Discovery

by Radclyffe

  “So…last night, while I was taking my shower, I had a thought,” she said.

  I grinned at the image of her in the shower, water sluicing along the dips and curves of her, and pressed the phone closer to my right ear. “Oh? Was it a sexy thought?”

  “I was thinking about us. And these two Chinese characters just popped into my head all of a sudden. I felt compelled to trace them on the wall with my finger.”

  I sat up straight in my chair, intrigued. “Oh? What ones?”

  “The symbol for fire and the symbol for wood.”

  I bit my lower lip in thought. “Fire and wood. Who…who do you think is which?”

  Mel paused then, and I listened to the gentle sounds of her breathing, exhilarated to know that I’d been in her thoughts.

  “I think I’m fire,” she said finally. “And you’re wood. You…you ignite my passion. And enflame it.”

  Goose bumps broke out on my arms at the strength of the emotion behind her words. “And you make me burn,” I whispered.

  Mel had given me a lot of grief when I insisted that she’d handed me a tattoo on a silver platter.

  “Wood?” she had said, laughing. “You do realize that every single person who can read Chinese is going to see your tattoo and laugh their ass off, right? They’ll think you’re a dumb white chick who just picked a pretty character without knowing what it meant.”

  I had shrugged and tried to look mysterious. “Maybe I’ll put it in a place where no one but you can see.”

  Years had passed since that conversation, as I waited for the perfect moment. And now all I had to do was wait a few minutes more. I looked up at the clock and sighed again before finally lifting the papers off my lap and depositing them onto the coffee table. It was useless to even pretend to do work. Where was she, anyway? It usually didn’t take this long for a cab to get to our house from the airport. Was there bad traffic? What if there had been an accident? What if she had been in an—

  The front door clicked open. I sprang from my chair and hurried into the foyer. Mel looked up from kicking off her shoes when she heard my footsteps, dark hair swirling around the collar of her long winter coat. She barely had time to smile before I was pressing her against the door and kissing her deeply. My anxiety disappeared as her lips moved against mine, gentle and yielding.

  “Hey, baby,” she said softly when I finally pulled back.

  “I missed you,” I breathed, rememorizing the sight of her face. So familiar, so beloved.

  “I missed you back.” She tightened her arms around my waist. “Every second.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  She nuzzled briefly at my neck before nipping at my earlobe. I shuddered, but forced myself to take a step back. I watched her smile disappear, to be replaced by confusion.

  “Why don’t you take off your coat?” I suggested. “Check on the kids. And then come cuddle with me in the den, okay?”

  “Okayyy.” She looked suspicious. And no wonder—usually I ended up taking her hard against the front door when she’d been away.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I hustled off to the kitchen, threw together a plate of cheese and crackers, and set the plate and our wineglasses on a tray. I found her lounging on the love seat, her stockinged feet propped up on the coffee table. She looked tired. She looked beautiful.

  She was mine.

  “Wow,” she said as I approached. “This is so…romantic.”

  I rolled my eyes and put the tray down on the table before her, pretending to be hurt. “Why so shocked? Do I not romance you enough?”

  She watched me hungrily as I unloaded the tray. “You’re an excellent romancer. It’s just that usually you fuck me first.”

  My body tightened at her words. She grinned, loving the effect she had on me. “Well, tonight,” I said as I settled in next to her, “we’re going to do things backward.” I passed her one of the wineglasses, then gently clinked them together. “Welcome home, love.”

  “Oh,” she said after taking a sip, her eyes closing in pleasure. “That’s the Silver Oak, isn’t it?”

  I laughed and draped one arm around her shoulders, relishing the feel of her body pressed against mine. “You’re good.”

  “Mmm,” she said, stroking one hand along my thigh. Unbeknownst to her, her fingers skated over the tattoo. I suppressed a shiver. “And you feel good.”

  We told each other stories then, deliberately catching each other up on what had happened while we’d been apart. She made me laugh when she reenacted the performance of a particularly boring speaker. She made me smile proudly when she told me how well her presentation had been received. I fed her bits of cheese and crackers between stories, and she took great pains to curl her tongue around my fingers with every bite. By the time it was my turn to regale her with tales of the kids’ antics and my students’ rhetorical faux pas, I was reclining on the couch and she was lying on top of me, peppering my neck and chin with kisses.

  I was in the middle of a sentence when she finally couldn’t stand it anymore and stopped my mouth with her wine-flavored lips. The kiss was hard and demanding, and it ignited the desire in me like droplets of water on hot oil. I cupped the back of her head, pressing her impossibly closer, while I slipped my other hand under her shirt to massage her lower back.

  “You feel incredible,” I rasped when she broke the kiss. “God, Mel. I need to make love to you. So bad.”

  She lurched to her feet and silently extended one hand, tugging me up and toward our bedroom. I closed and locked the door while she worked the dimmer switch until a soft twilight bathed the room. I joined her at the foot of the bed, trembling with the force of my need for her.

  “I missed you,” I said again, unable to suppress the forlorn note in my voice.

  “I know, baby. I know.” She gathered me into her arms, and I buried my face in the dip between her neck and shoulder, letting her scent wash over me. “It’s hard to be apart from you.”

  I never wanted her to be in pain, but the admission that she needed me—the same way I needed her—was intoxicating. “I have to feel you.”

  “Then undress me,” she whispered, her warm breath cascading over the sensitive shell of my ear.

  I stepped back, just far enough so that I could reach between us to unbutton her shirt and slide it off her shoulders. Before it had pooled on the floor, my arms were around her again, fingers fumbling at the clasp of her red satin bra. I kissed her neck as I clumsily unfastened the hooks, and was rewarded by a soft moan.

  I let my knuckles brush her breasts as I drew the fabric away from her body, and then I went to one knee to unzip her slacks. I pulled them off slowly, kissing every inch of skin that I revealed. When she stepped out of them, I ran my hands back up her legs before slipping my fingers beneath the sliver of satin between her thighs. And then I looked up to meet her dilated eyes.

  “I love you, Mel. I love you so much. I’m starving for you.”

  She touched my cheek with gentle fingertips. “I’m right here. I’m yours. Take me.”

  Suddenly, I couldn’t do slow anymore. In another moment, she was nude and I was kissing her fiercely even as I walked her toward the bed. But before I could urge her to lie down, she rested one hand over my heart and pushed.

  “I need you naked, too.”

  This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I shucked off my shirt and tossed it into the corner, but then reached out for her hands and guided them to the hem of my sweats. “Take them off.”

  Her eyes went wide at the command—she loved when I played the top. And then she dropped to both knees, far more gracefully than I had. My pulse surged in anticipation as she worked the pants down over the slight curve of my hips, then down a few inches farther…

  “Oh my God.” Mel sat back on her heels and looked from the tattoo to me in pure, wide-eyed astonishment. At once pleased and oddly self-conscious, I quirked a smile and shrugged.

  “Surpr
ise,” I said softly. “What, uh…what do you think?”

  She reached out but didn’t quite touch it, her fingers hovering just above the crisp black lines. “Can I…?”

  “Yes.”

  She traced it gently with one fingertip, her touch as light as the brush of a rose petal. My skin there was still sensitive, and my eyes closed involuntarily at the rush of sensation. “Oh, Mel.”

  “Did it hurt?” she asked hoarsely, never ceasing her gentle exploration. Somehow, I forced my eyes open, needing to see her expression.

  “It wasn’t too bad,” I said. “Itched like crazy for the first few days, though.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Mel breathed. “I wish I had been there to hold your hand.”

  I reached down to stroke her hair. “I was thinking about you the whole time,” I said. “I needed to do this so…so you’d know.”

  Gently, she rubbed her thumb along the single vertical line of the character. “So I’d know what?”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. “That I’m yours. All yours. Only yours.” I frowned because the words were coming out wrong, as usual. I couldn’t tell her how I felt. I could only show her. And that’s why being apart from her—even for only five days—was so hard. I looked down at her and shook my head, silently begging her to understand.

  “Yes, love,” she said. “You’re mine.” She rested her hands on my hips and leaned forward to retrace the path of her fingers with her tongue. When my knees buckled at the onslaught of sensation, she guided me onto the bed. And when, much later, I begged her to grant me release, she took me with her mouth and her fingers and made me whole again.

  We didn’t sleep that night. In the early morning hours, we lay spooned together, bodies entwined as the sun broke free of the horizon. I wasn’t tired in the slightest—I was at peace. We had half an hour at most before the kids woke up, and I wanted to spend it right here, savoring the advent of a new day with my beloved.

  “I love you,” I murmured for the thousandth time, pressing a kiss to the base of Mel’s neck.

  “Mmm,” she said, wriggling even closer to me. “Love you back.”

  “So. When are you going to get your tattoo?” I asked, grinning against her so-soft skin.

  She turned in my embrace, threaded her arms around my neck, and did her best to look mysterious. Mostly, it was adorable.

  “When the spirit moves me.”

  Rebellious Heart - Merry Shannon

  MERRY SHANNON lives in the sunny mountains of Colorado with her girlfriend and their five pets, and when she’s not writing, she works for social services. Her first novel, Sword of the Guardian, won two 2006 Golden Crown Literary Society awards, and her most recent work, Branded Ann, was released by Bold Strokes Books in January 2008. Keep an eye out for her next project, the second book in the Legends of Ithyria series!

  Rebellious Heart

  Merry Shannon

  Yuri stood outside the apartment door and lifted a hand tremulously, then dropped it again. Had she lost her mind entirely? What had possessed her to visit a sempai’s apartment in the middle of the night? It was late, and Jack was probably asleep. But she couldn’t get Jack’s face out of her mind—the way she’d flinched, the shock that had spread across those beautiful, androgynous features earlier in the afternoon when Yuri had announced her intention to retire.

  In all her years dancing for the Takarazuka Revue, Japan’s famous all-female theater, Yuri had made only one friend—Jack. She deserved a real explanation, though Yuri still had no idea what she was going to say. How did one express such forbidden, uncontrollable feelings? Her rebellious heart was her curse, and left unchecked, it would destroy them both.

  But surely it would be more appropriate to call on Jack in the morning, rather than awakening her at this time of night merely to soothe her own conscience. Sheepishly Yuri turned from the door, but a shuffling sound within caused her to pause uncertainly. Was Jack still awake? She heard another low noise, like sniffling, and before she could change her mind she knocked softly.

  “Dare?” Jack’s voice was even deeper than usual, and Yuri wondered if she had disturbed her friend’s sleep after all.

  “Kazehiro-san? It’s Nagira. I am very sorry to disturb you.”

  “Yuri-chan?” The door opened. Jack’s eyes were red-rimmed and ringed with dark circles. She stared as if she could not believe Yuri was truly there.

  “Jack-san, have you been crying?” The words escaped before Yuri could stop them, and she quickly lowered her gaze and bowed in embarrassment. Jack was her sempai, her senior, not just in age but also in experience. In the Revue, junior-senior relationships were considered very important. “Forgive me, I have been impertinent. I will leave at once.”

  “No, please.” Jack laid a hand lightly on Yuri’s wrist, and Yuri’s skin tingled. “Please, come in. I am glad to see you.”

  Yuri hesitated, wondering if the invitation was made merely out of politeness. She had obviously intruded on a private moment. Sae Kazehiro, playfully dubbed “Jack” by their fellow actresses, had always appeared as strong and self-assured as the men she played on stage. She was the top star of Rain Troupe and received the leading man role in all of their shows. Her natural, friendly confidence made her an excellent leader, and Yuri was not used to seeing her appear so off balance. Her first instinct was to take her despondent friend into her arms, and she quashed that impulse with some horror. It was dangerous to even consider such a thing. She should not have come in the first place, and tried to think of a dignified way to excuse herself. But before she could speak, Jack ducked slightly to catch her eye.

  “I am very glad you are here,” she repeated. “Those are my true feelings.” That was a common saying in Japan—“those are my true feelings”—because the Japanese believed that tatemae, the face a person shows to the world, was separate from honne, their real thoughts. Yuri knew that people often used the phrase when they did not mean it, but she could not doubt the sincerity in Jack’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” Yuri finally said, allowing herself to be led into the apartment.

  “Please sit.” Jack indicated the living area. “May I get you some tea?”

  Yuri passed through the kitchen and sank with pleasure into the cream-colored leather of the couch. “I do not wish to cause you trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. It’s my pleasure.”

  Yuri watched as Jack filled the silver teakettle with water and placed it on the stove, admiring the graceful, slender fingers that retrieved two teacups from the cabinet and filled strainers from a tin on the counter. Even her smallest movements looked like dancing. Jack’s finely chiseled features, sharp enough to give the illusion of masculinity onstage, were drawn more tightly than usual, as though she was battling some inner grief. Had the announcement of Yuri’s retirement truly caused Jack so much distress? Yuri could not believe that. Takarasiennes left the Revue all the time, and some young, fresh face was always right behind, ready to fill the gap.

  Jack looked up and caught Yuri’s eyes on her. She smiled a little, a charming, melancholic smile that was probably not meant to be flirtatious but made Yuri’s heart leap all the same. Yuri blushed, quickly averting her gaze to her hands in her lap. “I must apologize for coming here tonight. I did not mean to disturb you.”

  Jack made a dismissive noise. “You are always welcome in my home, Yuri-chan. I hope you will remember that even when we are no longer…” Her voice caught strangely and she cleared her throat.

  Yuri winced. “Actually, that is why I am here. I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. I wanted to explain.”

  “It’s not necessary.” Jack brought a tray of small cookies to the low table before the couch and set it down.

  Yuri caught the elegant troupe star’s sleeve. “Yes, it is.” Jack’s reddened eyelids, slightly puffy with crying, sent a surge of guilt through her. “But perhaps now is not the time.”

  “It’s me, isn’t it?” The question was barely a
bove a whisper, and Yuri stared at her sempai in shock.

  “No, of course not,” she stammered out. “It’s my ankle, you know how I’ve injured it this season. I just can’t endure it.”

  “It’s not your ankle. You would dance barefoot on broken glass if it meant you could remain onstage.” Jack sat down next to her, though she seemed to be careful not to let their legs or shoulders touch. “I never meant to hurt you. I don’t know what came over me.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, a masculine posture that came naturally after years of practice. “You’re the best dancer in the Revue, and I’ve admired your seriousness and concentration from the beginning. You were so withdrawn when we started in Rain Troupe together. It was like you were afraid of everyone around you and could think of nothing but work. Your loneliness called to me. Even though you were an underclassman, I wanted to be your friend.”

  “You are!” Yuri interjected, and Jack shook her head sadly.

  “A friend would not be so cruel to you as I have been. I had heard the rumors. I knew what you had at stake, how hard you’d fought to save your reputation, and still I—”

  Yuri was astonished when Jack covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. She didn’t know what to say. She had not imagined that Jack would blame herself for their encounter.

  *

  The week before, Jack had asked Yuri for extra rehearsal time after everyone else had left the practice room, as the two of them had been assigned a particularly difficult duet routine for the upcoming show. In typical Takarazuka fashion, the dance told an abstract, melodramatic story about a young boy enticed away from his family home by the seductive Spirit of War. Jack would play the Spirit, in a magnificently garish red-sequined bodysuit and feathered headdress, while Yuri danced the part of the boy.