm cried out wordlessly and Corrie could feel her body tighten, gathering itself for the leap into ecstasy. Ignoring the slight cramp in her palm, she circled harder with her thumb and slid just the tip of her finger inside, and then Storm groaned her name as sensation took over, as she shivered helplessly and flooded Corrie’s hand.
Corrie kept still until Storm’s breathing began to settle. She eased her underwear back in place and lightly kissed Storm’s trembling lips, then moved away to rinse off her fingers. Oddly enough, she felt no desire to be touched in return. Her own pleasure had somehow flowed and ebbed with Storm’s.
Someone knocked at the door. Storm’s face drained of color, but strangely, Corrie felt no panic, not even a whisper of butterfly wings unfurling in her gut. The debilitating anger of just a few minutes ago had passed. She was calm. Empty.
“I’ll handle this,” she said, stroking Storm’s arm lightly before opening the door.
Denise.
Corrie glanced back at Storm. “I need to talk to Denise for a minute,” she said. “See you back in the hall.”
Storm nodded, slipped over the threshold, and was gone.
Denise stepped inside, straightened to her full height—which still meant that the crown of her head only came up to Corrie’s chin—and put her hands on her hips. Corrie leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe.
“What the hell are you doing, Cor? She’s just a kid!”
Corrie shrugged. “She’s legal, and I didn’t hear her complaining.”
“What if her mother had been on the other side of this door—instead of me?”
Corrie rolled her eyes. “Look, D, I don’t need your approval, and I sure as hell don’t need you telling me what to do. You forfeited your right to be involved in how I live my life when you fucked me over for my brother.”
“You’re being juvenile about this.”
“Maybe so, but at least I’m not a slut!”
Denise pulled away, surprise and anger warring on her face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Corrie laughed sharply. “That’s what they call people who sleep with two different family members in the same month.”
Denise flushed down to her neck. “I do love him, you know,” she protested. “I love him in a way I never loved you. You and I...I mean, I’m not—”
“I’ve told you before and I’ll say it again,” Corrie snarled. “I don’t want to hear your ‘explanation.’ The two of you deserve each other.”
“And you deserve casual fucks in the bathroom?” Denise’s heart-shaped face grew softer then, and she reached one hand out as though to touch Corrie’s cheek. “Come on, Corrie. Can’t we move on, here? Move past this?”
Corrie evaded her touch and pushed off the wall. “Believe me when I say I’m not punishing myself over you. You don’t want me—fine. There are dozens—hell, hundreds—of people who do. Just keep out of my way.”
Denise sighed and lowered her hand. “I still care about you,” she said softly. “You know that, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” Corrie’s lips twisted. “You’ve got a great way of showing it.” She pushed open the door, walked out, and didn’t look back.
*
Quinn sighed as her ball headed straight for the gutter yet again, and she turned her back on the pins. “I think I’m hopeless without the bumpers,” she said, trying hard to keep her tone light. It’s just a dumb game. Not a big deal.
Drew patted her on the shoulder when she sat down in the bucket seat next to his. “No worries, Quinn, no worries. Next time for sure.”
She reached for her soda in an attempt to hide her frustration. This entire night was going exactly as she had known it would—badly. Or, she reconsidered after a few sips, maybe not badly so much as just not fun.
Krista stepped up to the lane, which prompted Drew to elbow Quinn in the ribs. Ow! Quinn nearly lost her cool and scowled. Instead, she shifted away from him and half-heartedly took his hint.
“All right, Krista. Here we go. Time for a strike!”
Krista smiled in reply but turned and grinned affectionately at Megs. There really was a huge difference between a smile and a grin, Quinn reflected, especially if you’d been halfway hoping that you’d be getting one and were instead seeing the other. Not that she’d ever really expected anything to come of this, but, hope springs eternal. And she had to give Drew credit for finding someone she was actually interested in this time. His last attempt had been an unequivocal disaster: Allergic Allie, who had started sneezing the second Quinn had walked in the room. She’d turned out to have histamines to pretty much every animal on the planet. Not exactly the kind of person a vet student could date comfortably—or at all.
Krista, on the other hand, had a cat. She was working on her Master’s degree in Drew’s department—electrical engineering—and in her spare time, she liked to read historical fiction. Quinn knew all of this about her because they’d chatted over lunch the week before, and for the first time in perhaps ever, she had actually felt comfort
able talking with someone she didn’t know very well. As an added plus, Krista was attractive without being stunning. Beautiful women made Quinn nervous.
So yes, okay, she’d had some hopes for tonight. Maybe not high hopes, but she could definitely see herself becoming friends with Krista, and she’d even thought once or twice or five times about what it would be like to kiss her, and—
Seven pins clattered to the floor. Impressed, Quinn clapped. Drew shouted something goofy like “Yeehaw,” and Megs wolf-whistled. Krista blushed slightly, looked over her shoulder, and winked.
I really should try to get rid of those extra ten pounds, Quinn thought for the millionth time. Megan’s physique was nothing if not enviable. Her gray shirt stretched tightly across strong shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. A swimmer’s body. Or perhaps more accu-rately, a windsurfer’s body—that was her sport of choice according to Drew, who worked with her at the boathouse during the summertime.
Another clatter of pins and a cute little whoop of pleasure announced that Krista had bowled a spare. Megs jumped up to give her a high five. Their hips bumped lightly as Krista returned to her seat.
“Nice one,” Quinn said with feigned enthusiasm, studiously ig-noring the lurching of her stomach. She sipped at her soda again and tried to just enjoy the night—the banter of Drew’s group of friends, the cheesy eighties music blaring from the bowling alley’s speakers, and the occasional exultant holler of someone who’d just managed a strike. But the trouble was, she didn’t really know Drew’s friends very well, and she wasn’t good at small talk anyway. And to be honest, she’d been a little kid in the eighties and couldn’t tell Pat Benatar from Cyndi Lauper. Not to mention the fact that every time someone got a strike, she felt like an idiot for not being able to roll a bowling ball in a straight line.
As the night plodded on, Quinn watched how Megs touched Krista often in light, almost teasing ways—a few fingers resting briefly on her arm, the slight brush of their shoulders, the gentle press of their thighs as they sat side by side. How very animated Megs was—how she nodded and gesticulated as she told funny stories, and how captivated Krista was by her display.
I’m just not exciting, she realized. The only stories I have are about school and animals, and even if they were interesting, I’d be too introverted to tell them. It was like that in high school and college. Why should now be any different?
It was sad to see Krista slipping away, but on the other hand, it was a relief. Krista wouldn’t be able to say, “You never want to go out,” like Quinn’s short-lived high school boyfriend, Brian, had claimed. And she’d never be able to accuse her—as Sue had in college—of caring more about her studies than about their relationship. Life was simpler this way. Easier.
“Hey, guys,” said Drew after their second game finally ended. “Anyone up for going to the diner?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Milkshakes, spicy fries, quadruple bacon cheeseburgers...”
Quinn looked around. Almost everyone was nodding. She stood up quickly. The idea of spending more time with other human beings was about as appealing as...well, as that quadruple bacon cheeseburger. Fortunately, she had just the excuse.
“I need to head out,” she said as the others collected their jackets, wallets, and purses.
“What? C’mon, Quinn.”
She cut off his wheedling plea with a swift shake of her head. “I need to run over to the humane society and check on a few kittens.” Which was a lie, but it sure did sound good. No sane person wanted kittens to be neglected.
Drew huffed a loud sigh. “Fine.” He grasped her shoulders gently and smiled down at her. “I’m really glad that you hung out with us tonight. You should tag along more often.”
“I had a good time,” Quinn lied again, glad that it was so easy. And then she walked to the door and pushed it open, zipping up her coat against the chill October air. She didn’t look back.
Collision Course
Seven months later
Corrie woke a few minutes after dawn, to the sensation of warm sunlight across the bridge of her nose. She lay still, eyes closed, mentally taking stock. Monday. First real day of work for the season. Someone—Brad—in bed next to her. She’d ended up choosing him over Megs last night. Curtains rustling in a light breeze. She flexed her toes and took a deep breath, testing out her mood—like pushing a sore tooth with her tongue. But there were no twinges today, only a lingering satisfaction with her conquest and a pleasant rush of anticipation for the day ahead.
She opened her eyes to the sight of Brad’s well-muscled back, already tan from hours on the water. He had a mole between his shoulder blades. She’d kissed it playfully last night before falling asleep. Corrie turned over and slid out from under the crisp cotton sheets, snagging a pair of black swim trunks and a dark gray sports bra from the back of her desk chair as she moved toward the door.
She pushed it open gently, knowing that Frog was lying just on the other side. His collar jingled as he got to his feet, barked, and cocked his big gray head at her. She scratched the silky spot behind his right ear.
“Sorry, bud,” she whispered, shutting the door behind her. “I know you hate sleeping out here.” She straightened up, adjusting the frayed collar of the T-shirt that had slipped over one shoulder. “Let’s go grab some breakfast, huh?”
Fifteen minutes later, she was standing at the kitchen sink sipping at a tall mug of steaming black coffee and munching on a slice of last night’s pizza while her laptop booted up. Across the room, Frog was noisily devouring his kibble. Corrie stared out the curtained windows toward the gentle slope that led down from her bungalow to the shoreline. A partially completed pier jutted into Point Judith Pond, just past the skeletal frame of what would someday be a large shed—almost a barn. Polishing off the pizza, she wiped her hands on the dishtowel and quickly brought up her Internet browser. It opened to NOAA’s forecast page for Wakefield, Rhode Island.
“Eight to ten knots right now,” she muttered, scanning the page, “and up to fifteen by late this afternoon.” She looked out toward the water again and nodded, content. Not bad.
She walked quickly back to the bedroom to collect her wallet and keys and tucked them into the waterproof pocket in her trunks. Brad was snoring and had shifted to take up almost the entire bed, his arms and legs splayed out haphazardly across the sheets. Corrie grinned smugly. She leaned down to kiss his shoulder, and he stirred just a little.
“There’s coffee in the kitchen. See you ’round.”
“Mmm, yeah,” he said, and promptly fell back to sleep. She laughed and walked down the hall, pausing briefly in the bathroom to brush her long, blond hair back into a ponytail, before threading it through the ragged Hoyas cap that rested beside the sink.
“Let’s get out of here, Frogger,” she called, moving purposefully through the small den and toward the front door.
Once outside, she took off at a brisk jog, turning right out of the narrow gravel driveway and heading northeast along the edge of the inlet. It was a two-mile run to the Sailing Center—the perfect morning warm up. She took a deep breath of cool, late spring air and quickened her pace a little. The easterly wind smelled pungently of sea salt, and it made her eager to be out on the water.
Upon arriving at the boathouse, she immediately unlocked the equipment shed’s double doors as Frog ran up and down the pier, half-heartedly chasing seagulls. Several rows of windsurfing boards and sails extended off to her left, a forest of lifejackets to her right. She eyed the windsurfing equipment for a few seconds, then shook her head and continued further into the building, past the unmanned rental counter.
“Better wind for a Laser,” she said under her breath. Halting in front of a long wall honeycombed with narrow compartments, she finally selected a sail before moving across the hall to pick out a complementary mast and boom. Tucking the sail and its lines under her right arm, Corrie cautiously walked the long, thin mast and its companion boom out of the shed and down the pier before setting everything
down in front of a row of Lasers, all up on blocks.
At first glance, the boats registered as nondescript. Only fourteen feet long and just over four feet wide, they certainly didn’t have the inherent majesty of the large keelboats moored out in the harbor. Even the beginner tech dinghies had permanent masts and lines. But that’s what makes you special, isn’t it? Corrie thought as she unfurled the sail and began sliding its sleeve down the length of the mast. You’re a little puzzle. And if I put these pieces together right, you’ll out-maneuver just about anything.
There was something exhilarating about assembling a boat like this—about raising the mast and running the lines yourself. The accountability was both frightening and appealing. Do everything properly, and you’d have a boat that you knew, inside-out and backward. Do anything wrong, and it would fall apart on the water.
Once she had double-checked her knots, Corrie slid the assembled Laser onto a cart, then rolled it down the ramp next to the pier and into the water. Seaweed brushed against her legs as she tied the boat to a pylon with an expert bowline knot. She glanced back to check on Frog, who was happily rolling in the sand along the beach, before hoisting herself into the shallow cockpit and dropping both her rudder and centerboard into the water. She leaned over the bow long enough to pull herself toward the pier and undo her knot, then pushed away and let out the mainsheet so that her sail could fill. It caught the wind immediately, and as the boom swung out to the leeward side of the boat, the shift in weight distribution was enough to tilt the windward side up at a precarious angle.
Corrie threw her weight out to port, tucking her feet under the narrow piece of fabric, the “hiking strap”, that ran the length of the cockpit. She made minor adjustments to the mainsail and tiller as her weight balanced out the force of the wind on the sail and brought the boat back down to a flat position. Her stomach muscles quivered as she held her torso perfectly flat over the water, steering with only the tips of her right fingers. Lasers were so damn sensitive—to touch, to weight, to wind shifts—and besides the accountability involved, she loved the precision they demanded.