I push one finger slowly inside her and she gasps. She’s used to more foreplay from me. I’ll gladly spend hours kissing every inch of her body, deliriously happy to feel her heat seep into me. She may be surprised by my approach—she’s still dressed and standing in my entryway—but she’s definitely ready. She shifts slightly, opening herself up to me, and her arousal, hot and wet, slides down my finger and coats my hand.

  “Everyone knows.” She half whispers, half moans, and I’m given the answer to why she parked in front of my house in the middle of the day. I’m no longer her dirty little secret; now I’m her revenge fuck. I slide out and push back in, quick and hard, two fingers this time, and she whimpers.

  I maneuver her back, shuffling with my fingers still inside her, curling and uncurling, teasing her G-spot as we go—left foot, curl; right foot, uncurl—until her back is against the wall and I’m pressed tight against her. Her breathing is erratic and hot against my face. I hold my lips just out of her reach, content to share her air as I pump into her.

  Her eyes slip shut and her head falls back against the wall. “I’m filing for divorce.”

  I fuck her harder, grasping her leg just below the knee and drawing it up to my waist. I use my hips for extra power. I want her to feel me tomorrow, long after she’s gone home to him. I can feel her drawing tighter and when she comes I want to be the only person on her mind. “Next time call on your way over.” I speak against her mouth, still not kissing her, but close enough to tease her lips with my tongue. “And I’ll wear my strap-on.”

  “Yes.” She gasps and digs her fingers into my shoulder. She’s got long, manicured acrylics and even through the fabric of my shirt, I know she’ll leave a mark.

  “I’ll bend you over the back of my sofa and fuck you from behind.” I generally avoid vulgarities with Lonnie. She’s precious, like china, and I like to fill her slowly and watch as she overflows. But today she needs to be taken in a way that makes her forget about her husband and his lover who is half her age. I move my mouth to her ear. “That would be so fucking hot. Your panties around your ankles, skirt around your waist, and your ass rocking back to meet my cock.” I suck hard on her pulse point, forgetting that she always cautions against leaving marks.

  Lonnie grips my head to her throat and thrashes her hips against mine. She’s satin smooth and heaven soft around me, and I don’t want it to end. I can feel her getting closer, her muscles drawing tighter. Her legs begin to shake as I smooth my palm over her hip and around to squeeze her ass.

  “Oh, my god. Don’t stop.” She grinds her teeth together, catching my shoulder between them. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Lonnie is a loud, appreciative lover, a shouter, a moaner. Today her words are strangled, like she’s choking back the moment.

  “Let it go, baby.” I add a third finger and she groans, her hips thrusting forward. She’s tight and my fingers cramp together. Any mobility I had to twist and massage is gone. This isn’t about finesse and gentle caressing, it’s about power and pushing deeper and harder and faster.

  One final push and she collapses in my arms, tears streaking down her face. She’s quivering, that uncontrollable jerking that comes from being fucked properly, and her shoulders are shaking. I remove my hand as gently as possible and wrap my arms around her.

  “Why’d he do it?” Her mascara runs, circling her eyes.

  I lead her to the bedroom and sit her on my bed. “Wait right here.” I press a soft kiss into her hair.

  Perhaps another glass of whiskey, or a nice, hot, bubble bath? Bubbles rank right up there with Jack Daniels for problem-solving abilities. First things first. I get a warm washcloth and wipe the makeup from her face, whispering nonsense words as I go.

  “I should leave him.” She grips both my hands in hers, desperate and tight.

  I nod. “You should.”

  “What would I do?” She’s asking a question she knows the answer to. She doesn’t need him. She’s a Southern woman who aspires to Scarlett O’Hara greatness. No matter the adversity, she will overcome. That’s just the way of things. But she looks so sad, so lost.

  “You could stay here. With me.” I say it casually with a shrug. She’ll say no, and I should be happy that she came to me today. When she needed comfort, she chose me. Not her best friends at the country club, not her own daughters, and not the husband she leaves me for every other time we’re together. She’s always been so careful, has me trained so well to hide my feelings in public. The thought of her car parked in front of my house gives me a simultaneous wave of nausea and tingle of excitement.

  She laughs, throaty and soft, and cups my cheek, her thumb smoothing back and forth over my skin. “Oh, sugar, you’re so sweet.”

  “Not trying to be sweet.” I open the buttons on the front of her dress slowly and slide it off her shoulders. “Who wouldn’t want to wake up next to you every day?” I kiss along her jawline, down her neck, into the tight cleavage as I reach around and loosen the hooks on her bra.

  “Your mama would kill me.” My mama sings soprano to Lonnie’s alto in the church choir; they went to school together, stood up for each other when they got married and babysat each other’s kids when we were little. She’s right. Mama would kill her.

  “I’d kiss it better.” I suck a nipple between my lips, grazing my teeth over the tip. The buckle holding her belt in place is stubborn. I move away from her slightly and focus on releasing it. More than anything, I want her naked and stretched out before me.

  “Let me.” She loosens the belt easily and stands. The fabric pools at her feet.

  “You’re beautiful.” I brush my hands over her skin, palms flat, fingers spread wide. I want to touch all of her.

  She shifts her weight from her left to right foot, then steps out of her heels. Garter belt, sheer black stockings and satin panties, and I’m panting at the sight of her. With past lovers I would rush, bent on getting to the prize. With her, there’s too much pleasure in unwrapping the layers to hurry through.

  “What are you doing with me?” This is a variation on a question she asks almost every time we are together. Usually it’s the other way around; she wants to know what she’s doing with me.

  I kneel before her, working steadily to unfasten the clasps holding her stockings in place: first the front on her right leg, followed by a kiss to the exposed skin, then the back on the same leg. I want to kiss there as well, but it would involve too much maneuvering. She’s uncertain right now and I need to keep her grounded in the moment with me. Instead of using my lips, I caress the flesh of her thigh, teasing upward to finger the edge of her panties. A shiver runs through her and I kiss her again, this time a little closer to center.

  “Let’s get this other one off, too.” I speak softly. I want my words to be just as seductive, just as comforting, as my touch.

  With both sides unhooked, I carefully, slowly roll the stockings down her legs. I love this process, the gradual revealing of her skin. It’s like opening the best Christmas present ever. When I reach her feet, she steps out of the stockings. I fold them in half and place them on top of her shoes. She’s almost naked and we’re both shaking. I debate letting her lie down, but I don’t want to do that until she’s stripped bare.

  I run both hands up her legs, gliding over her skin, but not really touching. I stop when I reach her panties, fingering the very edge but not letting myself go farther. I want them off so much that I don’t trust myself not to fumble.

  “Take…” My voice is too rough. I swallow and try again. “Take these off for me?”

  She doesn’t take nearly the care that I did with her dress and stockings. Rather, she pushes them down, garter belt and all, hastily, breathing hard and kissing me in an awkward, crunched-over-in-the-middle position that is sexy in its desperation. When she pulls out of the kiss, I chase after her with my lips, mouth partly open. She leaves me dazed.

  Lonnie’s had twenty-five years longer than me to learn the art of seduction, and she’s a master. She lies on the bed with her elbows, chest jutting out. “I want to feel you.”

  She doesn’t ask for this often, preferring, I think, not to be reminded of the show of age on her body. Before she can change her mind, I strip—in a very unsexy manner—and trip onto the bed, my jeans caught around my ankles. I curse, remove my boots and push my pants off. Lonnie laughs.

  “What you lack in style, you definitely make up for with enthusiasm.”

  I crawl up her body, holding myself over her, close enough to feel the electric connection but too far to touch. This is a recurring theme with our lovemaking, the barely there caress. She’s so far above me, she feels out of reach. No matter how many times she comes with my name on her lips, I can’t believe she’s here with me. If I touch her wrong, grip her too hard, she might disappear completely.

  Rather than settle on top of her, I curl into her side. Even this limited contact with her is overwhelming. I drag my fingers down her side in a lazy pattern. I want to take her again, but she deserves to be cherished, savored thoroughly.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She wraps her arms around me, solid and tight.

  “Which question?” I can’t focus when we are this close. My world is narrowed to the throbbing pulse between my legs and the answering hum I feel from her body.

  “Why are you with me?” She holds my gaze, and her chin wavers slightly. I hate that Glen’s indiscretion is making her question herself.

  “Because I’m lucky.” I press a small kiss to her throat and spread my palm over her tummy, covering the network of stretch marks across her abdomen. I focus on one and trace it until it fades and a new one starts close to it.

  She places her hand over mine. “How can you say that? Those lines are older than you.” Her oldest was four years ahead of me in school.

  “Those lines are beautiful.” I kiss her belly, soft little butterfly kisses touching as many as possible. I love the parts of her body that she sees as imperfection. The way her breasts rest heavy and low. The web of stretch marks traveling toward her pubic area. The swell of her hips, generous and lush. All of these tell of her life. She’s a story to be read and enjoyed often. “So sexy.”

  When she arrived, she needed to be possessed, taken. With that urgency sated, she lays her emotional insecurities out for me to hold tenderly until they don’t haunt her quite so loudly. I hope to god I’m worthy of such trust.

  She runs her hands through my hair. It’s long and full of tangles, and I think fleetingly of cutting it short. A cute little spiky butch cut. I mentioned it to Lonnie once, asked if she liked it. She looked stricken. “If you do that, KC, everyone will know.” Funny that her closet is big enough to contain both of us.

  “I believe it when you say it,” Lonnie whispers and pulls me up, face-to-face. The look in her eyes is deep and slightly wounded, but also showing the knowledge that she will be okay.

  I kiss her, letting my tongue slip between her lips. Everything about her, about our relationship, passes between us in the perfect, soft glide of her tongue against mine. “Believe it because it’s true.”

  I think she might touch me then, more that the fleeting brush of her fingers through my hair, but she doesn’t. Rather she pulls me on top of her, the worry in her eyes replaced by lust and determination.

  “You mentioned a strap-on…” She blushes when she says it. It’s cute and sexy, like a shy schoolgirl determined to be bad.

  “I did.” I glide my hand down her body, touching more firmly now, caressing the curve of her hip. “But right now I’d rather just touch you.” I slip my fingers between her legs, smoothing her desire over her clit. I want so bad to slide down her body and take her into my mouth, to drink every drop she has to offer. More than that I want to look in her eyes, to stay right here with her while I stroke her over the edge.

  She spreads her legs and I straddle her thigh. We moan together as I coat her skin with my arousal. If I’m careful and focus on anything but the sexy woman beneath me, I might just be able to hold off my own orgasm until she’s ready to come again. I love coming with her. Just the thought sends a bolt of desire through me.

  I circle her clit, slow and easy, just saying Hello, good to see you again. Maybe in a few minutes, after she’s come and come down, I’ll slip on my strap-on and fuck her hard again. We’ve never done that. I’m surprised she asked so boldly. That kind of initiative deserves reward.

  For now, though, I’m lost in the slip-glide of my fingers over her sex, the roll of her hips as she thrusts up to meet me. Her muscles quiver, she’s so close again, and I can give in to the rising pulse of need inside me. No need to hold back with her. She’s always so hot, so ready, when she comes to me—insatiable. Yet she wants to know why I’m with her. How could I not be?

  I tease her opening, just the hint of slipping my fingers inside and she holds perfectly still, her body coiled tight. I could push into her and push her completely beyond reason. Instead I hold my fingers there, thrashing my pussy against her thigh, the friction bringing me higher. The movement drives me farther into her, cupping her clit with my palm, my full weight behind it. She writhes against me.

  The world is reduced to the hot pull of her body beneath me, and I can’t hold out a moment longer. I thrust my fingers inside of her, and she cries out. “God, yes.” She clutches my wrist, forcing me out, then back in again, harder than before. She’s bucking against me, demanding I meet her rhythm. Lord knows I want to. She is wild, her body tight as she jerks her hips. And then she pulls tight, her eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, and she releases a warrior’s cry, a long, drawn-out, “Yeeeesssss.”

  There is nothing sexier than Lonnie when she lets go. One last thrust against her leg and I’m spent. I forget to hold myself off her, laying my body over hers, panting and head spinning.

  I’m desperate to make sense of her visit to me, but I know I won’t be able to. When I sit back, evaluating if she wants more or if she’s done with me for now, she smiles, all honey and molasses.

  “Sugar, that’s just what I needed.” She pats my bottom and shifts beneath me. She’s ready to go home and I’m in her way.

  I watch as she dresses, not bothering with my own clothes. A shower is in order. She pauses at the door and looks back at me over her shoulder. “I’ll call before I come over next time.”

  As the door sweeps shut behind her, my short-lived fantasy that she might open her life to me is shattered. She’s on her way home to her husband, and she’ll probably scream and yell and throw things. Ultimately, however, she’ll forgive him. With the click of the door latching, I’m once again reduced to the status of dirty little secret.

  ARE YOU GONNA BE MY GIRL?

  Jade Melisande

  It’s late afternoon. Ahead of us the sun is beginning to set, dull gold and orange streaking the undersides of clouds where the sky meets the road. Keri sleeps on the bench seat next to me, her head on my shoulder, her breathing a soft counterpoint to the mellow jazz I have on the radio. We’ve been traveling this way, her dozing, me driving, for about six hours.

  “Keri,” I say, “I got to stop for gas. You need to go to the bathroom or want something to snack on?”

  She stirs drowsily, blinking, realizes where her head has been for the last two hours and straightens self-consciously. She stares muzzily out the window. We are twenty-five miles from nowhere, the road snaking through verdant fields of tall corn on either side of us. “Where are we?” she asks.

  What she really wants to know is: how far have we gotten? Far enough?

  “We’ve made it about three hundred and fifty miles,” I say, answering her unspoken question. She turns eyes like dark bruises to me, searching my face briefly, before turning back to the window.

  “Sign said there’s a town five miles ahead. We can stop and get gas, stretch our legs. Give the Beast a rest.” I pat the dash of the Chevy lovingly. The old girl’s been a trouper, driving clear across the country with hardly a protest. They don’t make them like they used to anymore.

  “Sure,” she says listlessly. I want to reach out to her, to pull her back over to me, but, hesitant for all kinds of reasons, I settle for touching her hand lightly.

  She doesn’t flinch or pull away.

  “It’ll be okay,” I say.

  She takes a breath, quick and shallow, doesn’t reply.

  I don’t push it. I know she’ll be okay. She just needs to know it—to believe it—too.

  At the gas station she heads into the store for a soda while I fill the Beast with gas and check the fluid levels.

  I am leaning against the truck as she comes out of the convenience store. I pretend that I am watching the gas pump, watching the numbers on the screen flash by, but really I am watching her, thinking about her, thinking about what I would do if she were mine to do things to. I can’t help it; I have been thinking these thoughts for three hundred and fifty miles as she slept next to me, her round cheek pressed against my arm, her soft breasts rising and falling beneath her T-shirt like the road winding through the cornfields, easy, gentle.

  I’ve been thinking of the last time I saw her, before this five-hundred-mile trek. The girl walking toward me now has the wary look of a hurt animal, so different from the ebullient, animated woman I watched walk out of my life a year ago. I’ve thought a lot about that last night with her, about feeling her lips on mine, the taste of wine on her mouth, her warm tongue slipping tentatively against mine, testing, tasting. I wonder if I’d taken advantage of what she offered that night, would we be here now; would she ever have left as she had, following her lover to Amarillo, and heartbreak?

  I’d wanted her since I’d met her at a party the year before. We’d been friends right from the start, but friendships with straight girls can be precarious. You’ve got to be extra careful, be sure that you aren’t stepping over any boundaries. Still, there were moments, glances, a smile, a touch of her hand. One night, after a concert in the park, we’d sat in the dark on our blanket after it was over, talking about men and relationships and our hopes and our dreams, sharing so much of ourselves that I thought maybe, maybe, this was it. I was tired of being careful, tired of exercising caution. I’d reached over to stroke her hair back from her face, then leaned over and touched my lips to hers, so gently, a question. For one heart-stopping moment she had kissed me back, her lips parted, her mouth soft against mine.