In the Distance There Is Light (15 page)

“You would have been strong for her, the way you are for me,” I mumble.

Dolores gives me a glance that lingers. “The past couple of years, Ian was always on my case about me putting myself out there more, about being more willing to meet someone else, but I was never interested enough to actively pursue it. If someone had come my way, I would have considered it, but I never met anyone who could fill Angela’s shoes. Which is perhaps my bad, because that’s really not the right way to go about it. I shouldn’t have been looking out for a second Angela, because such a person doesn’t exist.” She brings our joined hands from beneath her bent legs and brings them to her face, then plants a kiss on one of my knuckles. “And look at me now. I guess I only realized after Ian’s death that being alone can be so very excruciating.” She kisses my hand again. “Not that I would want to imply that this is anything more than it is, but I have to admit that I’m glad you didn’t pack your bags and move out today.”

“I was freaking out this morning. I couldn’t believe what happened when I first opened my eyes.”

“If it’s any consolation, neither could I.” Dolores only removes her lips from my hand to speak. As soon as she’s done, she turns my hand around and peppers kisses onto my palm.

“Once I stopped panicking…” Her kisses are having an immediate effect. “I kind of wanted it to happen again.”

“Do you think we should finish what we started in the kitchen earlier today?” Dolores’ voice is confident again, dripping with seduction.

“Hm,” I hum, bring my other hand underneath her legs and pull them down, flattening her on the couch. I slide on top of her, one knee between her legs and the other resting next to her, and say, “I do.”

Arrows of lust shoot through me. Or maybe it’s not lust; it could be something else, but I have no way of knowing the difference. All I know is that Dolores is so easy to talk to, to confide in, to put my heart on display to, and what I’m about to do—because I want to see her succumb under my touch the way I did under hers—is just a logical consequence of the intimacy that has grown between us. We’re together, and maybe not in a traditional sense, but that too can be construed as an honor to Ian’s memory, because he hardly came from a traditional family.

I kiss Dolores, again. Kissing her is so different from anyone else I’ve ever kissed. It’s not just the softness, the tenderness that reaches every fiber of my being when our lips meet, it’s the inevitability and the sense that, even though it’s the complete opposite of what I felt when I woke up this morning, it’s right. That there is no other way for us than this one. And it’s sensual, and arousing, and gratifying when she hums low in her throat like she is doing now, and I’m so ready to lose myself again. I’m ready for it here and now on her couch.

My pulse picks up speed. I’m intoxicated by the prospect of what I’m about to do. It’s all new to me, and so extremely exciting. Plus I’m about to do it to Dolores, whom I adore—whom I love, probably more than any other living person on this earth.

When we break from our kiss, Dolores is flustered. Her hair is a little mussed and her lipstick smudged. “Are you sure?” she asks, as though she can read my intention from my face. Maybe she can. Maybe it’s a secret power lesbians have, like a sixth sense.

“Oh yes.” I start tugging off my clothes, because this is not going to be a slow process like last night. The entire afternoon I spent at the gallery was basically foreplay. I want Dolores here and now. I want her spread wide for me. I want to dive headfirst into this new adventure that is making my head spin a little and my clit throb a lot.

“Hold on,” she says, pushing herself upward before hoisting her blouse over her head.

The way we’re approaching things now is a far cry from last night’s slow burn. In fact, this is the first time I see Dolores in her bra, though my gaze is not drawn to her torso, but to her face, still majestic with its high cheekbones and crystal blue eyes, but also intense, her stare determined as she throws the piece of garment away from her, discards it like the barrier it has now become. The only thing keeping me from devouring her. Because that’s what it feels like. I want to devour her, have her, make her mine in a way that’s not even sensible, but pulses through me nonetheless.

She reaches for the button of my jeans next, then tugs them off me unceremoniously. This frenzy is no less sexy than the slow movement of my hand with which I gingerly pulled her tank top away from her belly button last night, but it
is
different. It’s more insistent, more brazen in its inevitability and purpose. We are sitting underneath the low but clear light of Dolores’ living room lamp. It’s not even fully dark yet outside. This is us saying yes to the daytime, to not doing this in the obscure embrace of the night. This is me saying yes to Dolores a thousand times over. It roars through me like a low rumble, a thunder in my flesh, a tension in my muscles.

In no time, we have our clothes off, except for our underwear, and only then do I take a breather to assess the situation. As far as I know, I’m as heterosexual as they come. Unlike Alex, I didn’t have the requisite college lesbian experience. If there is a spectrum of sexuality, which I don’t doubt but never gave much thought to, I’m in the far corner saying one hundred percent. At least, I was. Because the sight of Dolores, of her pale, fragile skin, of her vulnerability on display, enthralls me. And I can repeat to myself over and over again that this isn’t sexual, that it’s grief finding a way out through sins of the flesh, or some other therapeutic mumbo jumbo, but it would be a lie. It would be a lie to not recognize this as exactly what it is. This is me, Sophie Winters, being aroused beyond the point of no return by another woman. A woman who is twenty-six years my senior. A woman who floors me by sinking a row of teeth into her bottom lip, by a gentle flick of the wrist toward me, by her desire for me, because it’s blazing unmistakably in her eyes now. Is this love? Oh, yes. No doubt about it. Is it forbidden, delicious, unbridled lust? Equally so. I want all of Dolores with all I have left after Ian’s death, which might not be much. But I’m still me. I’m still breathing, and right now every single breath stokes the fire in my belly more, because one thing is for absolute certain: I’m about to make love to Dolores.

She sits on the couch, and leans back. When I look at her, it’s as though I just know what to do. Granted, it’s not rocket science. I’m just following my carnal instinct, which only has one place to lead me: between her legs. I hook my fingertips underneath the waistband of her silk maroon panties, and, in what is the only really calculated gesture up until now, slide them off her in a controlled movement, my thumbs caressing her skin. Dolores takes care of removing her bra and then I must really take pause. It’s not a deliberate one, more one born from utter stupefaction, not only at this moment, but at Dolores’ willingness to do this, to sit here like this, for me. I have never been religious, not before Ian’s death, and certainly not after, but I somehow feel the need to recognize this as a spiritual moment, of mine and Dolores’ souls joining forces and, entwined, combusting into unfathomable lust. A desire so big, it pushes everything out of my brain but the singular thought of licking her. Every single thing. Even the one thing that will be a part of me forever. Becoming a not-even-widow at the age of thirty. It’s gone. In that moment, I’m not a bereaved woman. Dolores is not my deceased partner’s mother. This is us, this spark between us is solely fueled by us, by what’s been growing between us, what’s been fostered in the messy bed of our grief.

When I lower my head between Dolores’ thighs, I’m instantly enveloped by her warmth, her scent, her most intimate aroma. I kiss her inner thighs, tentatively at first, because, underneath all this passion, I do still have my insecurities. I’ve never done this before. But I’m doing it now. Especially because Dolores brings her hands into my hair, and her touch is so gentle, so nurturing, that I can’t stop myself any longer. My lips land on her sex and I kiss my way up and down, slowly at first, still finding my feet, but I soon do, and open my mouth and let my tongue flick out, stroking her clit.

“Oh,” she moans, and the intensity of her groan touches me deep inside, makes my own clit pulse, makes me want her fingers inside of me again.

Then I let loose, because I have no expertise in teasing another woman like this. Besides, we’re past teasing. I mean business and I’m here, with my head now clasped between Dolores’ thighs, to prove it. Her fingers brush against my scalp. She doesn’t guide me, only spurs me on, indicates that she’s enjoying this—though her moans alone are evidence enough. I let my tongue dance over her clit, burrow between her lips, taste her, drink her in, and all the while an augmenting desire takes hold of me, blistering the surface of my skin, trying to find a way out of me. I channel that desire into the tip of my tongue, focus all of it on Dolores, to whom I want to give this so much, though this doesn’t entirely feel like giving. I’m taking from this as much as I’m giving away. With every flick of my tongue, an unknown energy builds in me, swoops through my belly, engorges my clit. When this is over, I’m absolutely certain I won’t be as gallant as Dolores was with me last night. I’ll need some sort of release. Her fingers inside of me again or, perhaps, her tongue waltzing over my clit like mine is over hers. I suck her clit between my lips, lick it up and down, all around, and imagine arriving at this moment through a different chain of actions and reactions. A calmer, quieter, more deliberate way of making love. Because I’m not making the mistake of labelling this as fucking. Dolores and I, we are making love. It might be frenzied, feverish, with a touch of mania, but this is love. Maybe not romantic love, but right now it all feels the same to me.

“Oh. God.” Dolores’ moans grow more high-pitched, more out of control. To have this effect on another woman is so intoxicating, the heat inside me starts to boil over. All that was dead and cold inside of me has found a new warmth, a brand new way of coming alive again.

Dolores’ hands grip firmly now, locking me, for all intents and purposes, in a prison of her thighs and sex. I keep licking and flicking and sucking, wondering whether this is always all it takes, whether this kind of sapphic love-making usually requires a little more finesse, but then I consider that any form of subtlety would have been wasted on the heated situation in which we found ourselves—and lucky for me that it did. This way, I have time to hone my new-found skill, though skill is probably a big word for it.

“Oh, Sophie,” Dolores exclaims and lets go of my head, lets her knees fall wide. Juicy remnants of her climax stick to my chin, and I wipe them off as best I can with the back of my hand, gloating a little on the inside, though trying hard not to show it, because, damn, that was glorious.

“Come here,” Dolores says and I climb up to her. “Come here my beautiful, gorgeous darling.” She pulls me close and kisses me all over my mouth, my cheeks, my jaw. “That was amazing.” Then she bursts out into a little uncharacteristic chuckle. “I have no earthly idea how long it’s been since someone last did that to me.”

“It’s an honor,” I joke, though I also recognize the more serious side of this. Only a brief while ago Dolores was telling me how, after Angela, nobody interesting enough crossed her path.

“I have less honorable intentions for you.” She topples me onto my back. “First, let’s get these off you.” Traces of wetness trickle down my thighs as Dolores pulls down my panties. It feels as though every last one of my cells is pulsing, screaming for release. “Now, let’s see.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Dolores brings her hand between my legs.

“Oh my,” she says, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, “something left someone a tad hot and bothered.”

I don’t care if she teases me. I’m well beyond being teased. Right now, Dolores’ finger is enough to shut me up for a good long while, or at least until I come.

“Looks like you’re greatly enjoying this red hot affair of ours,” she says, while, slowly, so slowly, circling her finger around my clit.

“Oh, please,” I beg. “Please. Dolores.” Her name comes out as a whimper, a faint cry for help.

“Don’t worry, Sophie.” She ramps up the pace of her finger. “I’ve got your back.” Her voice is low and gravelly, her eyes, still on me—and I can’t look away, not this time—narrow, the blue barely shining through her hooded eyelids. “Come for me,” she says then, and I can hardly believe she would say that, as though it’s even a question you can ask someone. I can’t possibly come just because she asks me to. There’s a little more to it than that. “Will you come for me?” she repeats, and the speed at which her finger circles my clit increases. “Will you?” Her voice is a whisper, but a powerful one, because, much to my surprise, it connects with something inside me, the flame that’s been roaring in my belly since I started licking her, since she bared every last inch of herself to me.

I’m not sure if it’s because she asked me or because I’m so well beyond the point of no return, but the first spasm travels through my muscles. Dolores stops the circles now and flicks the tip of her finger against my clit, over and over again, and it’s too much, she’s too much; I love her; I need her. I never want to leave her.

I am foolish, silly for even having these thoughts but they pass through my mind nonetheless as I give myself up to her. All of me. Pain and all. What Dolores has done is transformed my pain into joy—and how is that even possible?

Chapter Twenty-Two