Page 23 of XX Love Affair
To be fair, Delia was PMSing. It made her a little paranoid. By the second day of her period, she’d be feeling better and wondering why the hell she had been so anxious and paranoid. Yet her mother was also the first to tell her to listen to her gut, her womanly instincts. They worked with female lovers as well as male. Delia knew that well.
So, maybe they wouldn’t sleep together tonight. Maybe Delia would listen to her instincts instead of letting a hot young piece of ass take her for a ride. Besides, could Helena complain? She got a free gourmet meal, access to an exclusive lounge for the rich, and so many drinks.
Not enough to make her inebriated, though. Delia had noticed that. Then again, she drank more than Helena had.
“I see.” Helena gathered her small bag and unlatched her seatbelt. “Thanks for the fun, then. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
She hesitated before opening the door, but only so she could flip down the visor and check her hair and makeup in the mirror. In that moment, while Delia patiently waited for her date to end, she caught a side profile that would have made her melt back in college. Helena was the exact kind of trouble that Delia would have made herself late for an exam over, especially if it meant losing her face to those thighs and her tongue to that sweet, pursing mouth.
When Helena brushed back her hair from her shoulder, Delia saw the perfect spot on her throat to place a hickey.
“Ah, fuck.” Delia slammed on the gas, jetting the Mercedes out of the drive-up and whipping Helena back against the passenger seat. She dropped her bag to the floor of the car and yelped in surprise. “So what if you nick my grandmother’s broach? I want to fuck you!”
Helena wrestled with the seatbelt as Delia turned right on red. Curly hair that smelled of sin and seduction reminded Delia that she was a red-blooded lesbian who was also infected with what her mother called the “rich man’s malady.” Don’t need to be a man to throw everything away for pussy barely old enough to hit the clubs, Mom.
Her father’s daughter. That’s what she was, and Delia didn’t give a fuck.
Chapter 8
For all of her troublemaking, Helena hadn’t been to many high-rise apartments. Outside of Irene and Josh’s San Bernardino mansion, the most Helena usually saw were club and bathroom walls. Occasionally, she made a scene in a locker room. Hotel rooms were the order of the day if a hookup wanted to take things elsewhere. When most of your lovers don’t live in the town you’re fooling around in, well… Delia was different. She was a local with her own two-bedroom apartment overlooking the river.
There was a doorman on the ground floor. A concierge desk greeted her when she arrived with Helena on her arm. They specifically took an elevator at the end of the row, one that required a special QR code to access. While Delia didn’t have a penthouse, hers was still a luxury apartment. She mentioned that most of the penthouses had been bought up long before she wormed her way into this HOA-infested building. “I can’t get away from Ethan Cole,” she quipped, although Helena barely knew who that was. “My company used to rent offices in his building, and he has a city apartment on the top floor of my condo.”
Helena enjoyed the view from Delia’s quiet living room while her date checked on things in the kitchen, tossed something into her home office, and hung up her jacket in the entryway closet. Helena shed hers and left it on the back of a dining chair. She barely had time to memorize the backsplash color in the kitchen before Delia wrapped around her and covered her neck in needy kisses.
“Thought you were on your period,” Helena teased. “Although, I could work with that.”
“I lied,” Delia whispered directly into Helena’s ear. “Excuses to not take you to bed.”
“Do you think I’m that kind of bad girl?” While her skin alit in the burning desire to get this going, Helena lifted the hem of her cocktail dress, helping Delia get where she was going.
“I know what kind you are.” Breaths increasing in intensity, Delia moved her hand directly between Helena’s legs, discovering a sincere lack of safety shorts. Helena knew what was at stake on a date like this. Easy access. It’s what I prefer, too. Here they were, standing between the kitchen and living room, the skirt of Helena’s cocktail dress over her ass and Delia’s hand rubbing the gusset of her underwear. “You’re the kind that doesn’t even wait for the first date to screw.”
“I meant the kind that goes through your things looking for a souvenir,” Helena sweetly said, although it was increasingly difficult to keep her nonchalant demeanor as an experienced woman stimulated her clit through a thin layer of cotton. “I don’t need your things.” She forced herself around in Delia’s arms, nearly knocking her over. Helena grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her closer. “I need you.”
She meant it, too. Helena didn’t have a klepto bone in her body. Anything she desperately needed, she was upfront about. Besides, she knew how to get that free gourmet meal and access to an exclusive lounge on ladies’ night. Be myself. As it turned out, the Real Helena she presented to the world was one who couldn’t get through a week without throwing herself at someone in exchange for orgasms and sustenance. Same difference.
She wanted to be taken away from here. Away from the view of a New England river. Away from her future. Away from who she was.
So when she kissed Delia, she made that clear. My throat for your tongue, my body for your ego.
Also, she liked Delia so far. The woman was a lot like Helena – no bullshit, no fronting. She wanted sex? She said as much. She wanted to keep things casual? That was clear. Helena wasn’t looking for love, and neither was Delia. They wanted each other, in the most carnal way.
“I think it’s time I got you on my bed.” Delia broke away from their heady kiss long enough to speak what was on her mind. “Lot easier to spread your legs that way.”
“You’re such a charmer.” Helena sighed as she led the way to what must have been Delia’s bedroom. “Remember, I have three holes. You don’t have to use them all, but…”
“For fuck’s sake, take off your dress already.”
“What?” Helena stood before the king-sized bed bedecked in a cream-colored comforter that brought light and mirth to dark gray walls and emerald lampshades. She snuck her hand behind her back and snatched her zipper. “Don’t want to rip it off yourself?”
Delia unbuttoned her blouse on her way to the adjacent bathroom. The sink soon turned on. “You need something to wear when you leave tomorrow.”
“So, I’m staying the night?”
“Only if you agree to be ridden all night.”
A girlish grin was caught in the mirror hanging on the wall in front of Helena. She quickly looked away before she embarrassed herself. How old are you, anyway? Eighteen? Worse… sixteen? Fifteen? How far back should she go before she admitted she had a problem? Puberty. Or maybe it was those naughty romance novels she unearthed on her mother’s tablet when she was ten. Or all of the hardcore pornography her peers passed around at summer camp.