Slices of Life (8 page)

In her genre of writing, Lindsay’s criteria were a bit different than the average writer. She did not subscribe to the common PWP (Plot? What plot?) form of erotica writing. She preferred to give her characters at least some depth and personality before she allowed them to have sex. While she couldn’t get
too
detailed—a surefire way to lose an erotica reader—she did like to make them seem at least somewhat realistic. Most erotica readers want to insert themselves into the story; that’s why they read. Lindsay wanted to make sure her readers could relate, at least a little, to the characters she created. It was important to her. Anybody could write a sex scene. It took talent to make it feel real.

The chef had an air of authority about her, a confidence that bred attraction. She was a small woman, but she walked tall, seemed larger than she was just because of her aura of certainty. So Lindsay decided she would own her own restaurant.

“Now,” Lindsay said aloud. “Is she a player?” She thought about how many beautiful women might come into a nice restaurant on any given evening. A wicked grin spread out on her face as she realized it could be, probably would be, dozens. “Hell of a smorgasbord,” she commented, recognizing that in addition to customers, there would be waitresses, a hostess, maybe a female bartender, and a couple of other cooks. So many to choose from. “Player, it is.”

She opened a new document and began to type.

Lindsay was surprised at how quickly the story came to her. And it was
hot
. The chef wasn’t just a player; she was insatiable. She began her evening by having her way with the leggy hostess in her office before business hours. The desk served as the perfect surface and the hostess’s black skirt made for easy access. Later in the evening, she cornered her bartender in the basement and fucked her roughly on a case of Captain Morgan. As her clientele began to trickle out the door and the hour slid toward closing time, the chef eyed two pretty young things at the bar and seriously wondered if she could charm her way into a ménage a trios.

By the time Lindsay pulled her attention from her computer screen and returned to her own world, the sun was just about gone and the bedroom dimmed in the dusk. She blinked several times and rubbed at her scratchy eyes. She noticed the dampness in her panties at the exact same time she heard Cara’s key in the lock.

“Oh, baby, timing is everything,” she whispered.

In every way that Lindsay was edgy, Cara was not. With a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and a gentle smile on her face, she looked more like the girl next door than the partner of a lesbian sex writer, and she came through the front door with no clue as to Lindsay’s state of mind.

“Linz?” she called as she tossed her keys on the table inside the door and flipped through the small stack of mail.

“Right here,” Lindsay replied, knowing her proximity startled Cara, but Lindsay’s mouth was on hers before she could utter more than a surprised gasp.

Envelopes and fliers fluttered to the floor as Cara gave in to the kiss. It was always like this, always a…melting during their first kiss before lovemaking. Cara was older, but Lindsay preferred to “drive,” as she liked to call it, and took the wheel every chance she could. Cara didn’t seem to mind.

Two steps and Cara gave a small grunt as her back hit the door. Lindsay kissed across her chin and down her neck, talking as she went. “You look good enough to eat, baby,” she said, her voice throaty.

“Yeah?” Cara breathed, hands in Lindsay’s hair.

“Yeah. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing.” In one quick movement, she pulled Cara’s shirt up and over her head, tossed it to the hardwood, and cupped Cara’s small breasts through the purple lace bra Lindsay’d given her for her birthday.

“Been writing, have we?” Cara’s chuckle turned to a groan as precise fingers closed on her nipples.

“Yup. Lucky you.”

They made their way slowly to the small bedroom, dropping articles of clothing as they went. Lindsay’s shirt, Cara’s pants, Cara’s bra, Lindsay’s socks. This kamikaze lovemaking used to bother Cara when they first became exclusive. She told Lindsay she didn’t like the fact that Lindsay would be writing about some fictional characters she made up, then want to have sex with Cara soon after. Initially, she found it almost insulting, like Lindsay wasn’t really thinking about her, but about the people she’d created. It took many in-depth conversations and countless reassurances, but Lindsay believed that Cara finally understood. Just because the writing got her juices flowing, that didn’t mean Cara was some stand-in for who she really wanted to be with. It was nothing like that. In fact, it was far simpler—she was turned on and the only one she wanted to share that with was Cara.

Lindsay was young, but liked to think she was wise beyond her years when it came to making love to a woman. In her line of work, research and experimentation were key, and she was a very quick study. It made no sense to her for a writer of lesbian erotica not to be well-versed in the female form, how to read her, and how to please her. So she paid very close attention to everything she did to Cara and every reaction Cara had, good or bad. She knew when to take things slower (Cara’s kisses weren’t as deep). She knew when Cara wanted it fast and hard (Cara’s pupils dilated and she fisted Lindsay’s shirt in her hands). She knew when to relinquish the reins (Cara started on Lindsay’s shirt before Lindsay could get to hers). And she knew when to take command because Cara would become putty in her hands, opening her body to Lindsay, letting her choose the direction they moved in.

Like now.

By the time the backs of Cara’s legs hit the edge of the bed, Lindsay had her down to just panties, and those were removed in one swift maneuver. She lay completely naked on her back, vulnerable and trusting, a feast for Lindsay’s eyes. Her skin was smooth and, her summer tan not completely faded yet, still a light brown. Sexy freckles dotted her shoulders, and her bare breasts were small and pert with dark nipples standing at attention. Lindsay moved her eyes downward, past the raspberry-shaped birthmark on Cara’s tummy, past the roundness of her hips, to the thin, sandy-colored line of hair that Lindsay dubbed her “landing strip.” When she looked back up, Cara was smiling at her.

“I love you,” Cara said as Lindsay moved Cara’s legs apart and draped them over her shoulders.

Lindsay lowered her head and inhaled deeply, taking in the essence, the musky tang of her beloved girlfriend. Using just the tip of her tongue, she sampled the salty-sweetness of the wet warmth. Cara sighed and Lindsay felt her thighs twitch under her hands. She turned her gaze back up to Cara, whose head was thrown back into the pillow in anticipation.

“Oh, baby, I love you too,” Lindsay whispered.

Then she sank into paradise.

Cara White was tired. As she poured her fourth cup of coffee for the day, she shook her head, knowing she had nobody to blame but herself.

And Lindsay.

At the thought of her girlfriend and how they spent the night before, she smiled mischievously. They’d made love for hours, stopped to cook up a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese—naked. Then they ate it in bed as they shared the events of their day with each other. Then they made love some more. Cara remembered looking at the clock at 3:37 a.m. Her alarm was set for 7:00.

Yes, she was tired. She should know better than to disrupt her sleep the night before her long day at work; she was no longer a spring chicken. She was tired, but she was happy. And that thought surprised her.

When she and Lindsay first began dating, Cara honestly wasn’t sure where it would go, how long it would last. And when she found out how much younger than her Lindsay actually was, Cara almost ran for the hills. But something stopped her…to this day, she still wasn’t sure what it was. Lindsay’s eyes that had a wise-beyond-her-years depth to them? Her open, generous heart and giving soul? The way she made love to Cara like no other woman ever had? Whatever it was, it kept Cara’s feet planted firmly and made her stick things out to see where they’d go.

But she worried. Cara was pretty settled into her profession; Lindsay was still figuring out what she wanted to do with her life. They had a blast together, but everybody knows that a relationship takes more than fun times.

Turned out, having fun with Lindsay was Cara’s favorite thing in the world. They had a lot in common, the same wants in life and love even though they were in different places. Lindsay’s writing seemed like a hobby at first, something she did on the side. But as she experimented with her work, evolved as a writer, and began to sell, began to actually make a name for herself, Cara started to understand that it was much more than a hobby. It was the path to becoming a career.

Cara had a tough time with that at first. Lindsay’s stuff wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t discreet. It was bold, sometimes edgy, often raunchy,
always
graphic sex. And it made Cara uncomfortable. Especially the first time Lindsay went from writing a hot sex scene right into wanting to have sex with her. Cara totally freaked. Accused Lindsay of using her for her body and no other reason, accused her of wanting to be with her steamy characters rather than with Cara herself. They had a knock-down, drag-out fight that lasted well into the next day.

To Lindsay’s credit, she hung in there. She explained over and over again that Cara was completely off-base. Yes, sometimes Lindsay’s writing was a turn-on, but it was only the catalyst for wanting to be with Cara. She said it a hundred different ways and Cara finally forced herself to let go of any suspicions and to simply trust her girlfriend.

It wasn’t easy, but she did it.

Thank god, because Lindsay was amazing, they made a fantastic couple, and the sex was spine-melting.

An impish grin on her face, Cara doctored her coffee with more sugar than she should and enough cream to sustain a starving cat and took a sip just as her coworker, Michael, came into the break room.

“Hey, why don’t you have some coffee with your cream?” he asked her.

“Ha! That just never gets old, no matter how many times you use it,” she replied wryly.

“How was your night?” He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

“Awesome. Yours? Did you meet up with Mr. Six-Pack Abs?”

“I met up, down, and sideways with him. I swear to god, the man’s a contortionist.” He took a slug of his water, then said, “Speaking of hot monkey sex, didn’t you spend the night with your little smut writer?”

“I did. And it’s erotica, thank you very much.”

“Smut. Erotica. Same thing.” Michael reached down and poked one of Cara’s thighs with a finger. “Sore?”

She laughed and slapped his hand away. “Yes, if you must know.”

“Good.” He waved a hand in a circle, encompassing her face. “You have dark circles under your eyes, but you’re smiling. A good combination. I like it. Looks good on you.”

Cara just smiled at him. She and Michael had been friends for nearly a decade, having started work the same week. While she worked more on clients with chronic pain, he leaned toward the terminally ill. There were days when talking and joking about their sex lives was the only way they could keep from dissolving into tears. That they ended up trusted friends was simply a bonus.

“Who’s up next?” he asked, running a hand over his very short blonde hair.

Cara grimaced. “The Republican.”

Michael made a face. “Ugh. Give him a Charlie horse.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Cara divided her clients into three general categories: the confessors, the conversationalists, and the stony silent types. Her mood determined how she felt about each category on any given day. The conversationalists were the most bearable. They were clients who would make a little small talk, but just enough to fill the room if silence felt at all uncomfortable. If Cara was tired like today, the stony silent clients could make an hour feel like five. Having time to be lost in her own thoughts wasn’t a bad thing…unless she was in danger of falling asleep, mid-rub. If she was feeling prickly or irritated for any reason, the confessors could drive her up the wall. People had no idea that being a massage therapist was shockingly similar to being a bartender in that the confessors felt it necessary to spill their guts, to share with Cara their hopes, fears, dreams, beliefs. Maybe it was being face-down the majority of the time, not having to look her in the eye, that made them feel like they could unload. Cara knew infinitely more about most of her clients than she ever wanted to.

Judd Pierce had arthritis, so he had a standing weekly appointment with Cara. He was also a confessor. Cara and Michael dubbed him “The Republican” for obvious reasons. Inexplicably, Pierce felt that being on Cara’s table was a green light to spout off on every government policy, every local politician, the president, and how “those idiot Democrats are running our country right into the shitter.” Oftentimes, she’d tune him out and fantasize about telling him he was being massaged by a real live homosexual. Then she’d daydream about telling him all the homosexual places her hands have been, all the homosexual things they’ve done. More than once, she failed to stifle a giggle and had to fake a coughing jag to cover it up.

If Pierce wasn’t a weekly, paying appointment, she’d seriously consider firing him as a client. But regulars were good for business, so she tolerated him.

At the front desk, she took a glance at her remaining day’s schedule. Pierce was the only fly in the ointment of a decent day. Seeing the name of her last client brought a smile to her lips. Starting down the hall to get the room set up for The Republican, she figured she might as well get his appointment over with.

***

Judd Pierce actually lasted a good twenty minutes before the political ranting began about what a shitty job President Obama was doing.

“Election day can’t come fast enough,” he gruffed.

Cara wasn’t even sure why she bothered with music during his session; it wasn’t like he listened to it at all, and it certainly didn’t seem to help him relax. Or her.