Running With the Wind

by Nell Stark

  Frog’s head jerked up at the interjection, but he calmed down again almost immediately under Quinn’s soothing touches.

  “Sorry,” Corrie muttered. “Okay. Right. Back soon.”

  Quinn kept her eyes on the dog to hide her smile. This Corrie, frazzled and clumsy and vulnerable, was a far cry from the self-possessed woman who’d been lounging indolently on top of that picnic table. There was no doubt in Quinn’s mind that Frog would be back to his old self within a day or two, but it was clear that Corrie couldn’t be rational where he was concerned. It’s sweet of her.

  Despite her sudden klutziness, Corrie managed to fill a small pot with tap water and begin heating it on the stove with no further mishaps. While waiting for the water to warm, she quickly fetched the iodine and gauze from the first aid kit below her kitchen sink, then ran upstairs for a fresh towel.

  “Thanks,” said Quinn as Corrie finally set the pot down next to her. “Can you hold him?”

  As Corrie watched, Quinn dipped a corner of the towel into the water and gently worked the caked blood out of Frog’s fur. She applied iodine to the shallow cut, all the while murmuring soft words of comfort and reassurance. Corrie watched Frog’s ears twitch as he lay quiescent and knew that even if Quinn’s crooning made no sense to her, it was exactly what Frog needed to hear.

  “Hold him firmly, now,” Quinn’s voice broke through Corrie’s introspection. As she tightened her grip on the dog, she watched Quinn’s fingers trail gently down Frog’s leg. One hand immobilized the joint above the foot, while she took hold of the offending object and slowly extracted it from the injured paw. Frog whimpered once but did not move. Quinn tossed the object aside and cleaned this wound as she had the other, before deftly swathing Frog’s paw in several layers of gauze. Mesmerized, Corrie’s eyes couldn’t help but follow Quinn’s quick, sure movements. When she finally leaned back and pushed the hair away from her face, Corrie found herself blinking, as though coming out of a daydream.

  “You can let him up,” Quinn said. “He’ll be fine, though if you want to be really careful, you might keep him at home tomorrow so he doesn’t get sand into the cuts in his paw.”

  “Sure, okay.” Corrie released the dog, who scrambled to his feet and headed immediately for his water bowl. “What was in there, anyway?”

  “Horseshoe crab exoskeleton, it looked like.” Quinn retrieved the broken section of spiky shell that she had extracted and wrinkled her nose in distaste. Corrie tried to hide her grin at how cute Quinn was being. For the first time since they had met, she was completely unselfconscious, and Corrie didn’t want to do a thing to break the spell.

  “Poor guy,” Quinn said. “When he stepped on this, he must have lost his balance and scraped himself against a rock.”

  Corrie lightly touched Quinn’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said seriously. “You’re really, really good with him.”

  Quinn blushed and began to busy herself with tidying up the supplies. “I’ve seen a lot worse than that over at the humane society,” she said. “It was no trouble.”

  “Still.” Corrie grabbed Quinn’s free hand and tugged lightly. “We owe you, Frog and I. Stay for dinner, will you?”

  Quinn’s eyes traveled down to the sight of her fingers entwined with Corrie’s. Her hand was very warm. Is she flirting with me? But when she looked into Corrie’s face, all she saw was genuine gratitude. “Are you a good cook?” she managed.

  “I can whip up a mean spaghetti and garlic bread supper,” Corrie said. “What do you say?” Realizing that she still held Quinn’s hand, she reluctantly broke the contact, but kept her eyes on Quinn’s. Why it suddenly mattered so much that she would agree to stay for a meal, Corrie couldn’t have fathomed, but it seemed very important that her invitation be accepted.

  “All right,” Quinn said finally, nodding. “I’ll stay.”

  *

  As promised, the meal was simple and delicious. Corrie hadn’t let Quinn do a thing and, instead, had banished both her and Frog to the small deck, where a table and several chairs were set up with an excellent view of the ocean. She had even made a quick run to the nearby liquor store when Quinn had confessed that while she disliked beer with a passion, she did have a soft spot for wine coolers.

  The talk over dinner had been casual and easygoing—mostly about the Sailing Center, the upcoming regatta, and school. Now, as Corrie excused herself briefly and slipped inside the house, Quinn leaned back in her chair to watch the last pinks and gold disappear from the sky. She felt relaxed and content in a way that seemed new, somehow, or at least different. She had been worried that it would be difficult to talk to Corrie—that they wouldn’t have enough in common to sustain a conversation. But Corrie had been—or at least had seemed to be—genuinely interested in Quinn’s job. They’d traded war stories about their introductory physics courses in college. They’d commiserated about how it was still difficult in certain respects to be women in the sciences. And they’d steadfastly avoided discussing anything really personal, for which Quinn was grateful.

  Usually, after talking with another person for a good hour and a half, she was exhausted and ready to shut herself alone in her room with a good book to recoup her strength. Strangely enough, she didn’t feel that way at all now. When the sounds of a light jazz CD drifted through the screen door, she stopped trying to explain the sensation and sighed happily. Corrie soon returned with a book of matches and began to light the citronella pots that ringed the table.

  “What would you say to a game of cards?” she asked, fishing a deck out of the front pocket of her cargo shorts as she slid into her seat. “You pick it.”

  Quinn laughed. “The only game I can remember the rules for is Egyptian Ratscrew. One of my roommates in college was addicted, and we played it nonstop for hours.”

  Corrie shrugged and began to shuffle the deck. “Egyptian Ratscrew it is, then.” She looked up to find Quinn intently watching her hands as she riffled the cards and was surprised to feel a surge of pleasure. She blinked and continued to manipulate the cards, wondering just exactly what was happening. The vibes were unmistakable, but sometimes it honestly felt like Quinn had no idea of what was going on. Was she confused? Uncertain? Playing a truly masterful game of hard to get?

  Corrie took a deep breath, followed by a long sip of her beer, and decided to throw caution to the light northern breeze. “There are just two house rules,” she added. When Quinn raised her eyebrows in question, she quirked a deliberately mischievous grin. “First—if two identical cards are played in a row, whoever slaps first gets the pile.” At Quinn’s nod, Corrie continued, “and second—each time a pile is won, the winner gets to ask the loser a question. Any question at all.”

  Quinn frowned and drew back slightly. “And the loser has to answer?”

  “No,” said Corrie, “but it’d be nice if you did.”

  “All right, then.”

  Almost immediately, Corrie threw down a Jack, and when Quinn countered with only the two of clubs, she scooped up the meager pile with an exultant flourish. Leaning back in her chair, she steepled her fingers beneath her chin and met Quinn’s wary gaze. “Best kiss,” she said, abruptly. “Who, where, when.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes and shook her head. “God, you’re ruthless! And that’s hard, though it’s not as though I have a huge selection to pick from or anything—” She cut herself off, and even in the dim candlelight, Corrie could make out the sudden pink flush that flared across the bridge of her nose. But then Quinn raised her head, looked Corrie full in the eyes, and said defiantly, “Sue Price, freshman year, in the basement of our dorm while watching ER.”

  Corrie grinned. “Awww. That’s sweet. How long did you date her?”

  Quinn lightly bit her bottom lip before answering. “Three weeks. She didn’t really like how much time I spent studying.” She glanced down at her cards. “Pretty lame, isn’t it?”

  Corrie heard the strain in Quinn’s voice and knew her answer would be important,
especially if she wanted Quinn to keep talking about this kind of thing. She shook her head. “No, not lame. You just had different priorities, sounds like.” She shrugged. “Happens all the time. Personally, I think that’s why flings are easier than relationships.”

  Quinn looked away, frowning a little. Shit, Corrie thought. I went and made her uncomfortable anyway!

  “Your turn,” Quinn finally said into the silence, indicating the tabletop. She sat up straighter. “I’m out to get you back now.”

  True to her word, within several exchanges, Quinn had scooped up a more substantial pile and was regarding Corrie with her head tilted slightly to the side. Her eyes narrowed, and Corrie knew she was in trouble. It was a good feeling. “Same question,” Quinn told her firmly. “Right back at you.”

  Corrie’s reply was immediate, unthinking. “Denise Lewis, two years ago, in our boat after winning the—” Her voice trailed off as she realized just exactly what she was saying. She blinked at Quinn as her stomach twisted painfully, and she swallowed hard in an effort to stave off the sudden nausea. She felt her right hand tremble once against her sweating beer bottle and quickly busied herself with adjusting her ponytail. Get a grip, dammit! “That relationship didn’t last long, either,” she said, willing her voice to sound casual. “Turned out Denise liked fucking guys more than women.” She licked her lips. “Her loss.”

  Quinn frowned slightly at Corrie’s sudden shift in attitude. Her gaze was hard—almost a challenge—and once again, Quinn was struck by her aggressive sensuality. It’s a weapon, she thought suddenly. She uses it like a weapon. “Your move,” was all she said.

  Fortunately, as the game continued, the tension that had so abruptly surfaced began to fade. By unspoken agreement, they kept the questions light and casual. Quinn discovered that Corrie’s favorite color was sapphire blue. Corrie was surprised to learn that Quinn was twenty-seven—two years her senior. Corrie’s favorite boat turned out to be the Laser. Quinn’s childhood dog was a Great Dane. They joked and talked and even began to share small revelations outside of the game, and Corrie couldn’t help but notice that Quinn’s hand tended to linger slightly over or under her own each time they slapped for a double.

  Nearly an hour later, when Corrie took almost all that remained of Quinn’s cards with a Queen, she smiled eagerly in anticipation of the win. Quinn sat back in her chair with a heavy sigh. “Your question again,” Quinn said.

  Corrie frowned in thought, then shrugged. “Okay. A bit more serious this time, I guess. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”

  “My weight.” And then, as though the admission had startled her, Quinn clammed up and looked at Corrie with wide eyes. Corrie’s frown deepened.

  “Really?” she asked. “You look...well, you look fine to me. Why would you change it?” She leaned forward, intent upon Quinn’s face.

  Quinn sighed again. “I guess I’ve always wanted to be thinner.” She looked out toward the ocean, then back at Corrie. “To have a body like yours.”

  Without thinking, Corrie reached out and took Quinn’s hand. Her palm was warm, and slightly damp with sweat. “I think you have a beautiful body,” Corrie said quietly. “Curvy and lush and full—”

  “You mean ‘chubby.’” Quinn breathed in sharply when Corrie’s grip on her hand tightened.

  “No, I don’t,” Corrie said forcefully. “I meant exactly what I said. You should believe me.” Her gaze held Quinn’s for a long moment, before she suddenly let go and took another sip of beer. When she spoke again, her voice was casual. “Besides, you’ve seen me eat. Only reason I look this way is genetics, pure and simple.”

  Quinn laughed softly, and Corrie felt her lips curve up at the sound. “That, and you’re kind of manic.”

  “Ah, you’ve noticed that.” Corrie gestured at the evidence of their unfinished game. “So—ready to meet your destiny?”

  “I still have one Jack left. This won’t be as easy as you think.” But in the next turn, Corrie finally scooped up the last of Quinn’s cards. “Famous last words,” Quinn said, bemused.

  “One final question. Hmm.” Corrie’s eyes narrowed but the curve of her lips was playful. “At that first social, why wouldn’t you dance with me?”

  Quinn flushed slightly as she remembered Corrie’s invitation and her own discomfort, but her gaze was steady. “Actually, I told you that I wouldn’t dance to the kind of music the DJ was playing,” she said. “And it’s because I’d feel like a complete idiot. I can only dance if there are actual steps. I learned to swing dance, in college, and that was all right.”

  “Neat!” Corrie promptly jumped up from the table. “Can you teach me?”

  “Right now?”

  “Sure, yeah. Just the basics.” When Quinn hesitated, looking more than a little dubious, Corrie ducked her head and assumed such a pleading expression that Quinn rolled her eyes and stood up.

  “You look just like a puppy when you do that. And I can never resist a puppy.” She walked over to the small, open space between the deck railing and the table, and extended her hand. “I’ll lead, you follow. Okay?”

  Corrie blinked as a swift surge of arousal assaulted her yet again. Maybe for a little while, came the unbidden thought. But I’m usually the one on top. Struggling to wrestle herself under control, she took Quinn’s proffered hand and stood close to her, but not touching. Dammit, she smelled good—like sun and water and just a hint of salt.

  “Okay,” Quinn said, her tone brisk. “Put your left hand on my right shoulder.” Once Corrie had obliged, Quinn wrapped her arm around Corrie’s torso so that her right hand was firmly positioned in the center of Corrie’s back. Corrie felt her pulse jump as their stomachs touched lightly, and she suddenly had a hard time swallowing. Jeez, I’m in rare form this evening. Remember what Drew said about her. But she is dancing with me, and I swear to god she’s been flirting back all night.

  “I’ll guide you,” Quinn said, demonstrating how she could direct Corrie’s movements by lightly pulling or pushing against her. “Fine so far?”

  “Uh. Yep.” Corrie found herself leaning in until her cheek was almost touching Quinn’s right temple.

  “The basic moves are very simple. One, two, rock-step. I step forward, you step backward.” Quinn moved fluidly, directing Corrie with light pressure, and they soon found an easy rhythm together. “Very nice,” said Quinn, pulling back slightly to look up at Corrie. A sudden fluttering deep in her stomach made her look away just as quickly. “Let’s try a spin, shall we?”

  Once they returned to their original position, Corrie laughed. “That was great! Let’s do it again.”

  “All right,” Quinn said, pleased at her partner’s enthusiasm and trying to ignore the fact that each time Corrie’s body moved against her own, a very pleasant tingle raced up her spine. “Other way, this time.”

  This spin was even smoother than the first, and Quinn shared Corrie’s exultant grin as they came back together again. “This is fun,” Corrie murmured. The cascade of warm breath against her earlobe made it suddenly difficult for Quinn to focus, and she briefly lost the rhythm.

  “Sorry about that,” she whispered back.

  “It’s okay,” Corrie said softly in reply. “It can be hard to lead.”

  Quinn could have sworn that Corrie’s lips had actually brushed the shell of her ear just then, and she swallowed hard. “I’m just not that good at it, really,” she forced herself to reply.

  Corrie’s head began to pound as she felt sweat break out on Quinn’s left hand where it gently held her right. As she touched her mouth to Quinn’s ear again, Quinn’s entire body trembled, unmistakably. She wants me, I know she does, her body is screaming it. “Why not let me try for a while?” she said, just before twirling them both around so that she could press Quinn gently but firmly against the deck railing.

  Her lips parted in surprise, but then Corrie’s hands were shifting to cup her waist just above her hips, and Corrie’s head was sl
owly descending toward hers, and in another second, Corrie’s lips were lightly brushing against her own. So soft, so gentle, Quinn’s head spun, and she pressed closer, and someone—it might have been her—made a soft noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

  Corrie’s grip tightened as Quinn clung to her shoulders. When she allowed her tongue to glide tentatively along Quinn’s upper lip, Quinn clutched at the thin material of her tank top, bunching it up across her shoulder blades.

  Thrilled by her responsiveness, Corrie lightly nipped Quinn’s bottom lip before tasting her in earnest. Quinn’s hips rocked forward at the slow slide of Corrie’s tongue against hers, and this time, it was Corrie’s turn to groan. Slowly, she allowed her hands to drift up along Quinn’s ribcage as she continued the deep kiss. Quinn shuddered when Corrie’s fingers caressed the soft undersides of her breasts, and Corrie felt her pulse skyrocket. No one has ever reacted to me like this, came the dim thought as she cupped Quinn’s breasts, brushed her thumbs across the raised nipples, and scraped her teeth gently across her bottom lip, all at once.

  Quinn tore her mouth away to suck in a deep, shuddering breath as a wash of heat radiated down from her breasts to focus between her legs—a throbbing so intense that it actually hurt. Her head reeled. Oh, God, Quinn managed to think. I want—

  In a sudden instant of clarity, she pushed weakly at Corrie’s shoulders. “Stop,” she panted. “Please—”

  Corrie drew back instantly, gasping at the loss of contact. Her eyes in the candlelight were dark and wide. Quinn turned away, grabbing at the railing for purchase.

  With her back still toward Corrie, she forced herself to speak. “I don’t...I can’t...” She shook her head, struggling to collect her breath and her thoughts. Remember what Drew said. This doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just what she does with her friends. It’s only lust.

  There was a long pause before Corrie answered, her voice deceptively light. “Sorry. My bad. Didn’t mean to push.”

  Quinn frowned and turned to face her, but Corrie was looking out toward the pond. “You didn’t. You weren’t. It’s just that I—”