Anything She Wants (6 page)

Alex was no longer wearing the flesh-colored panties.

Powerless to hold it back, Katherine gave a low husky moan. In response, the dark mound rose up in front of her, offering glistening, pink folds. Alex’s hands found her head and pressed her urgently towards its centre. There was no mistaking her intention.

Katherine kissed its crown avidly, breathing in the aroma it offered before snaking her tongue down through the slippery folds and flicking the erect nub with its tip. Nibbling, sucking, teasing, she could feel Alex’s juices running down her chin. No longer a character caught up in a movie, she knew she was playing a part far bigger than any she’d played before; one that had been written especially for her. Her hands reached up and cupped Alex’s breasts; their warm softness amazing her once more. She grazed her knuckles against Alex’s taut nipples, then edged her hands lower beneath the covers. Alex groaned and Katherine again felt the tight material of her soaked panties against her. It was no good, as much as she wanted to please Alex, she had to touch herself.

She thrust her fingers down past the elastic waistband and felt the liberated hot rush of slippery wetness. With a practised hand, she stroked her aching flesh. Alex strained against her, tilting her pelvis, inviting more attention. Katherine raised her mouth slightly, giving her just enough room to accommodate her hand, then gently eased one finger inside. Alex groaned her approval. Katherine added another finger and slowly slipped them rhythmically in and out. Alex matched her pattern, increasing her speed, urging Katherine to keep time with her thrusting hips. Lifting her head, Katherine stepped up her pace and applied more pressure with her fingers, driving harder and harder into Alex’s tight cavity. No longer needing to stroke herself, she placed her other hand low beneath Alex’s back, copying the upward movements; accentuating the relentless passage of her fingers in and out. In and out.

She felt Alex tighten and begin to spasm beneath her.
 

“Tell me,” she urged softly. “I want to hear you scream. I want to know just how good I’m making you feel.”

Almost immediately, Alex exclaimed the first of several throaty shrieks, leaving Katherine in no doubt about her ability.

The faint shout from someone in the background brought Katherine back to reality. Wiping her mouth on the sheet, she cautiously lifted her head and carefully rearranged the covers so as not to expose Alex.
 

Hurriedly searching for her robe, she glanced at Alex and saw her lying motionless on her pillow. Tears streaked her face.
 

“Hey.” Katherine gave her a quick hug, all too aware of the curious glances they were earning. “That was inspired,” she said. “Well done.”

Alex picked up on her subterfuge and dabbed her eyes with the sheet. “Personally, I thought there was a little too much bobbing.”

“Perhaps,” Katherine concurred. “Would you like to discuss it over a drink?” She held out Alex’s robe and slipped it around her. “Or is Josh expecting you?”

Alex ran her fingers up Katherine’s arm and grabbed her hand. “Josh Daniels’ expectations are of no importance whatsoever. My trailer! Now!”

Steps

L.C. Spoering

My mother had this dress when I was a kid: long, red, and strapless. It ran down the length of her body like a second skin, flaring out at her thighs. The top cupped her breasts like overflowing bowls, and seemed to defy gravity—surely, no dress could contain a body like that. She wore it at least once a month, when she went out.
 

There were probably other dresses, but that’s the one I remember: scarlet, tomato red, fire engine, poppy, the red of blood just as it wells at a cut. The dress that dreams are made of.

This was my perception of women, growing up, and this is important, they say. I watched my raven-haired mother with her hourglass body and slow, sly smile, and that dress that screamed sex and power before I knew what either were. I watched her from my bedroom window as she headed out, and anticipated the day that I, too, would wear a dress. Just like that.

That day never came. I am not the kind of woman to command a room with my breasts, nor would I ever want to be. Where my big child eyes longed for the time when I would slither into red silken fabric the way my mother did, as I stretched taller, and as my hips widened and my own breasts started making my chest ache in gym class, I knew it was not meant to be.

* * *

I am standing at the edge of the dance floor in a club too hip to have a name, hating everything that brought me here, including Maria, and Brit, and long-legged Cassidy in her crop-top and jeans that show off her ass. I’m not a club person, but I let them lure me here, and abandon me, and I cross and recross my arms over my chest, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes while I nurse my gin and tonic.

I do not wear dresses. This is not who I am, nor who I have wanted to be, once I grew out of that spell-bound adoration of my mother. I am wearing black jeans, black button-down shirt, and a vest of charcoal with the slightest sheen. My thick-soled boots make me a whole inch taller and I stand a full head over most of the women in the club, dark hair spiked and eyes hooded. I bit my nails all day in anticipation. That anticipation was both correct and incorrect, and I’ve started muttering my friends’ names under my breath, devising ever more creative methods of torturing each of them for dragging me here.

It’s one of those situations where people are more well-meaning than polite, or even thoughtful, and I am a pushover. I’m not a club person, and my friends find this to be some kind of deficit in my personality, something to be corrected, to be modified—this notion that if I just loosened up and had some fun, maybe I’d become more sociable, more outgoing, maybe even get laid.

I drain my drink and look over the heads of the dancers out on the floor before dropping my gaze down to the crowds. It’s not a lesbian club, but the floor seems to be filled exclusively by women, and, out of idle curiosity, I do a scan of the surrounding faces, picking out, as far as I can tell, three men.
 

“Looking for someone?”

My gaze snaps down like a rubber band and comes to light on the speaker: a full head shorter than I am, wearing something I’d never venture to even try on: a short, black dress, tight like a coat of paint applied to her skin. I’m surprised at her appearance, both in presence and the sheer look of her, like a coiled snake at my feet. My heart is suddenly in my throat.

“Not really,” I manage, over the booming noise of the bass that shakes the surface under my feet, and my blood with it. I reach up, almost without conscious thought, to touch my hair, to find out if it’s blowing in this artificial movement, too.

“You here alone?” Despite the overwhelming sound of the place, and the close quarters beside us, I can feel her shift, lean against the railing next to me; her arm is warm, even through my shirt, and I feel the hairs on my arm and along the back of my neck rise.

“I came with friends,” I say, and, after a beat, confess, “They’ve ditched me already.”

She clucks her tongue. “Not very good friends.” She nudges me with her shoulder, the bend hitting me in the bicep.
 

“They think I’m more interesting than I am,” I say, shrugging, feeling the fabric of my shirt brush her shoulder. I am miserable at flirting, going deer-in-the-headlight the instant an attractive woman strikes up a conversation; this might be why my friends think I need to be fixed. For the first time in a long time, I wonder if they might be right.

“You look plenty interesting to me,” she persists, and I glance down at her again, at her slightly pursed mouth.
 

“How can you tell?” I find myself asking, arching an eyebrow in terrified bemusement.

Her expression goes smug, and it’s her turn to look over the floor, as the song shifts from one without words to another, similar but different.
 

“Just can,” she responds, but her voice is almost lost in the sound of the music. I breathe in, waiting for her to move away.

“Come on,” she says then, seizing my elbow. My crossed arms slide apart. I wasn’t expecting her to grab me, and I’m helpless. In an instant, she has me by my free hand, the other clutching the empty cup like a life preserver.

“What?” I ask, but she’s already leading me out onto the dance floor. My blood thunders in my ears, louder than the bass.
 

“I don’t know if it’s obvious,” I manage, leaning in. I have to get my mouth close to her ear to be heard, and I can smell her shampoo—something tropical, with notes of coconut, making me dizzy. “But I can’t dance.”

Her hands go to my shoulders, reaching up so that her breasts look at risk of popping out of the top of her dress. My blood pulses even harder, painful at my wrists and groin.
 

“Just move,” she commands, and I drop my cup, fingers pulsing like a palsy, so I can rest my hands on her hips, curved out at almost an impossible degree from her waist.
 

“See? You’re a natural,” she purrs, pushing closer.

“That’s all it takes?” I ask, rocking from foot to foot stiffly, trying to follow the music, the way her body swings, the communal movement of everyone around us.

“That, and the desire for it.” She pushes her fingers up to wrap around my neck so we’re pressed together.
 

“Desire for what?” I have a Master’s in mathematical theory, and I sound like a dullard.

“Me,” she says, simply, mouth curled in a smile that says she knows very well how this works.
 

My knees quake for an instant, and I have an impulse to pinch myself. She’s far from my type, but exactly it, too: too much of everything, past perfect into something other, something created out of fiction.
 

“So I’ll magically be able to dance?” I ask, snorting softly through my nose.

“You tell me,” she says, and I swallow, the sensation almost painful, fingers rippling against her dress.

She moves like a snake, like the sound the bass makes, like the beats of a drum. I follow as best I can, and she’s right: the more I want her, the better I seem to do. I stop rocking from foot to foot like a sixth grade boy at his first dance, and when her hands slide from my neck to my shoulders, down to the slope of my breasts, I raise my eyebrows.

“Is the reverse true?” I ask, licking my upper lip where sweat has managed to bead. “The more you want me…?”

She laughs and traces one of the buttons of my shirt with the edge of her thumb. “You tell me,” she says, again, tugging at the same spot to pull me closer, pull me down, so she can press her mouth to mine.

She’s salty and sweet, rum and mango and lipstick, and, mind of their own, my hands go to cup her ass, the sheer briefness of her dress making my fingertips brush against her bare thighs. I’ve never been shy, but this is something on a level I’m not quite used to, as though I’ve already had ten drinks and am bolder than I knew I could be.

Our mouths break apart, and she gasps a little, clutching at me in a way that proves I’m not the only one feeling intoxicated.
 

“Take me home.” Her eyes shine in the flashing lights. “Right now.”

The boldness stays adhered to my tongue. “What’s the magic word?”

Her grip tightens on my shirt, goes a little painful, the pulling fabric under my arms biting at the soft flesh there.
 

“Now,” she breathes out.

We weave through the club like a single unit, my hands on her waist and her arm extended behind her so that her fingers stay hooked in my vest. The night air outside is as warm and heavy as the club. She turns to me abruptly, and we crash together, stumbling into the building next door at the mouth of a putrid alley. The glare of car headlights reflects off windows and the rough texture of the brick.

I jerk her skirt upward, enough to find the expanse of her ass, rounded and smooth, pebbling delightfully under my touch. She moans against my mouth, working her fingers between the buttons of my shirt in pursuit of skin.

One button pops off, and then another. I pull back just enough to look down at her, her hair caught in the mortar, spread wild behind her head, her eyes hooded and mouth open, red and slick like the surface of an apple.

“What’s the magic word again?” It’s almost like I’m speaking with someone else’s voice, through someone else’s mouth, and I feel a smug sort of burn low in my stomach at her visible reaction: her shoulders sag, her back arches, and her bottom lip pooches out with a quiver.

“Please?” Her voice is higher out here, her eyes gone wide and dark and wanting. I smile and kiss her again, taking my hands from her ass to help her unbutton my shirt so that she doesn’t further destroy it.

She makes a disappointed noise when her fingers find more fabric—the smooth cotton of my undershirt—and I shake my head with a tut of my tongue against teeth. My fingers go back under the hem of her dress and find the thin line of her panties, following the band to the front where it just barely covers her cunt, warm and wet even through the fabric. I cup my hand there. For all my awkwardness, I know this treasure hunt, and perhaps she’s surprised, her head grinding back against the brick with another sudden whine, her hips jumping forward at my touch.

“What’s the magic word again?” I ask, not stirring in my handle there, even as I can feel her leaking out against my finger nearest her slit. I have no idea where this sudden authoritative tone is coming from, but I like the sound of it, the feel of it, the way it courses through my body like a wave.

She wiggles, arches again, fingers grappling at the front of my shirt, just over my breasts. Her fingers brush my aching nipples, but I flatten my hand on her pussy again, pressing the heel over her clit.

“What is it?” I insist, and though I don’t know if I would be able to pull away should she refuse to plead, I want to think I’m capable, that I could turn and walk away with a swagger, shirt hanging open to the waist.

“P-please,” she lets out. It’s clear that she simply wasn’t able to say it, and that pleases me, perhaps, more than it should.