Lessons In Love Part 13

A snort of laughter. "Indeed." She makes up her mind. "That's very kind of you. Come on, Annie."

Kate leads them through the s.h.i.+p to her tiny cabin. "Let me get my bag." Swiftly she gathers her toilet bag and her nightie, stuffing them back in her case with her clean underwear.

When she turns, Orla is right behind her.

"Two bunks." Orla states the obvious. ''Why don't you have one and we'll have the other?"

Annie giggles; a breathy sound, hastily choked off.

Kate arches an eyebrow. "Privacy. Remember? You don't want me listening in."

Orla advances so that she's practically nose to nose. Kate fights the urge to step back. "But you wouldn't mind listening in, now would you?

After all, you stayed and watched on deck."

Kate draws herself up to her full five feet three. "I didn't have a choice then."

"You have one now."

A beat of hesitation, then Kate shrugs, feigning a nonchalance she doesn't feel. Her heart is leaping like a spooked rabbit "If you insist. I'll have the bottom bunk." She takes her nightie back out of the bag and disappears into the tiny bathroom. When she emerges, hair hanging loose and nightgown brus.h.i.+ng her calves, the others are in bed. There are m.u.f.fled giggles from the top bunk, and two heads crammed in together. She arranges herself in the lower bunk, turns to the wall, and closes her eyes.

For a minute or two, all is silent. Slowly, Kate releases her pent-up breath, aware of a faint sense of disappointment. She didn't really want to hear them making love. No, she didn't.

The lights are out, and it's velvet black in the inner cabin with no porthole. The only glimmer of light is the slight luminescence of the safety notice on the wall. Kate tries to steady her breathing, self- consciously aware of its fast, uneven pitch, fast above the steady throb of the boat's engines. Finally her body relaxes, limbs twitching on the edge of sleep.

That's when there's a noise from the upper bunk. A thump, and the sound of a body turning awkwardly. Something hits the wall, and there's the slide of skin over sheets. A sigh; Orla's, thinks Kate. She turns on her back and opens her eyes. Too dark to see anything. More rustling, then the sound of soft kissing. Kate imagines lips sliding over heated skin, imagines the taste of another woman.

"Yes. Like that." Orla's voice, gruff and tight.

Then there's only the sound of Orla 's breathing, faster, loud in the quiet cabin.

When she starts to moan, breathy little murmurs of encouragement, mumbled affirmations of pleasure, the knowledge of what is happening pierces through Kate in a vivid dart of imagination.

"Oh yes," Orla says. ''Oh yes, yes, yesyesyes." And Kate's arousal swells out into the cabin to mingle with Orla's. Her own c.u.n.t is throbbing, in sweet, pulsating waves, and she feels molten. The sound of pleasure-even a pleasure not her own-is compelling.

Quietly, slowly, she inches her own thighs apart, and even though no one can see, or care if they could, she casually rests a hand on her own curved stomach and concentrates on keeping her breathing slow and even. Her hand inches down to her panty line and farther, down to the patch of hair, stealing ever onward until she can slide a finger along her slit, finding her pleasure point.

Orla's litany of joy is continuous, and Kate's mind runs through a flickering kaleidoscope of possible scenarios. Is Annie kneeling between her parted thighs, her face plastered to Orla's slick and swollen gash? Or are they lying entwined, with Annie's fingers pressing and rubbing between Orla's legs? Maybe Annie has three, even four, fingers in her lover's p.u.s.s.y, curling them around, pressing on pleasure points, filling her, stretching her so that she knows that engorged feminine fullness.

What endless possibilities they have. Kate's mind spins, and her fingers rub tiny concentric circles over her c.l.i.t.

"Faster," commands Orla, and there's another bang, as if her head has contacted with the wall.

Kate pulsates in time to the breathing she hears. Stealth and silence are abandoned, and she spreads her legs, rubs faster, uncaring of her hitching breath.

Orla comes in a crash of noise, a howl of pleasure, and the bunk above Kate shakes. Her fingers push her over the edge into her own o.r.g.a.s.m, a more muted pleasure than Orla's although she's sure her rapid breathing has given her away.

The flutters still twitch around her fingers. She withdraws them and raises her fingers to her own lips. Tentatively, she tastes. Above, mumbles of pleasure, a small whisper of love. Then a strange, hung tension permeates the room. Do they all simply roll over and go to sleep now? Talk? Get to know each other? Kate wishes for a cigarette. But, in the darkness, here in the company of strangers, she's content.

As the ferry noses its way into Cherbourg, Kate stands on deck with a cigarette. She sniffs her fingers. She can smell the sea.

HER.

KI THOMPSON.

am not a greedy woman. In fact, I pride myself on my sense of self-restraint and a "moderation in all things" approach to life. I I was shocked, therefore, to discover that these tenets could so easily be abandoned, all because of her.

The day I met her began auspiciously enough when I decided to alter my usual routine by walking home instead of taking the train.

Looking back now, I don't recall why I decided to make this five-mile jaunt on foot and in heels, except that it was such a lovely October afternoon. The leaves in the park displayed colors of autumn fruit and the air held that crisp expectation of mulled wine and evenings spent fireside. As I exited the park and crossed the street, I was enveloped by the heady aroma of baking bread emanating from a patisserie adjacent to the comer. My stomach growled in antic.i.p.ation of cafe au lait and a warm, b.u.t.tery croissant, so I diverted from my intended path and entered the quaint shop.

It wasn't her looks that initially attracted me to her, though even now, the thought of her full lips and topaz eyes arrests my soul. Rather, it was the way she moved, like quicksilver unrestrained by its container, free-flowing and sensual. She was placing a fresh rack of baguettes on the shelf when the tiny bra.s.s bell hanging over the doorway called out its welcome. Stopping in her tracks, she glanced up at me and the temperature in the already warm room spiked.

"Good afternoon," she greeted, looking intently at me.

"h.e.l.lo," I returned.

I watched as a graceful hand rose up to place an errant strand of silken jet hair behind a delicate ear. When it lowered, a streak of white flour smudged her cheek, contrasting sharply with the porcelain skin. I smiled inwardly and approached the gla.s.s counter with confidence. A sample plate sat near the register and I selected a piece of pain au chocolat, popped it into my mouth and let it dissolve between my tongue and palate. She watched as my eyelids closed with pleasure.

"Good?" she asked.

"Oh my, yes. Very good." I opened my eyes and found myself lost in hers.

"I've tried to make bread at home," I said, "but it just doesn't compare with this."

"You can't be afraid to handle it firmly." At this, a slow smile made its way leisurely across her face. "But don't overwork it either."

She hesitated, her thoughts reflected in her eyes. "I'm about to make more bread right now. I can show you how, if you like."

"I like," I said, returning the deliberate smile.

She stepped out from behind the counter and my eyes pursued as she sauntered to the front door. Grasping a hanging sign that said Closed, she flipped it so it faced outward onto the street. Then with a loud click, she shoved the deadbolt to the locked position. Turning, she crooked her finger at me in a conspiratorial manner.

"Follow me," she whispered with a look that harbored no refusal.

How could I resist? She led me behind the counters and through a door that meandered back to the kitchen. The ap.r.o.n she wore in front exposed a small a.s.s from behind and I ogled salaciously as it swayed irresistibly in front of me. I was at least six inches taller than she was and knew my large hands could cup those cheeks easily. The thought made me weak in the knees. She stopped suddenly in front of me and I nearly teetered forward into the very backside I was admiring.

We were standing in front of a stainless steel table that s.h.i.+mmered from the fluorescent light overhead. It gave a clinical feel to the room and made me s.h.i.+ver, whether from antic.i.p.ation or the cool feel of it under my fingertips I couldn't be certain. A miscellany of baking items occupied the center of the table including a bag of flour, its top cut open with a small amount spilling onto the surface, and a half-full pastry bag.

She lifted my hand, drawing my attention away from the table, and deftly inserted my index finger into her mouth. The warmth and wetness of her tongue as it wrapped itself sensually around my fingertip instantly dispelled any sense of chill I had and I groaned, pressing the length of my body against hers.

"Mmm, that feels good," I breathed as she sucked rhythmically.

Removing the digit slowly from her mouth, she pulled me by the back of my neck with her other hand until our lips met. Tentatively at first, then with greater force, she entered my mouth and explored its depths. She took my tongue into her mouth, sucking slowly and gently as she had with my finger, while at the same time pus.h.i.+ng me down onto the surface of the table. When my feet went out from under me and my back hit steel, my head almost collided with the sack of flour left haphazardly near the edge. Climbing on top of the table, she swept the bag off to one side in a single motion, knocking it over in her haste. To keep from sliding off the slippery surface, I reached out to grab the edge of the table, only to smear flour onto the sleeve of my suit jacket. I didn't care.

"You are so hot," she rasped.

She knelt over me, straddling my hips, and then slowly sat until her b.u.t.tocks rested lightly over my crotch. I pushed upward, trying to connect with that soft a.s.s, and felt her press down and undulate above me. I could feel myself getting wet, and the throbbing that always accompanied that feeling began to pulse its urgent demand. Needing more contact, she reached down and pulled my jacket off my shoulders and down my arms, pus.h.i.+ng it to one side of the table. Her mouth descended and took a hardened nipple between her teeth, sucking it through my silk blouse.

"Oh, Jesus, yeah," I exhaled sharply.

I craved to feel skin on skin and, sensing the need, she began to unb.u.t.ton my blouse. Frantically, I fumbled behind her back at the ap.r.o.n strings, yanking it off her waist, and then returned to the zipper on her pants. Almost simultaneously I had her unzipped while she had me unb.u.t.toned. Shoving her pants down her hips, she rose up to help me lower them while I leaned up so she could push my blouse down my shoulders. We helped each other remove the pants and blouse and then removed the rest of our clothing on our own.

"G.o.d, you are so beautiful." I looked at her in awe.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small and firm, the nipples bright rose against her pale skin. Like the hair on her head, the triangle between her legs was dark and thick, and I could see moisture glistening in its depths. I couldn't resist; my hand snaked out to gently caress between her thighs, my thumb gently stroking the soft nodule I found coc.o.o.ned there.

"Oh G.o.d," she moaned.

I looked up to see her eyes closed tightly in concentration and her mouth slightly open, breathing erratically. As my thumb continued its exploration of her c.l.i.t, I allowed my index finger to search out her opening. When I found it, I teased the sensitive area by lightly flicking in and out around the edges, like a b.u.t.terfly flitting from flower to flower. She began to move faster over my thumb and finger.

"Please," she gasped, "go deeper. f.u.c.k me as hard as you can. I am so ready."

My efforts doubled as I plunged two fingers fully into her and felt her come down hard in response. No longer capable of sitting upright, she collapsed forward, her hands planted firmly on either side of my head with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s dangling tantalizingly in front of my mouth. My free hand reached out once again to seek the edge of the table for support, but something soft and pliable found its way into my hand instead; the pastry bag. I grasped it firmly and brought it between us.

When I squeezed it upward, a ribbon of chocolate spurted unexpectedly across her left breast. Liking what I saw, I repeated the process on her right breast. Tossing the bag aside, I took possession of her right and left b.r.e.a.s.t.s with my mouth, alternately sucking and tugging and lapping up the chocolate.

"f.u.c.k yeah, that feels so good! Bite my nipples too. Yes, yes, like that. Oh G.o.d, yes, harder. Yes!"

She was pumping up and down like a piston on overdrive. The juices pouring out from her center and running down my hand and arm definitely told me I was on the right track. When her thrusting changed to a steady rhythm, I felt her thigh muscles clench spasmodically and I knew she was almost there. My free hand slid around to her backside where I slipped the middle finger in unceremoniously and after a few thrusts, she blasted off like a rocket.

With her sprawling on top of me, I could feel the pounding of her heart against my chest, and rather than soothing me, I found it highly erotic. The beat mimicked the throbbing between my legs and I found myself pulling her hips downward to relieve the pressure. She slowly rose up to place more of her weight where I needed it. She looked down at me, an easy grin forming on her lips, and her eyes glittered to see the reaction she was causing in my body. Rocking gently, she dropped one hand to find its way between my legs.

"Mmm, so wet," she purred.

Bringing her fingers to her mouth, she closed her eyes and sucked in apparent ecstasy. Then she moved down my body until her face came level to my crotch where she spread me fully open, her lips finding my aching c.l.i.t, hard and extended, in need of attention. She drew it into her hot mouth, gently at first, and then as I began to push upward, more fervently, swallowing her approval of what she found.

"Oh baby, that's it, that's perfect, don't stop!" I wasn't sure, but I think I was shouting. "Keep sucking just like that. Now go inside...ohh, yes, yes, yes. "

I didn't need to tell her how to do it. She antic.i.p.ated my every need, sucking and f.u.c.king with just the right amount of intensity and speed. I arched up, grabbing both of her shoulders, and held on. When the storm hit, I didn't even try to seek shelter. I just let the elements take me to the inevitable conclusion.

Lying on top of me once again, she turned her head sideways so that it nestled just under my chin. We rested like that for a while and I stroked her back soothingly, coaxing our breathing pattern to a more normal pace. When we finally got up to dress, I noticed I was partly covered in flour, and she laughed good-naturedly at the sight.

"Well, I may not have shown you how to make bread, but I hope I've shown you how to do something else." She traced a finger down my arm and brushed flour from my cuff.

I took her hand in mine and brought it to my lips, placing a brief kiss inside her wrist.

"I hope you'll continue to teach me," I murmured. "I have so much yet to learn."

We kissed. It wasn't a s.e.xual kiss, but one of future promises.

I returned to the little bakery on the corner many times after that, but I never did learn how to make bread.

WORD PLAY.

RADCLYFFE.

hen you edit someone's work, it gets to be pretty personal.

You touch on a lot of private places, catch glimpses of so W many secrets. I mean, we all know that anything worth writing, or reading for that matter, has to have a little of the author in it, right? Sometimes maybe even a lot I don't, mean an autobiographical "how I first got laid" blow-by-blow, but the underlying experiences and emotions that inspire the prose-the fantasies and fears, and sometimes-between the lines-the needs and desires.

It's always a challenge, offering criticism without damaging an oft- fragile ego, but after a while, there's an ebb and flow, a give and take, that feels more like a tango than a tussle. At least, with luck, it does.

So, when I sat down to work, my mind wasn't on the pacing of the final action sequence in my latest thriller. The deadline was closing in fast, and I prided myself on never missing a deadline. But I wasn't in the mood for writing; I'd been thinking about her all day. About her last book, I mean, the one I was editing. About the love scenes that I couldn't read without seeing her as the star. And, okay, seeing myself there, too-the co-star to her dark hero. I resisted, just barely, pulling up one of her e-mail messages to reread, not that I didn't have them all memorized. We'd gotten close, maybe a little bit inside each other's skin.

It happens, when you share a pa.s.sion.

The last message from her had been different-filled with taunting phrases and teasing innuendo. I had resisted rereading it for days, afraid that the longing, already so close to pain, would paralyze me for good.

Mostly, I was haunted by the fear that everything I thought I'd read beneath and in between her words was merely a projection of my own furtive desire. As with fiction, I would discover that I had created the reflection of my own desire.

I couldn't deny the attraction, but I was far from certain of the source. Despite what the theoreticians and critics say, I firmly believe it's impossible to separate art from the artist. So how could I know if it was the heat of her words or the cool, amused distance she projected in the flesh that was so compelling? At first, I decided it didn't matter-that twinge of discomfort that masked unwanted arousal-because it could not, would not, lead anywhere at all. We had to work together, and while a little l.u.s.t might stir the creative juices, too much just clouded the mind.

Like the last drink that would have been better left on the bar. And if that weren't enough, there were rumors she was heavily involved. I don't share, not even my casual f.u.c.ks.

But then somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, or maybe just when I was pretending not to look, we'd exchanged a few e-mails that morphed into something far more than one writer pus.h.i.+ng another to the edge. We'd crossed a line; extended the invitation. Try me. I'm ready.

Finally, after rewriting the opening paragraph four times and ultimately hitting delete, I relented and opened the folder of e-mail messages to the last message. To the last sweet suggestion that could have meant nothing, or everything.

I read it and heard her murmur the words in my ear, her breath warm and teasing. I reread it, and felt her fingers skim my jaw.

I stared at the screen and felt the tremble of desire. And then I wrote.

When I wake in the night, I reach for you, the smell and feel of your body so near drenching my senses.

First sentences define the world, paragraphs the universe. For a writer, the tone and flavor and rhythm of the lines create texture, sensation, heat playing over skin, fire simmering in the belly.

I stared at the words, knowing I could not take back the truth. I had awakened in the dark, wanting coiled deep inside. I had reached out a hand, so desperate for the feel of her, craving the touch of her fingers to relieve the aching need that had ascended while I slept. When her image shattered like promises tossed into the wind, I stroked myself, imagining it was her.

I am always wet, always so ready for you then, when I have shed control and surrendered my defenses.

I read what I had written, my body tight, throbbing to the rhythm of my fingers on the keys. All because of a few words on the screen. Just a few words that crossed time and s.p.a.ce, slipping through, over, around every barrier I had ever constructed-like the slick slide of fingers through the channels of my engorged flesh. I read, and remembered- the silvery sheen of pa.s.sion streaking my thighs.

I whispered your name, a desperate plea in the night. I parted my thighs, baring my soul.

"What is it you need?"

"You know. You know. Please. Please just touch me."

I saw her so clearly as the words filled my vision, the curve of her mouth, the length of her fingers, the intensity of her gaze. I remembered laughter and a quick toss of thick, unruly hair. I recalled a moment's hesitation, and that instant when she wondered if she had revealed too much. I saw her hands, lifting as she spoke, certain and sure. I saw them now, traveling up the inside of my legs, a slow taunting journey of pleasures waiting to be called. My fingers hovered above the keys, my c.l.i.toris hard, a reminder I was flesh. Her fingertips only a breath away. I ached. I ached.

I forced my hands to move.

"What is it that you need?"

"You. Only you."