Dark Dreamer (20 page)

Fran’s hand closed on hers, easing it from its damp burrow. “Let’s go,” she said hoarsely.

They straightened up their clothes and found Liz and Jadeene, who had to be convinced that Cara was fit to drive and would bring Fran back to the hotel later. They weren’t charmed that their pal was bailing, but Cara was fine with that. She wasn’t shopping for a foursome.

As they drove out of the parking lot a few minutes later, Fran said, “Where are we going?”

“Just a few blocks. I rent a short-term apartment when I’m in town.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I make music videos.”

“That must get old.”

Cara glanced sideways, mildly surprised. In L.A. any mention of her work was usually greeted with envious gasps and questions about the bands she worked with. “Yeah, it does.” She turned onto North La Cienega. “I think about writing a lesbian flick sometimes. You know, some low-budget thing I could film myself.”

“We could use a new lesbian movie.” Fran combed her dark hair with her fingers. “If I have to sit through
Claire of the Moon
at another potluck, I’ll probably kill myself.”

Cara grinned. “Congratulations on sitting through it the first time. I needed drugs.” She made a right onto Fountain.

As the car climbed, her passenger stared out the window at the lights glittering across the Hollywood Hills. “I’ve never been up here. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, you don’t see the seedy side at night.” Cara halted in front of her apartment building and waited for the gates to open. The Isola Bella was her favorite place to stay in West Hollywood. She loved the old Spanish feel of the architecture and beautiful gardens, and the apartments were large and very private. She led Fran up the terra-cotta tiled steps and let them in to her place.

“This is great.” Fran swept a look around the softly lit downstairs living area.

“Beats staying in a hotel.” Cara dropped her jacket over the back of an armchair. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, if you’re having one.”

“Actually, I’m not. But I can fix you anything you want.” Cara lifted a hand to Fran’s cheek, trailing her fingertips over the smooth skin. “Or we could run with plan B. Take a shower and pick up where we left off.”

Fran’s sleepy hazel eyes grew warm. “My dates usually make me work a bit harder.”

“My dates are usually begging for it by now.” Cara slid her hand to the back of Fran’s head and caressed her mouth with the ghost of a kiss.

She tasted of mint and alcohol. They experimented as strangers did, finding a fit. Then their mouths relaxed and joined in a kiss that was hot and hungry. As if by tacit agreement they drew back and checked in with each other.

Fran’s gaze fell from Cara’s lips to her breasts. A split second later her hand took possession of Cara’s crotch, working her through the dense fabric of her jeans. “You feel good,” she groaned.

Cara smiled. She was wet with anticipation, her clit a throbbing reminder of her needs. The pumping sexual microclimate of the club always had that effect on her. It also helped that she found this woman sexy.

“Let’s get naked,” she said.

*

Phoebe stared out the kitchen window into a sea of white and felt guilty that she had convinced Rowe to come over. The snow was now a blizzard, and although it was only a ten-minute walk to Dark Harbor Cottage, Rowe would freeze going home in this weather.

She heated the butternut soup she’d made earlier and carried it into the den, setting it on top of the wood stove. The bath had been a mistake. She could see that now. She had expected to feel comforted. Instead she felt disoriented, trapped between longing and isolation, acutely aware of what was missing in the life she’d chosen to lead. The truth was, she wanted more than cozy, female camaraderie with Rowe, and much more than a stand-in for Cara.

She was suddenly demoralized. If Rowe were interested in her, they would have had a very different experience naked, alone, with candles and music. But Phoebe had done her best to make sure their bath was congenial and nonsexual, and it seemed Rowe had been perfectly content with that. Phoebe reminded herself that Rowe was still lovesick over that married woman in Manhattan and probably not ready to move on.

But even if things were different, was that really what she wanted—her next-door neighbor for a lover? Or was she simply missing making love? It had been months. Yet, oddly, she had no desire to go out and find short-term company. She was searching for something else, but hadn’t recognized until this moment what it was.

With a jolt of startling clarity, she knew she wanted a mate. Not a fling. Not a lover who’d be content to be relegated to the sidelines of Phoebe’s real life with her sister. She wanted someone she could belong to.

Phoebe pictured Rowe standing naked in the bathroom, solid torso and thighs, strong shoulders, the kind that were good to bite. It was impossible not to imagine Rowe’s weight on her, the feel of her mouth, her caresses. Phoebe warned herself yet again not to go there, but her resolve was waning. She didn’t care what Cara thought. She was attracted to their neighbor and she also really liked the woman. She liked being with her. Rowe made her feel safe and didn’t treat her like a second-rate carbon copy of Cara.

Phoebe wished she had changed into something more alluring than a white shirt and a pair of loose-fitting olive corduroy pants. She hadn’t even put on lipstick, such was her determination to send no mixed messages.

“Guess I’m spending the night.” Rowe’s voice floated across the room.

With a guilty start, Phoebe turned to face her. “I’m sorry. I should have thought about the weather before I tempted you with food.” Lifting the saucepan lid, she made a show of stirring the soup. “We have plenty of room, and I can give the dogs some leftovers for their dinner.” She knew her voice sounded strained, but she couldn’t relax.

Rowe studied her face and something changed. The air seemed heavier. She took a few steps closer and said, “Phoebe, there’s something I need to say.”

Phoebe replaced the lid on the saucepan with a nervous clatter and set the spoon aside. “Sure,” she replied with trepidation.

Rowe was probably going to tell her, just in case it wasn’t clear, that they would only ever be friends. It was ironic, Phoebe thought, she had given Rowe the very same message just a few weeks ago. She met her neighbor’s sensual blue eyes and had the impression she was embarrassed about something.

“Phoebe, I know you only want a friendship with me, but I have to tell you I’m very attracted to you.” Rowe’s mouth formed a small, wry grimace. “I’m sure you’ve probably noticed. I guess I was wondering if it’s mutual, or if I’m just doing what I always do, which is get hopeless crushes on women who aren’t interested.”

Heat seared Phoebe’s cheeks and her heart pounded in her ears, out of step with her breathing. She took a step toward Rowe and said, “It’s definitely mutual.”

Their hands met. Rowe’s were larger and stronger than her own.

Rowe said, “Hell, I wish you’d told me this before we got in that bathtub. I was a wreck.”

Phoebe laughed. She felt like crying. Her mouth was trembling before Rowe caressed it tenderly apart. The kiss was so sweetly yearning, so honest and naked, Phoebe felt like they were new to this, somehow untarnished by past disappointments. Long fingers threaded through her hair, shaking it free of its ribbon. As their kiss deepened, Phoebe tilted her head back into Rowe’s cradling hand and opened her eyes to find she was being watched intently.

They stared at one another, and Phoebe took Rowe’s tongue deeper, at the same time moving against her, blatantly communicating her desire. Rowe’s mouth left hers and moved over her throat, teasing with tongue and teeth. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she unbuttoned Phoebe’s shirt.

Gazing down at the ash blond head, Phoebe had a moment of anxiety. She’d always felt her breasts were too small. Even with the help of her get-cleavage bra, they would barely fill a hand.

Rowe did not seem discouraged by this lack of voluptuousness. Between kisses and bites, she looked up, face flushed, and said, “I want you so badly.”

“I want you, too,” Phoebe told her.

Rowe took her hand. “Where’s your bedroom?”

*

The room they entered was pale and furnished in dark Mission-style oak, the bed high and old-fashioned. In the fireplace to one side of the bed, several large logs burned slowly, spilling shadows and light. Bathed in the soft glow of the fire, Phoebe lit a scented candle and drew back the plain white bedcovers.

Watching her, Rowe felt sick with desire. She was reminded of a woman she saw in a recurring dream, a dark-haired wraith whose features were always blurred. Rowe could never quite reach her. The closer she came, the farther the woman would retreat, until Rowe was running, arms stretched out like a small child. She always awoke from that dream just as it seemed the woman was within reach.

Without a trace of shyness, Phoebe removed her blouse and stepped out of her corduroy pants. Underneath she wore only bra and panties, the pretty kind, ivory satin and lace. She came closer, unfastened Rowe’s belt, and eased her shirt from her jeans. Where she pulled clothing aside, the fire warmed Rowe’s naked flesh, but she goose-bumped anyway at the brush of Phoebe’s fingertips. Feeling as inept as a high-school kid, she lifted a hand to Phoebe’s breast. Through the filmy satin, the nipple hardened against Rowe’s palm, moving with the shallow rise and fall of each breath.

Rowe stared at the delicate flesh and waited for time to stop. For it seemed, in this moment of all moments, that she could choose her fate. Was this the path to happiness or the road to nowhere? She had no idea. All she knew was that in this brief eternity, trapped between doubt and yearning, she could not escape the journey. With shaking hands, she unfastened Phoebe’s bra. Her breasts were beautiful, the skin tightly puckered around each rosy nipple.

Phoebe slid her panties down and stepped out of them. Naked, she presented herself before Rowe with perfect candor. “I hope I please you,” she said, her dark steady gaze free of guile.

Rowe touched her cheek, moved in a way she had not thought possible since the first time she’d made love with a woman. “How could you not?”

She shed the rest of her own clothing, and they moved to the bed and slipped between the fine cotton sheets. For a moment, they lay on their backs, not looking at one another. It seemed to Rowe then that Phoebe must be just as overwhelmed as she was. The distance between them was closing so fast it made her head spin. She was breathing too rapidly, she thought, almost hyperventilating. Heat rose from her groin to her belly.

She rolled onto her side to face Phoebe and asked, “Are you sure about this?”

Phoebe moved into her arms. In a husky voice, she said, “Kiss me.”

Her eyelids descended and her mouth met Rowe’s as if imprinting itself, closed at first, lips giving slightly but not enough. This hint of reserve unleashed a hunger in Rowe that stampeded through her body. She shifted her weight, pinning Phoebe on her back, leaning over her, one bracing hand on the pillow next to her head. This time she made sure Phoebe could not hold anything back, kissing her hard, refusing to be shut out. She tasted sweet. Hot. Slippery. Urgent. Their tongues communed in the silent accord of desire. Rowe lost herself in the ebb and flow of mouth on mouth, the feast of craving this invoked. When she could no longer stand the exquisite torment, she lifted her lips from Phoebe’s and dragged the sheet back to uncover every inch of her.

Phoebe’s arms drifted up and her hands dropped onto the pillow above her head. She opened eyes glazed with desire. Watching Rowe watch her, she tilted her hips just enough so that her legs parted slightly, exposing a modest thatch of dark hair. The invitation made Rowe’s chest constrict. Phoebe was provocative, but there was innocence, too, in the shallow rise and fall of her breasts, the girlish belly, the delicate curve of her mouth.

Losing herself, Rowe explored the body offered, stroking, kissing, tasting. With every caress, with every breath, she was strangely aware that she was peeling away the layers that divided friends from lovers. Phoebe was familiar yet foreign. Rowe wanted to touch her everywhere, to know her inside and out. She wanted to dissolve into her, to pleasure her, to invent a bright new world that was theirs alone. It was not just sex, she thought. It was something more primal. What she’d always expected to happen, but never had, was happening now. She was making love with her soul engaged. For the very first time she made sense to herself. A strange joy surged through her, and she wondered if Phoebe felt as she did.

Leaning on an elbow, she stretched out alongside her and brushed a hand over her pale throat and down to the bony fortress of sternum and ribs. The heart imprisoned there beat against her palm as if it wanted to be held. Rowe continued down, moving over firm flesh and soft silken hairs matted with fluids. Longing to see and feel what she could smell, she changed position, spreading Phoebe’s legs and kneeling on an angle next to her.

Resting one hand on the rise of that dark mound, she urged the swollen flesh back enough to expose Phoebe’s clit, pink and rigid between glistening folds. Slowly, she smothered it between two fingers, drawing the hood down before releasing it, increasing and decreasing pressure until she felt the shaft stiffen completely.