Lucy’s cheeks are a bit flushed, and I wonder why, because I’m pretty sure a metal roadrunner sculpture is not what’s doing that. I know that my own flush isn’t about a sculpture. Or about perimenopausal hot flashes. I’m not quite at that point at thirty-eight. I know what’s causing it, and I hope that’s what’s affecting Lucy too.
Her proximity, her movements, her very being is tantalizing to me. I want to touch her, I want to kiss her, I want…I want her to want me too. I want to be certain.
But of course, nothing is certain. Even law isn’t certain, but I can always make an argument. Is that what I need here? An argument? A way to convince Lucy to take a chance on me?
I turn back to the berries and top up my second punnet. The bushes are nearly picked clean, and I know that’s going to be it for blackberries for a long while. I turn my head, ready to say as much to Lucy, and she’s right there, barely a step away. I didn’t even hear her approach.
“Almost done,” I manage to stutter out. Barely. My voice is uncharacteristically rough, and my throat feels tight.
“There’s not much left,” Lucy agrees, but it’s a distracted reply. She reaches up, her hand slightly dusty with dirt and work-roughened, and her fingers hover a hairbreadth from my cheek. Her gaze meets mine, her dark eyes uncertain. I know my eyes mirror hers; I’m not certain either.
But there’s one thing I’m becoming certain of. This proximity, this brief second, needs just a little push. And I can push.
I turn my cheek just enough that it brushes her fingers, and I lean into her touch. Her hand is warm, and her fingertips aren’t as soft as mine, but it’s just about perfect. She strokes her thumb over my cheekbone, and our gazes meet. The uncertainty is gone, and I can feel her breath on my face, a delicate caress over my skin that gives me tiny goose bumps. I lean into her touch even more, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath of her scent, of the greenhouse.
And then…her lips brush mine, tentative, gentle.
My eyes open and I step forward, melding our bodies into one, returning her kiss, deepening it. And she responds, her hand at my hip, keeping me there, the hand once on my cheek now sliding under my hair to the back of my neck. A statement if there ever was one, a possession. Our tongues are tangling, our mouths together, our chests and hips aligned. I don’t want anything but her, anything but this moment, us here together. Everything else has faded.
I feel the tug on my shirt, then her hand under the hem, skating up my back, splaying between my shoulder blades, pressing me closer still. For someone so quiet, she’s taken control, directing me, commanding me, and it makes me weak in the knees. I cling to her, my hands at her waist, fingers through the loops of her jeans, as she ravishes my mouth. This is so much, yet not enough. I need more.
Lucy seems to know somehow, to sense my need, my desperation, my arousal. I feel her fingers now on my belly, then at the button of my jeans, then at the zipper, drawing it downward. Her mouth leaves mine, and we’re both panting, breathless.
“Tell me you want this,” she says, her voice a gasp. Her lips are swollen from our kisses, and her cheeks are flushed, and she is gorgeous, more beautiful than ever. I’ve never wanted anything, anyone, more in my life than I do her, right this moment.
“Don’t stop,” I say, and I take her hand, directing her down into my pants, past my curls, to the wettest, hottest spot. Her fingers curl, stroking, and her hand is pressed to me, the jeans keeping things snug and tight. I drop my head to her shoulder as she strokes, and when she penetrates me, I feel like I am going to collapse, my knees shaking. She feels it, knows it, and she shifts me until we’re at the edge of a row of plants, a metal rack behind me. Her fingers plunge in deeper, then out and in again, and I can feel the metal rails against my back, helping me stay upright.
I kiss her then, putting all my need and want into that touch. I’m sure I’ve soaked her hand and my jeans, and I can feel my end getting closer, nearer, coming to that precipice of pleasure that I’ve always loved. Then she moves her hand, rubbing against my clit while she’s still plunging into me, and that’s what it takes.
The orgasm is more than I’ve ever imagined, more than I’ve ever experienced. It goes on and on, and I lose any sense of my surroundings beyond her, beyond her body and her hand and her mouth. All I can feel is the pleasure and her.
When I open my eyes again, we’re half crumpled against the rack. Lucy eases her hand out from my jeans, triggering a delicious twinge of pleasure, an aftershock.
I snake a hand out, around her waist, under her shirt. She’s warm, incredibly warm. And this isn’t enough. I want more. I want to be the one to make her come the way she made me.
* * *
I did that to her. For her. And it was hot. More than I’d ever expected, ever even fantasized. Kitty’s hand is under my shirt now and her touch is all I can focus on, all I want. She leans in close, her lips hovering over mine, her breath warm on my face, still quickened from her orgasm. I shift, feeling the dampness between my thighs, knowing I’m flushed, ready. I kiss her again, and it turns from tender to needy, devouring and delicious. Kitty nudges her leg between mine and it’s easy to ride her, the friction hot as I rock against her thigh, the seam of my jeans as tantalizing as fingers in its pressure on my clit.
Kitty breaks the kiss to unbutton my shirt and push down my bra, baring my small breasts and pebbling nipples to her gaze. She dips her head, takes a nipple in her mouth, and that hot, wet sensation is more amazing than I’d ever expected. None of my previous girlfriends ever managed to make it so hot, to have my nipple become a conduit of pleasure to my sex the way Kitty has. Her teeth nip and scrape, her tongue laps and swirls, and then she moves to the other nipple and does the same, until both are swollen and reddened from her attentions. I keep rocking against her, my thighs clamped to her leg. It’s a bit like being a teenager again, sneaking those stolen moments, those furtive orgasms.
She tears at my jeans, at the button, then the zipper, and then shoves her hand inside, no finesse, but I don’t care. She’s where I want her, where I need her, her fingers gliding over my clit, putting pressure and a slight pinch that makes me shudder.
I’m not sure how I’m still standing. She’s holding me up, propping me up against the rack, and one of my hands is woven through her belt loops. Not that her jeans are staying put. They’ve sagged since she never did them up. I can see her tiny panties, rumpled and damp from my hand. And oh God, do I want her. I want her to come again for me, on my hand, on my mouth, again and again.
Kitty presses her fingers into me, the heel of her hand adding pressure on my clit, and I lose all sense of time and space, focusing on her hand, on those fingers, on that rocking against my most sensitive place. She curls her tongue around my nipple, then closes her mouth over it, and then I feel her teeth, harder than before, but it’s pleasure, not pain.
And it’s enough. More than enough to send me over the edge, coming against her hand, my knees shaking, my head falling onto her shoulder. I’ve never had it so good. And she drags it out, keeping her fingers in me, stroking, the heel of her hand slowly rocking against my clit. It’s amazing, all the little aftershocks, all those pulses of feeling.
I don’t ever want this to end. But I remember where we are, and the chances of Alice walking in on us. Or Mama. Even worse.
I lift my head from her shoulder. She smiles at me, and I feel a rush of affection, of lust, of perhaps something a little more. Though it’s early, and we’ve only really just met. But does that make a difference? I don’t know. It feels too early, yet not.
“I wasn’t planning for that to be part of the tour,” I say, straightening, taking her hand as she slides it out from my jeans.
Kitty’s expression drops. “You didn’t like it?”
“It was incredible,” I assure her, and lean forward to drop a kiss on her lips. I take a glance behind us, back toward the greenhouse door. “I just don’t want to have company.”
Kitty flushes, a beautiful sight.
I let go of her hand, but not before dropping a kiss on her palm. I do up my jeans, straighten my bra and my shirt, and hope that I don’t look like I’ve just had sex next to the blackberries. Kitty does the same, and even slightly rumpled, I think she looks even more gorgeous than she did earlier.
I take a moment to tidy up the punnets, putting the two full of blackberries aside. “We’ll come back for those. Want to see more?”
Kitty giggles and the sound is warm, delightful, and surprisingly girlish. “I don’t know if anything can top that.”
Now it’s my turn to flush. I shouldn’t really, but I can’t help it.
“We have vegetables too.” I keep going, because if I don’t, I’ll want her again, and it’s too soon. And Alice might come into the greenhouse. Kitty follows me down the rows, and I feel a tug on my belt loops.
“Just trying to keep up,” she says, and I slow, letting her lean right up against me, her warmth delicious. We kiss again, but it’s brief, a momentary touching.
I show her the rest of the greenhouse, and she’s interested, but when she spots another of my sculptures, this one a pair of mice made from old motorcycle parts and some spare wire, all her attention is on them and away from the plants.
“I still can’t believe you do these,” she says, as she drops to one knee, looking more closely at the mice. They’re not my best work—I probably should have shaped the old clunky carburetors more, made them more organic. One day I might make more of those, but these days, it’s the dragon.
“Do you have more?” Kitty asks, rising to her feet. I look out toward the outbuilding, and I know I should just say yes, but…I don’t know. Art is vulnerable, more vulnerable even than sex. It’s judgment, definitely. Nothing like being called crazy when your art doesn’t fit over someone’s sofa, or doesn’t look like a bunch of dogs playing poker, or Monet’s water lilies. I used to put old parts together even when I was a kid, and my dad encouraged it, handing me little bits and pieces. He taught me to weld, against Mama’s wishes. That was a boy’s work, a man’s work, she said. Not a girl’s. But she doesn’t mind it now. She knows I’m sensible and safe. Although she finds my sculptures quirky. Mind you, I’ve made her useful things as well. Fixed a few lamps, made her a bed frame when the cheap one failed. That sort of thing. But there’s still that fear there, that bunch of nerves.
“Where’d you go?” Kitty asks, and I feel her hand on my cheek. I refocus, and she’s looking a touch worried, a bit of a worry line forming between her eyebrows.
“Just thinking,” I say, shrugging.
“About what?”
“Art.” I take a deep breath. Time for the plunge. “Want to come see?”
Kitty’s smile widens, brilliant. “Do I ever.”