When Kitty talks about work, she seems to shut down, to pull back. She’s the Kitty I first met, on her phone, her attention focused. It’d taken a blackberry to snap her out of it, but I don’t have any blackberries right now, at least not with me. But I might be a perfect substitute. I want to see the happy Kitty, the relaxed Kitty. I’ve only known her a little while, but that Kitty seems to me to be her natural self.
“Think of blackberries,” I murmur, and Kitty giggles. I capture her mouth with mine, and her giggles turn to a slight gasp and moan, and I swear she melts into my arms. She tastes sweet, and I can’t get enough. We shift on the bed until she’s beneath me, her jeans-clad legs around mine. Less clothes would be ideal, but right now, we’re so perfect together that I don’t want to interrupt this. I deepen the kiss, feel her fingers in my hair pulling me closer. I could lose myself in her, in her kiss.
When we finally part, we’re both a bit breathless.
“Why is it like this?” Kitty asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But it’s amazing.”
“It is.” And then she kisses me again, and we’re tugging at clothes, taking advantage of our privacy, of the closed door. Once her shirt is off, I break the kiss and bend to her breasts, pushing down her bra so I can tongue her nipples. I take my time, first one and then the other, then again, loving as she arches against me, her nipples pebbling. She’s unbuttoning my shirt as best she can, tugging it away, but I don’t stop. I trace a line down her stomach, to the waistband of her jeans, undoing the button, pulling down the zipper, tugging them down. She squirms and tries to help and I manage to take them off, tossing them to the floor. And she’s there before me, utterly ravishing. Her lips are swollen, parted, and she’s looking hungrily at me. I hook my fingers in her panties and tug them down her legs. Once free, she parts her legs for me and I make my way back up, taking tiny tastes and nips of her skin as I go. I pause above her dark curls, dropping a kiss there, watching her.
“Don’t stop,” Kitty says hoarsely, reaching out to me, her fingers brushing my cheeks, then sliding into my hair. I rest my hands on her thighs, my thumbs resting on the hollows of her inner thighs, lightly stroking. The skin is damp, and I part her lips there, bending to taste her.
She’s better than blackberries, better than any of the fruit in the greenhouse. I lick and tease her and she gasps and quivers and I can’t get enough.
Just as she seems to be coming toward orgasm, I leave her sex and move upward once more. She accepts my kiss with hunger, and before I know it, she’s moved, putting me beneath her, pushing my shirt off my shoulders, unhooking my bra. She pulls it off, throws it away, takes my breasts in her hands, bringing them together and up, her thumbs moving over my nipples, bringing them to peaks. She tastes one, then the other, echoing my earlier movements, until her teeth graze them and she sucks hard. I try to keep from making too much noise, but I know that I did groan before I could stop myself. She nibbles at me, and though I’ve never come from it before, I just might now. She’s nudging my thighs apart with her knee, and it doesn’t take long before she’s pulling my jeans down and off, my plain black briefs with them.
She cups my sex with her hand, her fingers resting against me. “Tell me what you’d like,” she says, bending forward to drop a kiss on each nipple. I put my hand over hers, pressing her fingers past my curls, into me. She moves her thumb over my clit and her fingers inside me press into my most sensitive spot. I see stars behind my closed eyes, and I’m coming before I can stop myself. It’s so quick, so easy, so unexpected. The orgasm washes over me, leaving tingles and a hum throughout my entire body.
When I finally open my eyes, Kitty is hovering above me, stroking my sex still, gently, triggering little sparks.
“You haven’t come yet.”
“No,” Kitty says, “but I’m close from just seeing you come.”
“Are you?” I slide my hand down her hip, in between her legs. She’s drenched, and my fingers slide into her easily. I can feel her tightening around my fingers, and I stroke her as her hips rock against my hand. Her head drops to my shoulder, her breath heating my neck. She’s making little gasping noises, and it’s making me wet for her again, and I want more.
“Don’t stop,” she says, reaching down to rub her clit as I stroke her. “More.”
She’s tightening, clenching, quivering around me and she lets out a breathy Oh as she comes, stiffening against me briefly before she sags, boneless. We’re sweaty and breathless, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
* * *
I don’t want to move, but I don’t want to crush Lucy. I reluctantly shift off her, but she holds me close, and I settle in next to her, our legs entwined.
“That was incredible,” Lucy says. I nod against her shoulder. A glow catches my eye and I lift my head to see her alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s getting late. I don’t want to go, but I don’t think I should stay overnight. What would her mother think?
I shift, starting to get up.
“Don’t go,” Lucy says, catching my hand. “It’s late. Stay.”
“I don’t want it to be awkward.”
“It won’t be. Trust me.”
I settle back down with Lucy, though I can’t imagine how it won’t be awkward in the morning. “Your mom won’t be mad?”
Lucy shakes her head. “Not at all. Not that I do this often,” she adds. “Or at all. But she likes you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to see me with someone.”
Being with her is a new idea, but it’s one that I like. I can picture us together, spending time together. Cooking. Eating. Curled up in bed together like we are now. I want to take her to my place too, to cook her a fancy meal, have a romantic night.
I tell her my plan, and Lucy kisses me. “You cook all the time?”
“I…well, I used to,” I reply, realizing as I speak that I haven’t truly cooked in a very long time. I keep meaning to, but coming home so late from work, I have no energy for it. Cooking tonight, with her mom, was the first time in so, so long. I want more of that, want to be creating.
“You should do it more often.”
“I should.”
“Have you ever considered working at a restaurant?” she asks. “A really nice one?”
I shake my head. Never. It wasn’t even an idea when I was growing up. A good job, a steady one, after a full university education. The expectation had never wavered. Cooking was an indulgence, if anything. Working in the restaurant was a stopgap job, shift work to fit around my classes.
“I’ve always wanted a restaurant,” she says, “even though my dad’s family struggled to move on from the restaurant in town to do something easier.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t know much about restaurants, and there’s the farm to look after. We have help, but it’s still hard work. A restaurant is full-time work and then some.”
I lie back against the soft mass of pillows, looking up to the slanted ceiling and its delicately patterned wallpaper. I can imagine Lucy bringing in a case of vegetables, imagine myself prepping and cooking, and even imagine her mom joining us. Restaurants are a lot of work. One of my first corporate clients was a restaurant owner who had franchised his operation. Supply orders, staffing, liquor, licenses…it was overwhelming.
“It really is. There are so many things to worry about, so much to do. What sort of food would you have?”
“A mix of things,” Lucy replies. Her fingers move through my hair, caressing, a movement that seems unconscious. “The restaurant my family ran had mostly heavier fried foods for their Chinese section, and then stuff like hot turkey sandwiches and fries. You’d be lucky to get a salad or anything green. I’d make a nod to those, of course, because they’re classic, but I’d stretch the menu, make it more interesting. Challenge people with things like bird’s nest soup, maybe. Or with lotus root salad. Give them new flavors to go with the old. Ginger beef for the diehards, though.” She chuckles. “Even though it was invented in Calgary.”
“It was?”
“Not a classic dish at all, but a good one.”
“I’ve always liked it. Take-out Chinese is more of a staple than I’d like to admit.”
“How come?”
“No time to make my own.”
“You work a lot.” She tweaks a lock of my hair to show that she’s not judging. Her voice is gentle.
“I do.”
“Maybe I should come distract you with blackberries more often,” she teases. “Or maybe we should open up a restaurant together.”
“It’d be crazy.”
Lucy chuckles again. “But a fun crazy.”
Even as we doze off, I can’t stop thinking about it. Cooking tonight was so much fun, and I wish I could do it more. I know I could run a restaurant, but I can’t change careers. Not now. I’m too close to my goal. That partnership…I can taste it.