The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  Amahle tore her mouth from Imogen’s. “You’re driving me insane.”

  “It’s entirely mutual.”

  “Take me to bed.”

  “You don’t need to ask me twice.” They laughed as Imogen clambered to her feet and helped Amahle up. They held hands as they walked into her bedroom, smiled as they pulled the blinds together, and Imogen’s smile widened as Amahle pushed her back onto the bed. She raised her hands to the first button of her blouse and teased it through the hole so slowly that Imogen could focus on nothing else. As the tiny plastic disc was finally freed from the cloth, she heard herself gasp. Each button was released in similar fashion until Imogen was leaning up on her elbows, her breasts bobbing up and down as she panted, and she shifted awkwardly on the bed, her panties so wet they stuck to her uncomfortably.

  Amahle’s shirt hung open, a red lace bra peeking from beneath the cotton fabric as she dropped her skirt to the floor. Hold-up stockings with lace trim, and red lace panties covered her as she knelt on the side of the bed.

  “Do you always wear sexy underwear like that?”

  Amahle nodded. “Makes me feel confident. Like I know a secret that no one else does.”

  “Except me.”

  “Except you.” Amahle gripped her shirt and tore the buttons open before leaning in to cover Imogen’s skin in kisses. Her chest, breasts, and stomach were lavished with hundreds of fluttery little kisses, her tongue darting out occasionally to trace a path around a nipple or her navel. She gave up the idea that she had any sort of control under Amahle’s skilful ministrations. She trailed her hands up Amahle’s thighs, loving the textural change between the silk of her stockings and the softest skin she had ever felt. The high cut of the panties left her with plenty of skin to explore, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

  She slipped her hands under the tails of the cotton shirt and over the scarcely covered backside. The muscles quivered under her hands, flexed as Amahle moved, and broke out in goose bumps when she scratched her nails over the taut flesh.

  Amahle worked her belt open and tugged her pants and underwear off her legs, tossing them off the bed along with her own shirt. Imogen groaned at the sight of Amahle’s full breasts spilling over the top of the constraining fabric. She sat up and wrapped her arms around Amahle’s waist, pulling her in tight and burying her face between her breasts. Kissing, licking, sucking them into her mouth. She tugged the fabric down so that she could suckle one nipple and pinch the other to a stone hard peak. She could smell Amahle’s desire, feel her thrusting against her stomach in search of contact, but she never wanted the moment to end. She wanted to spend the rest of her life touching her, loving her. She wanted to be everything Amahle would ever want or need, and she needed her to know that before they made love.

  “Ami, I—”

  Amahle covered her mouth with her own, stealing the words as she pushed her back down onto her back and straddled her hips. Imogen wrapped her arms around her back and rolled them over until she was lying between Amahle’s legs and ground against her. She tore her mouth from Amahle’s and gazed down at her. She slipped one hand between them, unable to wait any longer to touch her. She pushed the lace to one side and slid two fingers easily inside her.

  “Look at me.” She thrust her fingers gently, rocking her hips against her hand, pleasuring them both. “Ami, look at me.”

  Amahle opened her eyes and gazed up at her.

  “Keep looking at me.” She angled her fingers to hit the sweet spot inside her and watched as Amahle fought to keep her eyes open under the onslaught of pleasure. “I love you.” Amahle’s inner walls clenched around her fingers as Imogen’s declaration seemingly caused a chain reaction inside her that pulled Imogen over the edge and into her own orgasm.

  “I love you too.”

  Epilogue

  “As we commit this body to the ground, we remember that it is not our loss that we should look to on this day. But instead look to the peace and joy Mbali will find in the presence of our Lord.” The minister stooped to pick up a handful of dirt. “Your suffering is over, my child. Go in peace.” He dropped some of the dirt on the casket. “Ashes to ashes.” He opened his palm and let the rest of the red clay soil fall. “Dust to dust.”

  Imogen squeezed her hand as they each followed the minister’s actions and slowly filed away from the cemetery.

  The crowd was small. The two of them, the minister, and Sipho were the only ones who came to pay their respects. Amahle snorted a sad laugh. Wrong phrase. She had long since come to terms with having no respect for her mother, perhaps saying good-bye was the better option. Either way, there were few people who cared enough to show up, and given how hard her mother had made the last six months of her life, Amahle wasn’t sure she blamed them. She’d barely wanted to come herself.

  Sipho came up behind them, moving awkwardly on his crutches. His prosthetic was due to be fitted in a couple of weeks. His recovery was well under way, even though there was still a long way to go. Physically, he was recovering well. Mentally, emotionally, not so much. A suicide attempt had led to a hefty dosage of antidepressants, but Amahle was determined to see him through it. Losing their mother was particularly hard for him. The futility of all he went through was thrown in his face as her casket was lowered into the ground.

  Amahle rubbed her hand up her arm, trying to ward off the chill as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. She glanced at Imogen and wondered how she was doing. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Me? I should be asking you that question.”

  “Well, I’m fine, thanks. Glad she’s no longer in pain. You look like there’s something on your mind.”

  “The last time I was at a funeral was my mother’s.”

  “Ah.” She tugged her to a halt. “Want to go and see her?”

  “I don’t need to.” Imogen put her hand to her chest. “She’s always here. Always was.” She leaned down and kissed Amahle softly. “I was just too stupid to realize that all the people I loved were always here.”

  They walked back to the vineyard, through the rows of vines down to the orchard. They sat under their tree and watched the sun set over the mountains, arms wrapped around each other, backs pressed against the bark.

  “We’ve got a long week ahead of us, sweetheart. Perhaps we should make a move?” Amahle said quietly into the fading light.

  “Yeah. Should be fun.” The trials were due to start on Monday, and the country was on tenterhooks, waiting for the truth to be revealed.

  “Fun? Are you serious?”

  “Yup. A case like this is a once in a lifetime thing, babe.”

  Amahle snorted. “Wish it wasn’t in my lifetime.”

  “I know. But it is, so…” Imogen shrugged.

  “Yeah, yeah. Suck it up and get on with it.”

  Imogen chuckled. “Something like that.” She stood and held her hand out to tug Amahle to her feet. “Let’s go home.”

  Amahle kissed her softly. “I already am.”

  *

  She bit into her energy bar without dropping her gaze from the binoculars she held. She watched as the two women clasped hands and wandered toward the armoured car waiting for them, door open, guards looking out vigilantly. She smiled as they got into the car. Always the second one in the convoy. She made a quick note on her tablet before opening another app and checking her camera feeds. She was pleased that they were all working clearly. She wished briefly that there was something going on there so she could check sound levels, but there would be time for that later.

  Her eyes flittered back to her binoculars, and she was more than a little peeved that she’d missed the cars actually driving off. It didn’t matter though. She had what she needed.

  Time to put the next stage of her plan into action. She opened her laptop and hacked her way into the government’s computer servers through the backdoor programme she’d left. She squinted at the lines of code scrolling across her screen as she searched for the sequence that would drop her into A
mahle’s computer.

  “Gotcha.” Claudia started typing. “You should have taken care of me when you had the chance, Minister.” She added files and lines of code where she wanted them. Seemingly hidden, but not nearly hidden enough. She opened her email programme and attached a couple of juicy pages before addressing the missive. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.” She pressed return.

  About the Author

  A native of Stockport (near Manchester, UK), Andrea took her life in her hands a few years ago and crossed the great North/South divide and now lives in Norfolk with her partner, their two border collies, and two cats. Andrea spends her time running their campsite and hostel to pay the bills, and scribbling down stories during the winter months.

  Andrea is an avid reader and a keen musician, playing the saxophone and the guitar (just to annoy her other half—apparently!). She is also a recreational diver and takes any opportunity to head to warmer climes and discover the mysteries of life beneath the waves.

  In 2013, Andrea was awarded an Alice B. Lavender Certificate for Ladyfish and followed up by winning the 2013 Lambda Literary Award for Romance with her novel Clean Slate. Her third novel, Nightingale, was a finalist in the 2014 Lambda Literary Award for Romance and the 2014 GCLS Award in the Traditional Romance category.

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