Best Lesbian Romance 2014 (16 page)

“These could be addictive,” Paris said, cracking open a handful of the sweet nutty bits.

“Never had them before?”

She looked at this real Yankee in her life and tingled again. Today, she just wanted to give in. She wanted to feel the falling in love that was going on inside her, not block it. They reached the parking lot.

She sorted through her bag and carefully set all the licorice jellybeans in the palm of Peg's hand, one by one. Peg smiled endlessly at her. The sweets, the Datsun's sweltering interior, made her sleepy. At the room, she lay on her bed and watched Peg through half-open eyes. “I hate to waste the last afternoon of vacation napping.” She let her eyes close and went out like the proverbial light.

“Paris.”

She was so groggy she couldn't open her eyes.

“Paris.” Peg's hand firmly gripped her shoulder.

She didn't want the hand to leave. “Mmm. Peg,” she said, feeling the sweet smile wash over her whole body and soul.

“You looked so peaceful, I decided to try it,” Peg said. “We slept for an hour.” Peg stretched and yawned, her shirt drawing tight over her chest. For once, she wasn't wearing a vest, jacket or sweater.

A current coursed along Paris's spine and goose bumps rose on her arms. Breasts, the woman had much more substantial breasts than she would have imagined. The nipples poked against her shirt like that little lamb's nose through the fence.

“We've got reservations for six
P.M.,”
Peg said.

When Peg finished in the bathroom, Paris bent over the sink, splashing cold water on her face. She smelled Peg's minty toothpaste. She couldn't banish the sight of those breasts from her memory. Her hands hankered after their warm curves. She
looked in the mirror. “The woman doesn't want you,” she told herself, wishing she'd brought a lighter shade of lipstick.

There was something about applying makeup that felt like a rite of spring, and she hesitated, tremulous with fear and excitement. It was a rite she loved, even when, like this evening, it felt dangerous. Every stroke of mascara seemed to draw the night in around her like a glamorous black velvet cloak. The song “How Long Has This Been Going On” took up residence in her head. She'd brought her grandmother's tiny gold locket to go with her opal ring, and they gleamed in the mirror as she worked on her lips. She dabbed rose essence behind her ears, at the base of her neck, thought of other places. But they were running late, and that wouldn't be necessary. “The woman doesn't want you, Paris.” That wasn't how it felt.

The Publick House in Sturbridge was vibrant with activity even this early in the season. The personnel all wore costumes. A young Pilgrim led them to a booth. Peg stepped behind Paris to help her off with her wool sweater.

“Oh,” Paris said, surprised. She smiled her delight at Peg. “No closets tonight?”

When Peg took off her white down vest, Paris's heart stopped beating. She'd thought that never really happened until that moment. It was the Gershwin tune “Love Walked In” come to life. The tie was narrow and plum-colored and lay flat against Peg's pale yellow shirt as if she didn't have those breasts under there. But Paris knew she did, and noted how the tie lay, long and silky, exactly between them. When her heart started again it was with a thud. She wanted to stroke Peg's vest. Untie the tie with her lips and teeth. A hand in a pocket of those soft corduroy slacks, Peg was obviously waiting for her to sit first, but Paris couldn't move.

When she met Peg's eyes, she knew the clothing was no
mistake. Here was the lesbian Peg at her full sexual power, the woman who knew what she could give, willing to risk what she'd get. “You
are
Peg?” she asked aloud.

“Of course.”

“How long has this been going on?” she sang, just softly enough that Peg raised one of those butchy eyebrows at her.

“Beg pardon?” Peg asked, handing her into the booth.

She sat, hoping Peg wouldn't notice the perspiration along her hairline. She couldn't
stand
their pseudo-courtship another second. What was wrong with her, with
Peg?
Was it a human trait to do exactly what one swore one wouldn't, didn't want to do? Or was it a lesbian trait, some kind of internal homophobia that ensured self-destructive behavior—or happiness?

“You're lovely in makeup,” Peg said.

“You're lovely in a tie.”

Peg ran her tongue thoughtfully back and forth along her bottom lip. The lines to either side of her mouth deepened. She was so incredibly good-looking. Paris had known that all along, but it hadn't entered her solar plexus before; she hadn't been this profoundly physically affected by a woman since her first lover.

Had Angela been what Peg could call butch? As seniors in high school, they'd borrowed each other's makeup, fixed each other's hair, smoked pot with college boys and caught all the arty films in Austin. They'd discovered the art galleries and scoured the newspapers for openings where they'd cop free wine and mingle with the adults, telling extravagant tales of fantastic adventures. Then they'd go parking with each other, not with the boys. Her fingers had been so eager to reach under Angela's dress and touch those drenched lips, slide up that silken canal. She could still feel Angela's hot mouth nipping at her neck.

She wanted to finger Peg's tie as she had Angela's genitals, smooth it against that valley of her breasts, slide the knot aside
until she broke the plum circle, opened the butch gate, and got at the woman inside.

The wine waiter hovered. “You don't seem to be much of a drinker,” Peg said.

She could taste the wine of her days with Angela. She laughed. “No. It was always superfluous.”

Peg was watching her eyes, and didn't ask superfluous to what. As if measuring the moment, as if deciding for or against the distraction of wine, Peg tapped her fingers on the table. She waved the waiter away.

Almost immediately someone in a gray starched colonial-style skirt brought a basket of hot breads, sweet and yeasty-smelling. Sounds became hushed. Peg's manicured hands broke open a coarse piece of cornbread. The crumbs fell to her plate. She slid butter across the opening. Paris fondled the baking powder biscuits, pulled a hot cinnamon bun from the basket. Peg bit into her golden bread, licked her lips of butter and crumbs. Paris's roll was sticky, crunchy with bits of nuts, full of hot cinnamon and sugar. She offered Peg a bite. Peg held the cornbread out to Paris. They leaned across the table, eyes locked, and broke pieces off with their lips.

“Sweet,” Paris said, closing her eyes. It tasted like the yellow afternoon.

“Sweeter,” Peg said, pulling a stray nut from her lower lip with her tongue.

She ran her eyes down Peg's tie again, back up to her shining eyes, her perfect hair. Just then, she would have sold state secrets to get her hands in that hair.

Even without wine dinner got fuzzy. It seemed as if they went from bread directly to the chilly parking lot. The bakery and gift shop were open late for the weekend. Peg got them a batch of the famous peanut butter cookies. She took Peg's arm this time
and huddled against her, shivering.

“Cold?” Peg asked.

She squeezed tighter against her. “No.” Peg's hand encircled her upper arm.

They walked up the dark country lane that led to their motel, the white bakery box that Peg carried by its string glowing as it swung back and forth. Paris ignored the ache in her knee. This was no time for pain.

“Crickets,” Peg said.

“Tree frogs,” she answered.

Their footsteps were almost the only other sound. Still-leafless elm trees met over their heads, a branch creaking now and then in a breeze. She wanted the lane never to end. Peg stopped, guided her by the shoulder until they faced each other. Paris pressed her cheek to the front of Peg's cushioned vest. The top of her head met Peg's jaw. Her fingertips tingled with want.

Oh, goddess.
Peg pulled her face up with two soft fingers and their mouths met, open, hot, wet, breath ragged, then met again, until Peg's hand, wide open against her back, led her forward again. They walked faster.

“What are we doing?” Peg cried, when they got inside. The blood rushing through Paris's body all but drowned out the words.

She had Peg's tie in her hands, looking her full in those commanding, desiring eyes. She pulled at the tie, stroked it and separated the two ends. Kissed the valley of Peg's breasts, spread the tie farther apart, wanting Peg's legs spread soon. She twined the tie around her hands, opened buttons. Peg stopped her, began to loosen the plum strands.

“No!” She wanted the undoing of her tie for herself. She pushed Peg to the bed, pulled off her vest, undid the buttons of her collar, pulled the shirt out from under her tie and off along
with the vest. Her vision had become unfocused, but she made out Peg's breast-hugging short-sleeved undershirt. She pulled it over the tie. “Now,” she said and began easing the knot down with one hand, kissing Peg's neck as she did.

“You've still got your sweater on,” Peg said. “Is it scratchy?” Peg rubbed her bare breasts against the sweater and the strawberry nipples rose.

Paris brushed them with her lips as she slid the tie apart. At its tip, she freed the other end. “There,” she said, “you're open.” She pushed Peg, bare to the waist, down flatter on the bed and stood looking at her.

“Mmm,” she said, admiring. “Who would have thought?” She hefted Peg's breasts in her hands. “So much, so soft, the cream in those Yankee pewter pitchers.” She pinched the nipples, each one, with her lips. “Strawberries and cream.” Peg reached for her. “No.” Paris stepped back, undressed quickly, lay Peg down once more, lay on top of her, kissed her face, her neck, her shoulders, those breasts again, kissed down to her belt line.

“Paris,” Peg said, trying to rise, that tender amused look in her eyes, a slight smiling curve to her lips, her hands reaching.

“Hey,” Paris said, pushing her down, pushing her again, a third time, unbuckling her belt as she did, unzipping her slacks, pulling them off with her underwear. “Mmm,” she crooned at the glorious sight of her and parted her legs like the two ends of her tie.

“This doesn't work for me,” Peg said, her voice tight, but her telltale breathing a pant. One hand kneaded Paris's shoulder, the other had a fistful of her hair. “I need to make love to you first.”

That lisp was a turn-on. “You're gorgeous,” she told Peg and plunged to the knot in the tie of her legs with her mouth. “Butch,” was the last thing she said before she took a faintly cinnamon mouthful of her. The word was a challenge.

THE CALL

Cheryl Dragon

I hated when FBI phone numbers showed up on my cell phone. Locking the back door to my nail salon, I debated answering. It wasn't my ex. Tess still had her own ringtone.

“Sophie's Nails.”

“It's Jack.” Jack was a nice middle-aged FBI agent who'd been Tess's partner for longer than the year I'd dated her. He had two ex-wives and knew what the job did to relationships.

“What's up?” Tess probably wanted the stuff she left behind and made Jack do her dirty work.

“Tess's been shot. I know you two split up, but I thought you'd want to know,” he said quickly.

My stomach turned as the info processed. This was my nightmare. The very reason I couldn't be with Tess. Instead of panicking, my brain gave up control to my heart. “What hospital?”

“St. Luke's. Don't worry, it's just a—”

No time for details. “Thanks.” I ended the call, jumped in my
car and drove the few blocks to St. Luke's in record time.

Stalking past the admissions desk, I headed for the group of suits. Jack waved off security and pointed me to the curtain without a word. No doc or nurse could convince me Tess was okay until I saw her myself. My heart pounded as I ducked around the curtain.

Tess was attempting to sign papers with her left hand. Her slim right hand was bandaged from wrist to painted nails. Her dark brown hair done in a blunt bob was untouched by the trauma, but her face looked pale. The blood all over her clothes made my eyes well up but I forced back the tears. Obviously Tess's life wasn't in danger now. “What happened?”

“Hell. Jack, you're so dead,” she said loudly. “I told him not to call you.”

“Which means you knew he would and probably already had.” I looked around the small area. Tess's bulletproof vest with bullets still in it spoke volumes. “You're okay?”

“I'm fine. The vest did its job. Only one sliced my hand. No broken bones.” Tess's pale brown eyes searched everywhere but me.

She was still hurting, and I couldn't change my role as the bitch in the breakup. Her job meant potentially getting hurt every day, and eventually the anxiety had been too much for me. When we first met, the badge and gun had been a big turn-on. They still were, but they also meant danger.
My
biggest danger at work was nail fungus or being double-booked with clients.

The doctor stepped in before I could think of something to say.