by J. D. Glass
“And she’s very, very special,” Jean continued as I found myself thinking I felt the same way about her. “She doesn’t know how special she is.”
When her mouth met mine, I was more grateful than I can ever remember feeling for the taste of her lips, the return pressure of her hands wherever they roamed.
“I’ll bet,” I said when we took a breath, “she really likes you too.”
*
When we finally got to my room, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know what to do, but because I was afraid—afraid that after Kerry, and especially after Trace, I wouldn’t know how to touch her. Not that I couldn’t make her come, but that I wouldn’t remember how to be gentle, caring. I knew how to fuck, that was easy. But I didn’t know if I could show her how I felt, how she made me feel for her, about her.
I decided to take the risk and tell her. “Jean, I know this might sound…silly or something, but…I don’t want to rush things, I don’t want to just—”
Jean shushed me with the gentle pressure of her lips on mine. “It’s okay. I don’t want to rush us, either.”
“Could we…would you…just stay with me? Is that okay?”
Her eyes, a fiery henna that triggered a line of combustion along my internal geography, fixed on mine.
“I would be very happy,” she kissed my neck, “to do exactly that,” she concluded, the words a rumblethat tumbled against my throat.
I forgot all my fears as we settled around each other, shedding each concern with each new brush of freshly revealed skin—silky, soft, and drawing me, drawing her, onward, closer, the incandescent meld wrapping us around one another as we explored new terrain: the channel of her spine down her lightly muscled back, the jut of her hip that fit my palm precisely, and the yielding firmness behind it as I drank of her breath, the wine taste of her mouth, the tender sensuality of her lips and tongue.
Her hands, hands I’d seen carefully palpate for a vein or a pulse, measure drugs, soothe the sick and the scared, take tension from mine to set broken bones, hands that I knew for a fact were competent, capable, strong, those same hands now set that combusting line into a series of fiery sparks that made every cell in my body pulse with awareness, the awareness of Jean and how much, how very much I wanted her hands on me, to explore her with mine.
The growing heat took us from separate sparks to a joined blaze, fueled a magnetic heat I wanted to sink into forever; and her body molded to my hands, held me firmly, told me the truth behind every single one of her joking declarations, all of them.
“Jean…you…are so…fucking…beautiful…” I whispered into the tender skin at the junction of her jaw as I moved within her. I had no other words to describe how incredible she was, she felt, how she made me feel. For once, the fire didn’t threaten, didn’t frighten, but warmed me instead with its steady light, a joyful, heady peace that made me feel complete.
My name, choked from her lips, a soft cry in my ear, made me tremble against her, the sound surging into my body, through my blood, until I couldn’t tell who we were anymore when her free hand pulled me even closer to hold my beating chest against hers.
“Tori?” Jean whispered as the glide continued, setting flames dancing in the just-banked fire.
“Hmm?” The delicate vein in her throat lay under my tongue.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
It was the best one I’d ever had.
Extremity/Extrication
After life threats have been treated properly, the decision to transport immediately and continue evaluation en route, or to delay transport and continue the evaluation, must be made.
Despite my mother’s rather obvious and occasionally very pointed disapproval of my new profession, something about her recent hospital experience had changed her perspective. When I stopped by to say hello and drop off my check, she asked about my graduation date, and as I half ashamedly admitted that there’d be an actual ceremony and answered her questions of when and where, I was shocked to realize that she wanted to attend.
After the brief ceremony I learned that not only had I received the station and shift I’d wanted, I’d been assigned, along with Bennie and Roy, to the same battalion as Jean, which meant we’d have the same days off, and was further pleasantly surprised to discover my mother had arranged for a small dinner party at one of my favorite restaurants, Real Madrid.
She’d also invited Nina and Samantha. I promptly turned around and invited Jean, and this time, I didn’t care what my family or, rather, my status-conscious mother thought.
There’s no denying that I was more than slightly relieved to learn after I introduced her to Nina and Samantha that none of them had met before—well, not really, anyway. Sam remembered Jean’s father and mother from her own father’s funeral.
I actually called Trace about three days before that, as much as I dreaded it, but I didn’t want to leave things unclear between us, and I didn’t want to lead her on in any way. I had decided to meet her at the hospital after her shift and tell her face-to-face that, yes, I found her attractive, yes, we were friends, but no, I couldn’t continue sleeping with her, because I really didn’t share, and I couldn’t share myself, not like that, not anymore.
I still didn’t know what Jean and I had, but I wasn’t going to let anything stop us from discovering.
When Jean and I had touched, really and truly touched, for the first time when I tasted her wine-sweet skin and filled my hands with her curves, I wanted more: to taste the line of her neck and the curve of her breast, those beautiful curves she carried so proudly. She was beautiful: shining in my eyes, moving with my hands, gliding under my tongue, and I was happily shocked that she explored me with the same eagerness.
I reluctantly tore my lips from the light chocolate kiss of her hardened nipples to return to her mouth, and Jean explored me, fingertips rolling and kneading my breasts, making me catch my breath as I eased my leg between hers.
She made me aware of my body—not just my arousal, but my heartbeat, my skin, my fingers as she drew them between her lips, made me sigh over the slip of her tongue along my neck and made my breath catch again when that same tongue teased across my chest to bathe one hardened point, then the other, slowly, deliberately, meant only for me to savor in the moment.
I’d known, in the same way I’d known that rain was wet and fire burned, that I was female. It meant I had to wear a bra, had to deal with the same physiological occurrences approximately every four weeks, and that I could, assuming all systems were fine, bear live young someday; my gender was simply a fact, like the continents or the oceans, apparent and genetically incontrovertible, nothing to have an emotion or an opinion about.
Sex had always been a combination of lust and mechanics, biological drive coupled with the artistry of technique, where my needs were secondary to my partner’s as a matter of consideration, manners, and, I have to admit, pride.
But Jean…Jean made me know in a way I never had before that I was not only female, but that I was also a woman—a concept I hadn’t considered before, not in any way, not in this certain fullness; it simply didn’t figure into my equations.
In Jean’s eyes and hands, next to her skin, I was desirable, because of my genetic inheritance, my body built to receive the same pleasure it gave and for the same reasons, not as an afterthought or a tool, not even as part of a contest of wills or to prove anything other than this: she desired me, she found me beautiful, and she wanted to show me.
“Tori…sweet, sweet Tori,” she groaned, “I love the way you feel.” Her hands traveled along my sides to grip my ass and shift us so that we lay next to each other, and I trailed my fingers down the tense muscles of her stomach, through the velvet down that covered her.
It was a smooth glide between lips ready for my touch, the hardness of her clit slick under my fingertips. I was moved, so moved that my heart ached.
Jean slipped an arm around my waist, pulled me closer, and delivered a kiss that revealed me, left me e
qually ready beneath her hand as she pushed herself harder against me.
Nothing, but nothing, had ever felt as erotic or as stirring as my tongue playing against Jean’s while we teased each other.
I’d never been so naked; I’d never felt so free.
“I want…I need to be inside you,” I managed to say against her lips, her clit sliding along the groove between my fingers before I eased my thumb there instead and let my fingers edge closer to her wet invitation.
“Wait,” she breathed against my mouth as I felt her fingers shift, press, and tease against the body hunger she created, “do it with me.”
Her tongue filled my mouth as we filled each other, a slick and ardent merge that made me surge against her, on her, in her, and she felt so right; it all felt just so very right.
“Perfect,” I could barely groan out at the honey-sweet fullness in my cunt, the lush embrace of her liquid heat, the finesse of the stroke on my clit, and the amazing pulse that throbbed under my thumb.
I read the cues of her breath, of her body, the shift of her hips and the slide of her cunt on my fingers to discover what she liked and what she loved, turned on even higher by every whispered request and half-gasped urging as I learned her rhythms.
I was again surprised when instead of merely thrusting inside me, she swam within me and touched me, really touched me, like no one ever had—and I loved it, loved the way she stirred me. She took my body and my mind places they had never been, and I was continually stunned by just how much her responses sharpened mine.
“Feel that, baby?” she asked as I felt her cunt tighten on my fingers. “You’re gonna make me come…I wanna show you…”
My body reacted so intensely to hers, to her voice, that when she moved in me, I experienced her feelings not just in my cunt, but in my chest, in my throat. We met each other stroke for stroke, and when her body pulsed around me and she sang my name into my ear, I was floored by the intensity of feeling her come, the flame that shot through my veins and burst through my skin almost deafening me to her name on my lips in that final fusion.
*
I met Trace at the entrance to the nearly empty cafeteria with its view of the ER bay, and as we settled down with our coffees, I didn’t waste time; I cut to the heart of it immediately. “Trace…I can’t do this between us anymore, the casual thing. And…I know me too well, I can’t, uh…I can’t sleep with you and date someone else.” It was a little embarrassing to say, but at least I had finally said it.
“We’re just friends, Tori, friends with fringe benefits. What…are you in love or something?” Her expression was friendly, maybe even slightly smug.
It had been just under thirty-six hours since I’d seen Jean, and it would probably be at least another six before I saw her again…and I missed her. I could still feel her in me, on me, the taste of her breath on my lips and the rhythm of her life a haze that rode just over my skin. I felt like I was missing something—an arm, a leg, my head—until I could feel her next to me again, and I wanted her so much my entire body ached.
“I don’t know…maybe. Could be the flu.” I didn’t want to discuss it, not with anyone really, not while this was so new, so us, ours alone, and especially not with Trace, because we’d slept together, because I knew she and Jean had…been involved.
And besides, my mother had been, probably still was, in love with my dad, and that had been a disaster that had left a lot of damage, damage she was still recovering from. On the other hand, when I looked at Nina and Samantha, I couldn’t help but see how much they loved each other, it was a palpable aura that surrounded them, and if that was “in love” then maybe, just maybe…if I discussed Jean with anyone, it would be my cousin. I trusted her.
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked Trace, out of curiosity.
She stared down at the table and played with her napkin. “Almost. Once,” she said with a little sigh. She folded the napkin flat and smoothed it. “She told me I couldn’t handle her—she was right.” Trace gave me a smile, the one I liked so much, though her eyes shone too brightly. “I…I wasn’t really comfortable with…things…yet, and she’s, well, she’s always been out, and that’s really that. So…anyone I know?”
I hesitated, but the medical community was a small one, and it was better if she found out from me than from someone else. Besides, I had nothing to hide. I’d certainly done nothing wrong, not by Trace, not by myself, and not by Jean. Not telling Trace felt like I’d betray all of us, which was dishonest. I didn’t want to be that.
“Uh…you probably do.” I temporized a bit, because I didn’t know how to make this any less awkward. “Her name’s Jean. She’s a paramedic, worked the privates for a while, has a per diem at Saint Vin’s, and at University South, so—”
“Jean Scanlon?” If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “She’s a beautiful girl. I can see where you’d suit each other.” Her eyes shaded to a deeper gray. “It’s funny,” she commented, with the tiniest twist to the corner of her mouth, “you never, ever, know what life is going to bring.”
I agreed and we finished our coffee with the promise to keep in touch from time to time. After all, we’d surely run into each other, and we were still friends, albeit without the fringe benefits.
“Well,” Trace smirked at me as I got up to leave, “if things change, you know where to find me.”
“I’ll remember that.” I had nothing else to say.
*
My rotations as vacation relief weren’t terrible at all. I liked the shift, I liked the different people I worked with, and soon I was settled into a unit of my own. The schedule suited me fine; I had five days off out of every fifteen.
Despite our determination not to rush things, Jean and I spent quite a bit of our free time together, but not in a crazy way; she had her apartment, and Dusty, and her family, whereas I had my place and my family too, but we had this unspoken knowing that sooner or later things would change.
However, I was finally able to spend more time with my family, with my mother and sister, whom I’d drop in on in the early afternoon before I left for work. My mother might not have been pleased with my job, but she didn’t mention that; she’d instead ask me if I was “being careful.” On one of my visits she insisted I bring my dress uniform, then sewed on not only the patches and insignia, but also had it tailored.
She surprised me with my uniform when I came back from a food shopping expedition with Elena, and I have to admit, my dress blues looked super sharp. Elena then showed me her new favorite T-shirt. “An EMT loves me,” it stated in an arch above a star of life with its caduceus emblazoned in the center. I gave her a big hug.
I also spent more time with Nina and Samantha. Samantha and I hadn’t stopped our sparring lessons yet, and as Nina grew more and more obviously pregnant, I didn’t want to stray too far.
Jean understood, and she probably visited Staten Island more than I did Brooklyn, for which I was thankful.
Staten Island celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day with a huge parade on the second Sunday of March so that it wouldn’t interfere with the “real” day, or the larger parade in Manhattan, and I thought Jean might enjoy watching it.
Besides, it took place maybe three whole blocks from the house, and Nina and Samantha were going, a tradition they’d enjoyed for several years, and we customarily said hello to all of the neighbors who’d been sequestered during the cold and snow of winter.
That, and the bars offered free drinks on the sidewalks, while the bakeries handed out all sorts of great pastries. The entire thing was just plain fun, and Jean’s heritage—from the claddagh ring she wore on a chain around her neck and under her shirt on the job, or on her right hand as soon as she was off duty, to the funny and fierce arguments around her parents’ table as to whether or not the Irish really had tartans—was evidently very important to her.
Combine that with the fact that Sunday would be exactly one month since we’d started dating, and it just seemed like a perfec
t combination. Besides, I thought she might enjoy the local experience, especially since I suspected her family would have some sort of tremendous cultural celebration that Wednesday, March 17.
“Can I wear a kilt?” Jean asked me when I called during our last shift before a three-day weekend to make plans.
“Sure.”
“Can I wear one of those huge foam leprechaun hats?”
“Fine.” I started to laugh at the image that arose in my mind.
“Can I wear just that to bed?” she asked in a throaty purr.
The radio went off in the cab of my rig. “I’ve got to run—I’ll see you at end of shift, and we can debate the hat thing later.”
“Okay, later, then.” I heard her laugh as we hung up.
I’d been moved from a line unit that generally responded in a particular area, to a tactical one that roamed wherever we were needed; we spent about half of our calls backing up medics. My rig was call-signed “Ten David,” or “One-oh David,” but my partners, Janet Diaz, a pretty Puerto Rican girl with a ready laugh and sharper wit, and Isbjorn Rygh, who told us all repeatedly that isbjorn meant “polar bear” in Norwegian, and occupied over six feet of deceptively soft-looking solidity—we called him “Izzy”—had nicknamed our bus “One Over Dose.”
It was a rough night. We’d finally had a few warmer days, and for whatever reason, this hint of spring and the warmer weather that would inevitably follow meant that weapons got…exotic. Not one, but two patients had been shot with crossbow bolts, the first in what had appeared to be a random incident on the West Side, and the second almost an hour later on the East Side.
Actually, we had three patients on the East Side: The first was a seventeen-year-old male who’d been grazed across the scalp with an arrow tip as he crossed the parking lot we were in. The head wound was bloody, but not deadly, and he was already being packaged and about to be transported for stitches by Bennie’s crew. Another patient, a male approximately the same age, had received a bolt through his left thigh and was already being stabilized by another crew on scene.