by Nell Stark
“Look,” he said after making his apologies. “Quinn means a lot to me. It’d be great if you were friends. But I don’t...I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
Corrie took a step back. “That’s not what I’m about, Drew,” she muttered. “You know that.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Cor—”
“Forget it,” she cut him off. Refusing to meet his eyes, she glanced around the room and caught Megan Dougherty, one of the windsurfing instructors, looking in her direction from her position near the fireplace. Barely suppressing a sigh of relief, she turned back to Drew. “I have to go. Catch you later.”
Corrie walked briskly toward the bar, where she signaled for two more beers. Across the room, she knew Megs was still watching her, knew that the expression on her face stemmed from honest attraction blended with desire. No confusion there. Taking a deep breath to shake off Drew’s interrogation, Corrie began to weave her way through the crowd around the edge of the room.
“Figured you’d be ready for another about now,” she said into Megs’s ear as she came up behind her, close enough to touch. She didn’t touch her, though—not just yet.
The younger woman stiffened but took the bottle, her fingers brushing Corrie’s in the process. Deliberately. She turned to face her. “Hey, Mars.”
Corrie looked her up and down lazily, feeling a sudden rush of warmth as the first beer finally kicked in. “How’s it going, Megs?”
“Pretty good. Well—very good, now. I think.” She scrubbed a hand through her short, curly hair, looking a question at Corrie. Corrie took a step closer so their bodies overlapped ever so slightly. She reached out one hand to squeeze Meg’s waist, gently but firmly, just above her hips.
“You think?”
“Yeah,” said Megs, her voice catching. “Yeah, definitely.”
*
“You about ready to head for home?” Drew’s voice came from close behind Quinn, and she turned from her view of the dark harbor to see him lounging against the doorway.
“Yes,” she replied. “But if you want to stay, you should.”
“I’m the one who forced you to come out tonight, remember? It’s only fair if I walk back with you.” He pushed himself away from the wall with a tired smile. “Plus, I’m wiped.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Quinn, allowing him to lead her through the crowd. She looked for Corrie as she went—to say goodbye. But by the time she saw her, they were near the front door. Besides, Corrie was engaged in what looked like a deep conversation with a lean, red-haired woman. Quinn stopped short as she recognized Megs—Megan Dougherty, whom she hadn’t seen since the ill-advised bowling excursion over half a year ago. And she and Corrie looked to be pretty close, if Corrie’s hand on her hip was any indication. But it sort of felt like she was flirting with me earlier, Quinn thought, though why she’d want to do that…Suddenly realizing that Drew was far ahead of her, Quinn hurried to catch up.
Still, as they walked the few blocks away from the Pond toward Drew’s apartment, she couldn’t resist asking him if Megs and Krista were still together.
Drew shook his head. “No, that didn’t last for more than a month, and I don’t think they were ever exclusive.”
“So...is she with Corrie now? Megs, I mean?”
Drew laughed sharply. “Ah, you picked up on that little seduction scene, too?” He glanced at Quinn. “That’s interesting. I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“Seduction scene? What do you mean by that?”
“No one is ever with Corrie. She has her own little circle—most of the instructors, plus some other people.” He shrugged. “She sleeps with them sometimes. Whenever she gets the urge, I guess.”
Quinn frowned at the pavement, trying to assimilate this knowledge into her picture of Corrie Marsten. Corrie’s innate sensuality hadn’t escaped her; the energy pouring from the instructor’s body as they stood so close together had been nearly palpable. But somehow, this bit of news was disturbing.
“She doesn’t have a significant other, then? She only goes in for random hook-ups?”
“No, no.” Drew shook his head. “She had a girlfriend a while back, but something happened. I’m not sure what. Ever since then, she’s made a point to hook up with friends—not random, but no strings attached.”
Something about the way he pronounced “friends” made Quinn look over at him. “Does that include you?” she asked, her tone deliberately casual.
“When I’m lucky.” At Quinn’s raised eyebrow, he couldn’t help protesting. “C’mon, Quinn, she’s really attractive. Don’t you think?”
“Sure, I guess so.” They walked for a while in silence, then, before Quinn got up the courage to ask the next question on her mind. She was more honest with Drew than anyone else on the planet, but even they had never had a conversation quite like this. “Does...does it bother you that she also sleeps with women?”
“Uh,” said Drew. “Well, no. Nope, not at all. No.” Even in the dim glow from a nearby streetlight, Quinn could make out his blush. “Thing is,” he said finally, “I get the feeling that gender doesn’t really matter to her. That it’s just another physical characteristic—like body type or something.” He glanced over at Quinn. “You know?”
Quinn nodded, but really, she didn’t know at all. The entire idea of casual sex—even between friends—made her uncomfortable. Sex meant losing control, and losing control meant that whoever you were with could really, truly see you. Not just physically because you were naked, but emotionally—and what if they didn’t like what they saw? Even if they did, you could never take it back. Sex wasn’t like blurting out a confession by accident that you could then pretend was a joke. It was permanent. That other person would always know what you were like when you were most vulnerable—what you felt like, looked like, sounded like. Unless, of course, you had faked it. But if you had to do that, then you clearly weren’t getting anything out of it, so what was the point? And what do I know about it, anyway?
Feeling completely naïve, she kept her mouth shut for the remainder of their short walk. Her brain, however, kept working furiously. Why does this bother me about Corrie? She isn’t doing anything wrong. It’s not what I’d do, but I shouldn’t judge her, either.
“Hey, Q?” Drew broke through her reverie as they approached the front door of a whitewashed colonial-style house, the first floor of which was his apartment. She watched him fumble with his keys.
“Yeah?”
“Corrie can be really persuasive. And I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Quinn just rolled her eyes at him. “Like she’d ever go after me anyway. You’re the one who pointed out how attractive she is.”
Drew sighed in resignation. Quinn’s insecurities were familiar territory. “I wish you wouldn’t sell yourself short,” he said, squeezing one shoulder. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Okay, worrywart.” She looked up at him fondly, knowing that his concern was completely unfounded. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
*
“Come for me,” Corrie whispered as a drop of sweat dripped from her chin to pool in the dip of Megs’s collarbone. “Now.”
Megs’s smooth inner muscles convulsed at the command, and she pressed her mouth to Corrie’s shoulder as her body surged, buoyed on the waves of climax.
Corrie stayed inside until the last flutters subsided, until Megs collapsed back on the bed, weak and gasping. Finally, gently, Corrie withdrew and surreptitiously wiped her fingers on the sheet. Megs sighed deeply as Corrie flipped over to stretch out next to her.
“God, you’re good at that.” Megs lazily turned her head on the pillow to meet Corrie’s deep green eyes.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” said Corrie, remembering Megs’s thumb, slick and strong against her, only a few minutes before. The insistent pressure was back already, and it was only growing stronger. Dammit—I’m in a state tonight.
Megs laughed breathlessly. “Such a fuckin’ amazing tea
se. I bet you drive the guys insane.”
Corrie frowned up at the ceiling. “Does it bug you that I sleep with guys sometimes?”
She looked over in time to see Megs shake her head. Her shoulders were burned a light red and sprinkled liberally with freckles. “Naw,” she said, quirking a grin. “Kinda wonder why you bother, though.”
Corrie shrugged against the crisp sheet. She didn’t confess that it was because for some reason, seducing men made her feel powerful, somehow. Whereas women just felt good. Soft, warm, so unbelievably wet. Infinitely able to give and receive pleasure. And the sensation of breasts cradled in her palms, the twin puckered hardness of nipples trapped between the webs of her fingers...
When Megs gasped from beneath her, she realized that she was on top again, pressing her into the sheets, gently kneading her full breasts insistently. “I don’t like being put in a box,” she said, giving Megs’s nipples a firm twist as she spoke. Megs whimpered.
“And I want to fuck you again. You want that, don’t you?”
Megs nodded desperately, her eyes wide and hazy.
“Say yes,” Corrie breathed. She bit down lightly on one earlobe. “Tell me.”
“Fuck, Mars,” Megs gasped. “Please, just—”
Corrie shifted her hand and slipped two fingers back inside. Megs groaned, and Corrie pressed hard against the back of her hand with one muscled thigh. She knew that Megs was good for another—for several more, actually, if she played it right. And that she’d give as good as she got.
“That’s it,” she murmured. “Come for me again.”
Knock
Corrie stopped in the doorway of her cramped office as she watched Jen dump an armful of white envelopes on her already crowded desk.
“Holy...what the hell is all this?” She moved forward and grabbed the first envelope she could find, holding it up to the bright sunlight that streamed through the single window. Jen leaned against the edge of the desk and raised her eyebrows.
“Entry forms. For the regatta.” When Corrie groaned, Jen shoved her shoulder lightly. “You sure did pick a good year to be head of instruction, Mars.”
Corrie tossed the offending envelope back onto her desk. “I just can’t believe we’re already getting this shit. The race is still six weeks away!”
Jen shrugged. “Sailors are anal. You know.” When Corrie shoved her in return, Jen just laughed. “And speaking of being type A, when’s the instructor trip to Block Island going to be? I want to put that on my calendar.”
Corrie sighed dramatically. “I’ll take the time out of my busy schedule and fix the date right now, okay? Just for you.”
“What a pal,” said Jen as Corrie paged through her Dayplanner.
“No, no, no...oh.” She looked up and bared her teeth at Jen. “Perfect.”
“When?”
“Third weekend in July.” Corrie nodded in satisfaction as she penciled in a note to herself.
“What’s so perfect about that?”
“My brother won’t be able to make it.” Corrie snapped the book shut.
“Why not?”
Corrie’s lips twisted. “That’s the weekend of his fiancée’s birthday.” She checked her watch. “Ten of one. I have to go.”
Huh, thought Jen. I guess Corrie doesn’t like his fiancée, either. “What are you teaching this afternoon?” she asked.
“My first 470 lesson of the season.” Corrie rifled through the unkempt pile of envelopes once again to retrieve her instruction folder. “Let’s see who I have here.” After flipping it open, she paused, then smiled with relief.
“What is it?” Jen leaned forward. “Who are your victims?”
“No one I know, really. Full lesson, though.” Corrie tucked the folder under her arm and moved purposefully away from the desk. “Time for me to get out there.”
Ignoring the question in Jen’s parting look, Corrie hurried out of the boathouse and into the hot summer afternoon. The air was thick with moisture, and she felt even more grateful than usual for the brisk, sea-scented breeze blowing in from the east. Squinting into the haze, she looked around. There was someone down by the first pier rigging up a Laser who almost looked like—. She squinted, then blinked. Not Will. He wasn’t slated to teach any lessons today, and she was glad that he wasn’t just hanging around. Hell, he was probably hung over and still sacked out on whatever spare couch he’d been able to find last night.
Suddenly, Frog crossed her line of sight as he raced along the shore after an airborne piece of driftwood that was just beginning its slow descent toward the surf. Corrie turned toward the direction of the toss and grinned. Of course.
Quinn was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and black mesh shorts. A Dartmouth cap kept her wavy brown hair in check and blue aqua shoes hugged her feet. As Corrie approached at a slow jog, Quinn turned in her direction. There was a brief moment of recognition in which she gave a little, self-conscious wave.
“Hey,” Corrie called, just before Frog bounded up to her, his tale wagging enthusiastically. She paused to grab the stick out of his mouth and launch it along the shoreline toward the first pier.
“Nice arm,” said Quinn.
“Comes from playing quarterback as a kid with my older brother’s friends. I never did learn to throw like a girl.”
One corner of Quinn’s mouth lifted. “I’m sure you didn’t. I bet your brother was proud.”
Corrie grimaced. “Yeah, right. Will’s never been proud of anyone but himself.” She toed the sand with her left foot and stared moodily out toward the ocean. “To hear him talk, I wouldn’t have a shred of athletic skill if it hadn’t been for him, and—”
She looked over at Quinn and suddenly realized just exactly how much she was confessing. So Corrie did the only thing she could think of—she laughed. Too loudly. “Listen to me, revisiting childhood woes,” she said, trying to be jovial. “Blah, blah, blah.”
Quinn could recognize self-consciousness when she saw it, and she instinctively tried to smile in a way that would put Corrie at ease. That must have worked, because Corrie returned her expression and gestured inland.
“Shall we?”
As they turned toward the boathouse, Corrie hunched her shoulders a little. “So...I thought you might’ve decided this whole sailing thing wasn’t for you,” she said. “I mean, after you didn’t come back on Monday or yesterday.” After I came on to you on Friday.
But Quinn turned to face her, frowning slightly and shaking her head. “Oh no. I’ve really been enjoying it—I just had to cover for someone at the humane society. Usually I volunteer there twice a week, but one of their employees came down with a bug over the weekend, and it’s kitten season right know, you know, so they really needed—” She cut off abruptly, and Corrie had to work to hide a grin as a slight flush crept across Quinn’s cheeks. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to the lesson. Drew says he likes these boats quite a bit.”
“They’re the best.” Corrie pointed to a knot of four young men gathered around one of the picnic tables. “And those must be the other students.” She looked over at Quinn again and elbowed her gently just above her hip. Soft. “You ready?”
“Sure,” said Quinn, the smile returning to her face.
“Good.” Corrie waggled her eyebrows. “Because you’re riding with me.”
As they neared the group, her steady pace gradually shifted to a slow, rolling saunter and her attitude changed, somehow. Quinn could almost feel her withdraw, could feel the easy intimacy of a minute earlier slip away in the face of a crowd. Of men. Frat boys, even. They were all wearing the same Greek letters somewhere on their bodies. Corrie had been open and friendly just a minute before—even a little vulnerable. Quinn had seen it. But suddenly she was harder. Untouchable. I like the earlier version better.
“How’s it going, guys?” Corrie asked, sliding her hands into the back pockets of her swim trunks. The slight motion brought her chest forward, and several of the men noticeably looked her up and down. Qui
nn didn’t think the movement had been an accident. What’s she trying to prove to them?
“So,” Corrie said a few minutes later, after they’d introduced themselves and walked over to where the boats rested on their carts, “this is the 470—one of the boats sailed in the Olympics.” She stroked the port gunwale of the nearest boat with her left hand. “Two-man vessel, sloop-rigged, built for speed and as responsive as a woman.”
The guys snickered. Quinn blushed, but managed to meet Corrie’s gaze without flinching. Now you’re just performing, she thought. Teasing. But even so, the energy behind her jokes was real. As Corrie began to explain the benefits of having a jib as well as a mainsail, Quinn tried to figure out exactly just what threw her off about Corrie’s sexuality. I’ve never known anyone so intense, she thought. Maybe that’s what it is. She’s obvious in her sensuality. It’s close to the surface. Aggressive, almost.
“...so basically, when trimmed properly, the jib allows wind to pass more efficiently along the mainsail. That means more speed and better pointing.” Quinn nodded quickly as Corrie’s gaze swept over her again. Way to go, space cadet, she berated herself. Let’s hope I remember some of what was in the manual!
“Okay, enough chitchat.” Corrie had turned to look out at the waves. “Let’s rig up and get wet. That’s the best part, anyway.”
As the guys chuckled appreciatively, Quinn kept her head down and reached for one of the sail bags. At this rate, it was going to be a long afternoon.
*
As it turned out, once they were alone on the boat, Corrie abandoned her innuendos and focused entirely on sailing. Quinn had to admit that she was an excellent instructor—calm, patient, and full of helpful advice. She found herself benefiting almost immediately from Corrie’s suggestions about how to switch sides more smoothly during a tack, and how to trim the sail to make it catch the wind as efficiently as possible. They had tacked back and forth upwind for a good half hour before returning in a series of jibes and were now circling just beyond the mooring field for man-overboard drills. Because the 470 was a two-man boat, it was important for each sailor to know how to go back and pick up the other person in case he or she were to fall out.