Best Lesbian Romance 2014 (22 page)

“Too long.” She laughs without bitterness. “Worth the wait, though. How long for you, babe?”

I count the months. “Almost a year now. It wasn't simple. When I caught my partner with my friend, I told her to leave.
She finally moved out, but she wanted a share of the business. I can tell you all about it, but not now. Please not now. I don't want to ruin the moment.”

“It's okay, Cass.” I can feel her breathing. “Is that a nickname?” She runs a hand through my hair, making me shiver.

“Short for Cassandra, the woman who could always predict bad times, but no one believed her. Thank my hippie parents.”

She sighs, snuggling closer. “My parents were the opposite. Straitlaced.” I can feel her voice in my flesh as well as hear it. I wonder if I could come just from the sound waves. “My brother and I were into art and music and late nights, but they wanted us to be business tycoons. Or at least corporate lawyers. Matt changed his name and moved to New York to seek his fortune.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. He plays trumpet for Run Like Hell.”

I'm embarrassed by my ignorance, but I can't pretend to be impressed by a band I never heard of.

It's her turn to comfort me, and she traces circles around my nipples, turning them into stones. “It's okay if you don't know the East Coast music scene, Cass.”

I want to hear every kind of music that turns her on, but not yet. Neither of us wants to keep talking.

She shifts, pushing me effortlessly underneath her warm curves. “I want to have you, honey. Will you take my cock?”

My cunt answers for me, clenching in response. My bones have turned to rubber and hot lava runs from my heart to my crotch. I don't want to want this dangerous invasion, but I do. “Mmm.”

She positions me on all fours on her bed, where I balance in twitching anticipation while she pulls something out of a bedside table. I turn my head to look, and she slaps my behind, making
me jerk. I hear her fastening a harness around her hips and I see something long and smooth bobbing in front of her. She uses one hand to rub something on it, and I know how easily her tool will fill me.

And then she is kneeling behind me, guiding it into my grateful opening.
Yes!
I can't help breathing in rhythm, then groaning.

“Good girl. You like that, don't you?” It's beyond my expectations.

She pushes forward and I push back. It feels as if we're going somewhere, like rowers or railroad workers, laying new track. She reaches beneath me to find my clit and roll it between her fingers.

I shatter into particles of colored light, howling to the ceiling. She presses deep into me, as though she wants us to be joined forever. That's a grotesque thought, but I love it in the moment.

She gently withdraws from me, and the movement brings our combined smells to my nose. Nothing beats the earthy musk of women together.

Leah's cock goes back into the drawer where it lives, and Leah curls up behind me, spooning me against her. We sigh in unison.

“I didn't offer you a drink.” She sounds apologetic. “Would you like a screwdriver?”

I laugh. “I won't say no.” Now I know that she's not finished with me. We're just resting between rounds.

We walk to the kitchen, comfortably nude. My skin feels moist all over, as though I am a fresh fruit, full of juice. Leah pulls orange juice out of the fridge and a clear glass bottle out of a cupboard. She pours with a calm hand and hands me a drink.

We sit in her front room, sipping drinks. I run my cold glass over each of her assertive breasts, making her squeal. She grabs my arm and does the same to me.

Pausing for breath, she looks at me thoughtfully. “I hope you can forgive me, girl.”

“Psh. Nothing to worry about, Leah. It was totally consensual.”

Her look alarms me. “You don't know what I mean. I opened your mail.”

The lightning in my belly tells me exactly what she opened. It's from Kelly or her lawyer. It's a piece of the puzzle that I should have known about before I offered to buy her out to get it over with. I no longer want to be kept in the dark about anything. “I'm not blaming you, but I need to see it.”

Leah stands up and goes to an oak sideboard that looks as if it has held a few family secrets in its time, such as Uncle Ned's hip flask from the 1920s. So that's where my misaddressed mail has been kept.

She brings me four envelopes, each neatly slit open with a knife. There is an ad for real estate in a treeless, overpriced new neighborhood, a religious tract about the End of Days, an ad for a sale on cookware that ended three months ago. Then there is the letter with my name on it in familiar handwriting. It is addressed to my house, formerly our house. There is no good reason why it wasn't delivered to me on time.

“I opened it before I realized what it was.” She is twisting her hands. “Then I didn't see how I could give it to you. Sorry.”

I unfold the single sheet of paper and see the angry words running down at a left-to-right slant. This toxic spill was not written by a rational adult. I read “never listened to me,” “too busy taking care of yourself” and “one-sided relationship.” Her last childish rant still had the power to hurt.

Leah wants me to understand her motives. “I didn't know all the circumstances, but I didn't want you to see that. I know I was wrong, but I couldn't put that in your hands.”

I could choose to believe in the deceptive nature of most dykes, or most people. I could confront her about manipulating me, just like my ex. Or I could choose to believe her intentions were good enough. Faith would make the difference.

I look into Leah's dark-chocolate eyes. “Forget her. You didn't need to read that either.” I stuff each letter back in its envelope and tear each one into even strips, making sure I won't leave any legible pieces. “Now it needs to go where it belongs. In the circular file.” I hold out my fist and Leah opens her palm to receive the scraps of paper.

She struggles to control a grin as she walks to a wicker basket in the corner and lets the paper flutter in like dead leaves falling from a tree.

“Done.” I reach out to touch her.

“Done.” She reaches down and pulls me to my feet. “Now let's go back to bed and finish what we started.”

“Then complain to the post office.”

“I'll leave that to you.” She wraps her fierce arms around me and lifts me off my feet. My complaints can wait.

RISKING IT ALL

Lynette Mae

My shift finally ended. I turned the corner onto our street, exhausted, sweaty and numb from hours of stress. It was the kind of night that tests the mettle of everyone who has ever donned a uniform and balanced duty and devotion for the public good. That's not to say cops are saints, and I know we're far from perfect, but I'd like to think that it's true what they say about law enforcement. It's a calling.

It had been a night like no other. I've taken more risks than I can count over the years, chased criminals at hair-raising speed, run toward gunfire rather than away and engaged the evils of humanity without much thought. But on this night I'd been tested professionally and personally in ways I could not have imagined before. My emotions were pushed to the breaking point. Thankfully, it was over now. But it wouldn't really be over until we were both home.

The last time I talked to you was when the radio call came in.

We had just finished having dinner together, a treat we rarely
allow ourselves because you always say people will talk. I say, “Screw them,” and you just shake your head at me. We leaned against the bumpers of our cars and recited our normal give and take.

“I love you.”

“More.” You smiled that special smile that never fails to set my heart tripping in my chest.

Suddenly, the horrific transmission silenced our playful banter. A bloodcurdling scream from the police radio raised every hair on my body. “Oscar Four! I've been shot!”

Every nerve ending sprang to high alert as voices demanded his location. We jumped into our cars, instinctively heading toward the east end of town, where the Oscar squad worked. You peeled out of the lot just ahead of me, your hand out the window making the
I love you
sign. And then instead of lovers we were two cops, lights flashing and sirens blaring through the city. In the next seconds, responding officers' excited chatter and supervisors shouting for an ambulance mixed with the sounds of the wounded officer's cries over the radio. We pushed our vehicles to the limits, screaming through the streets heedless of our own safety. This was different. One of
us
was down. We needed no official declaration. The manhunt was on.

A minute and a half later we arrived in the area. EMS administered first aid to the injured officer and a ring of uniforms surrounded the scene. The rest of us began to scour the surrounding area for the suspect: a white male last seen driving an older-model Ford truck, orange with a white stripe down the side. “That thing should stick out like a whore in church,” I told the cop on scene who gave us the description. I only hoped the bad guy hadn't been able to reach the interstate. I wanted to catch him and I wanted to catch him now.

We fanned out across the sector with our fellow officers,
each with our private thoughts for our fallen comrade as we searched. Every cop in the city was in this zone. This guy had to turn up. The helicopter was in the air, checking beyond the immediate grid, just in case he'd gotten farther than we'd anticipated. We were updated regularly with tips and possible sightings, but nothing seemed to be panning out as the hours dragged on. The wounded officer was holding on, and his strength bolstered our resolve.

Finally, around two
A.M.
a gas station clerk called to say a truck matching the description had just pulled in behind his business. I was four blocks away. I stood on the accelerator and wished for a rocket booster that would get me there faster. My approach was from the west and I immediately saw the rear quarter panel of the truck as I made the corner past the building. Orange paint sent adrenaline surging through my veins. This is the moment cops dream of. With no time to think about anything but preventing escape, I swung my car around to block the suspect vehicle. Another squad car entered the parking lot from the east and we drove our bumpers simultaneously into our target, pinning it there.

I hit the release button on my assault rifle as I threw open the door and launched from my driver's seat toward the car, leading with my muzzle. I moved swiftly to a position just behind the driver's door. In my peripheral vision I could see the other officer approaching the passenger side. The suspect leaned across the bench seat in that direction. Tunnel vision took over, my focus like a laser beam on the driver. The suspect's right arm came up.

“Gun!” the other officer shouted. The world around me exploded in gunfire and flying glass. The popping sound of a pistol and the discharge of my rifle seemed to happen in slow motion. I swear I could see the spent casings ejecting from the port. I fired three times. The suspect jerked each time our bullets
struck him. When the firing stopped, my ears were ringing. I was standing at the driver's window looking at the suspect sprawled inside the cab, his right arm outstretched and a pistol just beyond it on the seat. Shards of glass covered everything, including me. I raised my eyes, looking across the interior to where the second officer stood.

“Dana?”

“Holy shit!” I breathed.

You were standing there much as I was, glass clinging to your hair and clothes, tiny cuts on your face and arms. I gulped audibly just before a wave of nausea rolled through my gut, and tried not to think about how this might have turned out. The stunned expression on your face said you were having the same thoughts about me. Neither of us moved. We just blinked and stared. I saw the love in your eyes, but it was fear beneath the surface that twisted my heart. I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out. The gravity of what had nearly happened overwhelmed me. What if… I cut my eyes to the ground, unable to cope. Service and sacrifice had taken on a whole new dimension.

A flood of officers descended on the location, and controlled chaos erupted around us as the parking lot became posted as a crime scene. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area, investigators swarmed, flashbulbs popped and bullet casings were marked on the blacktop. Each of us was whisked away in a different direction, sequestered pending questioning by detectives and union reps. At headquarters, every once in a while I'd catch a glimpse of you as we moved through different stages of the process. I knew rationally that policy and protocol required us to be separated, but I wanted to see you.

No. I wanted to hold you.

Sometime in those next hours you left a message on my cell that you took a few stitches, but were fine. “See ya later,” you
started to end, with your standard cheerfulness, and I pictured your dazzling trademark smile. Then I heard you pull in a shaking breath. “I love you, Dana.” I closed my eyes and absorbed the tenderness in your voice. Even in the direst of circumstances you give me what I need, and I'm certain I'm not deserving.