Stolen Moments (37 page)

“You have the saddest look in your eyes,” she said one afternoon as we stood slightly apart from the others, waiting for a briefing. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” I said before I could take back the word.

“And that makes you sad?”

Her tone was so gentle I wanted to weep. Instead, I smiled and shook my head. “No. That makes me happy.”

“Then what is that I just saw in your eyes?”

We only had a minute. A minute before the connection that felt so right would be destroyed. I felt the pressure of something precious slipping away, and I spoke the truth. “Wishing. That was me wishing for you.”

Her dark brown eyes grew even darker, but I could not read beyond their shadows. Her lips parted, and a soft sigh danced between us. “You shouldn’t.”

“I can’t help it. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry.”

She never moved, but I remember to this day the sweet sensation of her fingertips gliding over my cheek. “I want you to tell me what you wish for.”

“Don’t you know?”

Her eyes danced then, alive with joy. “I do. But I want to hear you tell me.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Soon turned out to be weeks later. Weeks filled with glances that
now, looking back, I know would have given us away had anyone chanced to notice. Hunger stalked the air between us. I went to bed thirsting for her touch and twisted through the long hot hours of the night, soaking my sheets with the sweat of unrequited lust and desperate, failed attempts at relief. The hollows beneath her eyes matched the aching void within my chest until finally, we did the only thing we could.

“Friday night,” she murmured as she passed me a stack of requisition forms. When she transferred the files, she pressed a metal object into my hand. “The Walton. Ten o’clock.”

“Are you sure?” My stomach was suddenly queasy as I pocketed the key. What if…what if I turned out to be a disappointment after she risked everything?

“I’m dying for you.”

The whispered words nearly brought me to my knees. “Yes. Yes. I’ll be there.”

Waiting. I remember waiting that night, too. I walked around the block a half dozen times before I mustered the courage to go inside. The hotel lobby seemed to stretch for a hundred miles. I was the only person there except for the desk clerk, whose eyes followed me knowingly on my trek to the elevator. Once in the room, I didn’t know what to do. I was too nervous to sit, too unsteady to pace. The sound of a key in the lock brought my heart to a standstill.

And then she was inside with me, and there were no more questions. She smiled and so did I. I met her halfway and put my hands to her face as she brought hers to my shoulders. I kissed her and she kissed me back. And then we stood for a long time, arms around each other, holding so tightly that we didn’t even sway. I listened to her breathe, felt the timbre of her heartbeat against my chest, smelled her shampoo—tried to memorize every sensation that was her. Knowing I would need those memories to last, to live on, perhaps forever.

“You’re here,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

*

As I did all the nights I lay awake aching for her touch, I closed my eyes and watched her face grow fierce with pleasure. I took a breath and smelled her hair. I brushed my thumb over my fingertips and felt the silky smoothness of her skin. Immersed in her, I waited.

The scratch of metal on metal drew me back and I looked around the strange but familiar room. I held my breath, as I always did, until the heavy wooden door swung open and she was inside with me, safe.

“You’re here,” she said softly, as she always does.

“Yes.”

Tonight, she unbuttoned her blouse as she crossed the room. By the time she stood in front of me, she was naked from the waist up. She curved her fingers behind my head and led me to her, pressing my face against her abdomen. I licked her skin as I circled her hips with my arms. She settled both hands in my hair and stroked my neck and shoulders as I caressed her with my mouth.

Finally, I tilted my head back and swept my gaze up her body. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, counterpoint to the pulse that beat beneath the arched column of her neck. The pink nipples were already swollen and hard with arousal. Her pupils were solid black disks beneath heavy lids.

Watching her watch me, as I had done for so many long, lonely months, I worked the button loose on her waistband and slid down the zipper. Her thumbs dug into the muscles at the angle between my neck and shoulders and her thighs shook. I caught the edges of her panties in my fingers and slid them down along with her slacks. When she stepped free of the garments, she left her shoes behind as well. Nude now, she stood between my parted thighs, swaying slightly. I held her gaze as wordlessly I skimmed both hands up the inside of her legs to frame her sex, crowned by a darker shade of gold than those sun-kissed strands above.

I did not touch her. I did not need to. She was ready for me, rising full and proud, beckoning my mouth. Her lids flickered once as I circled my lips around her clitoris, pulling her in, and she leaned more heavily against me, trembling. Here in this room, time meant nothing. All that mattered was the flush on her neck, and the dew of desire on her skin, and the flood of arousal on my lips. I felt her heart beat inside my mouth as I watched the echo in her throat. She tensed, pushing against me, bruising my lips. Her gaze was fierce as she prepared to come, swelling and pounding against my mouth. Only then did I fill her, letting my hand take some of her weight as she settled down upon my fingers, stretching to take me in.

I pulled at her with my lips, devoured her with my tongue, caressed the tight muscles inside until her lips parted with a high, thin cry. Still, she kept her eyes open, fixed on my face as her orgasm broke over her. I stopped breathing and grew light-headed, but I wanted nothing—not even the sound of my own breath moving in my chest—to dampen her cries of pleasure.

I would live on those sounds for weeks, feasting on the beauty of her passion, filling the hungry places in my soul with the memory of her pleasure. I would have kept my mouth on her, would have made her come again, if she hadn’t nearly fallen as the crushing climax released her. When she sagged against me, I rose and held her close, murmuring words of love so inadequate I nearly wept at my impotence. With my mouth on hers, catching the last sighs of her release on my tongue, I eased down onto the bed with her in my arms. Side by side, we lay gently touching.

“You’re here,” she whispered at last.

I smiled and kissed the wistfulness from her eyes. “Yes.”

“They’re never enough, these moments.”

I pressed my fingers to her lips and then replaced them with my mouth. I had no answer, only my kisses. Those I gave freely, along with my heart, until her sadness turned to desire, and desire to demand. She pushed me over, stripped me bare, and took what was already hers. When she was over me, inside me, there was no time at all. No past, no future, no moments to steal or lose. Only us, joined—one love, one truth.

Saggio
(Sage) Amante
is a fun-loving and passionate raconteur who lives, loves, and writes in the deep South. She enjoys work, pleasure, culinary adventures, pleasure, Sapphic fiction, pleasure, Sapphic poetry, and pleasure.  One of her favorite quotes is by Margaret Mead: “Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else.”

Lynn Ames
is the best-selling author of
The Price of Fame
and
The Cost of Commitment
and a contributing author to
Infinite Pleasures: An Anthology of Lesbian Erotica, Telltale Kisses,
and
Call of the Dark
. An award-winning former broadcast journalist, Ms. Ames is a nationally recognized speaker and CEO of her own public relations firm. For additional information, short stories, etc., please visit her Web site at www.lynnames.com or e-mail her at [email protected].

Aunt Fanny
is a professional storyteller, a graduated fellow of the Greater Valley Writing Project, and a former guest speaker for the California Reader’s Association at Asilomar. She now lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her Beloved, whom she married at San Francisco’s City Hall. She’s turned her hand to writing and has one novel making the rounds of publishing houses. Another is under way.

Kim Baldwin
lives in a cabin in the north woods. She began writing fiction after a twenty-year career in journalism. Romance, nature, and adventure are key themes in her stories.
Overdue
revisits a couple introduced in
A Slice of Heaven
, a short story on her Web site at www.geocities.com/woodsbard. She has two books in print with Bold Strokes Books:
Hunter’s Pursuit, Author’s Edition
and the new romance
Force of Nature
.

Georgia Beers
was born and raised in Rochester, New York, where she still lives with her partner, Bonnie (bless her patient heart, Bonnie has put up with Georgia for over a decade—nobody knows quite how). She happily divides her time between sales and writing. In addition to several short stories, she has published two novels with Regal Crest Enterprises,
Turning the Page
(2001) and
Thy Neighbor’s Wife
(2003). Visit her Web site at www.georgiabeers.com.

Ronnie Black
lives in the desert Southwest, where she pursues writing as well as many other forms of creativity. Learning, reading, traveling, and playing sports are a few of her other sources of entertainment. She also relishes being an aunt and thoroughly enjoys the quality time spent with family and friends. Her first novel
In Too Deep
is available from Bold Strokes Books (2005).

Gun Brooke
hails from Sweden, where she resides with her family. Crediting her writing origins to fan fiction, she is the author of
Course of Action
(Bold Strokes Books, 2005). When not busy editing
Supreme Constellation: Book 1—Protector of the Realm
, due December 2005 from Bold Strokes Books, Gun maintains her own Web site, where she posts her stories and computer graphics: www.gbrooke-diction.com.

J.C. Chen
wrote ScullySlash in a previous life under the ridiculous pseudonym Fatladysing. While not the most aesthetically flattering of pen names, that alter ego did manage to produce four Spooky Award–winning stories, including first place in 2001 for “The Sketch.” Recently, J.C. quit her Real Job as a management consultant to form a film production company with her two best friends. Their first feature film,
Red Doors
, will be making the film festival circuit in 2005.

Lesley Davis
lives in the West Midlands of England with her American partner, Cindy.  She is devoted to writing fantasy/romance for lesbians who want heroes.  Her published works are available from www.WindstormCreative.com.

Kenya Devoreaux
is a lover of beauty in all Her forms. She is a femme-oriented femme lesbian who has found the means with which to inspire other lesbians, but still searches for the woman with whom she can share all that is inspiring. The meaning of life for her would be to traipse the landscape of art and politics, sword in one hand and her partner through time in the other.

Clio Jones
is a librarian and smut writer from Cape Cod, Massachusetts. She enjoys good shoes, strong coffee, red wine, and keeping the library quiet. Clio has published online at kinkygurl.com and is making her print debut here. Clio may be reached at [email protected].

LC Jordan
is a thirty-seven-year-old Midwestern woman who, while new to writing fiction, has had a lifelong passion for reading. Having inherited a love of books and music from both parents, she grew up composing songs and poems as a hobby. Crediting Radclyffe and the online world of fanfic as inspiration, she recently began writing the stories that kept floating just below the surface of her mind. The search for that perfect alchemy of words is still in the Bunsen burner stage.

Karin Kallmaker
is best known for more than fifteen lesbian romance novels, from
In Every Port
to the award-winning
Maybe Next Time
. She recently plunged into the world of erotica with
All the Wrong Places
and numerous short stories. In addition, she has a half dozen science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural lesbian novels (
Seeds of Fire, Christabel
et al) under the pen name Laura Adams. Karin and her partner will celebrate their twenty-eighth anniversary in 2005, and are Mom and Moogie to two children. She is descended from Lady Godiva, a fact that pleases her and seems to surprise no one.

Eevie
Keys
is an aspiring violinist whose first dream just happened to be writing. This blonde is madly in love with her fiancée and will soon be married to the most beautiful woman in the world, providing college doesn’t kill her first. Her poetry has been published in various and sundry magazines and she uses dashes like Emily Dickinson…  We promise, it’s not a coincidence. See more of her poetic-ness at www.Oceanid.org.

Marie Lyn’s
erotica has appeared in cleansheets.com, Desdmona.com and
The Best Women’s Erotica of 2005
. She studied English literature and creative writing at the University of Michigan, and her “traditional” fiction has been published in
Xylem
and
The Sarah Lawrence Review
. She currently lives in a lovely apartment in East Harlem, New York, where she enjoys taking long walks and listening to her iPod.