Page 97 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls

“Now and then.” Celene stared at their hands reacquainting themselves; it sent shivers up Skye’s arm. “Edna’s not much of a homemaker. I swear, you’d think as her daughter, she couldn’t catch me off guard with her random nurturing side.”

That detail into an obviously wistful woman begged to be inquired about, if only a little. “Did you like that nurturing, growing up?”

“I admire her tenacity more.”

Skye didn’t know what she’d expect encountering Celene today. Steamy and intense? Standoffish and playful? As Celene had shown before, she wasn’t predictable.

Celene segued from that discussion with, “Dragonfruit?”

They hadn’t gone over the updated terms of their reality word. Skye studied the fuchsia hanging from a ceiling hook, healthy and fuller in a glazed planter. “Dragonfruit.”

“You want a woman who takes charge,” Celene said, overtly scrutinizing Skye’s thin top and skirt with dark, appreciative eyes. “And I will. But I’m out of practice expressing myself that intimately.”

Heat washed over every part Celene took in. “How so?”

“My past relationship had a routine—long conversations, biding our time, and then, eventually, I’d pull her into a kiss and we’d go to bed. Right now, I’m holding back.”

“Oh?” They were both nervous.

Skye wouldn’t ever want someone pressured to take charge. And even charges needed a spark sometimes. She lifted their hands, under her mouth, and with their gazes in place, skimmed the tip of her tongue along the tendons of Celene’s bare wrist. Satisfied by the responding hitch in Celene’s breath, she whispered, “Dragonfruit?”

By the end of Celene’s breathy “Dragonfruit,” she’d maneuvered them to the couch with swift, controlled urgency. Skye landed on her back, moaning around a tongue plummeting the depths of her mouth.

Celene’s scent, the contrast of her firm abs and curves, and god, her hot skin almost confused Skye’s sensitive body. Hands shaking, Skye warred between two desires: to succumb, to be taken immediately, versus twisting upon the cushion, testing what Celene would do to keep her steady.

“Mm, you’re squirmy,” Celene husked, that slyness of hers seeping through. Then, instead of her hands that caressed Skye’s hair and waist, Celene’s hips locked Skye hard into to couch. “How’s that?”

Skye mewled, noticeably raspier, and they’d only gotten started. At this hour, orange sun shone in from the glass door, intrusively heating the air. On the edge of uncomfortable, warm enough to get sticky. The likelihood of tasting Celene’s sweat dampened the space between Skye’s legs. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Celene, you’re doing everything already.”

This beautiful woman on top of her, replete with contradictions and pain, stroked Skye’s cheek three times, one slower and more reverent than the last, before smothering her in a kiss of swollen lips and brazen, visceral moans. She’d cycle them into unhurried, wet tangles of their tongues that flipped Skye’s stomach. Then, they’d go back to the smothering kisses and repeated for what seemed like over half an hour in Skye’s mind, but years for places on her body demanding Celene’s hands.

Skye smoothed lazy tresses of hair from their faces, bowled over in this waking, living dream. Nobody had ever given this fantastical impression. Of romantic leads of another era. Goddesses who’d relinquish their thrones to make love amongst the stars. Mythical escapism, away from the noise Celene loathed.

Mentally recording this, she’d flit her eyes open and shuddered at the relaxed bliss on Celene’s face. These long kisses were raw, unadulterated romance.

They were also insanely controlled.

She palmed Celene’s ass, hoping that this got her as turned on as it was making Skye. Her fingertips reached the crotch of her leggings, and Skye shivered at the heat waiting there. Celene’s moans rose with a high pitch, yet other than more undulating, she rewarded nothing.

Skye found her voice, panting, “Touch me.”

Skye winced at the anguish coating that request; she’d never begged for anyone sexually. Though she’d forgive herself for Celene’s mouth. Her fingers. More thrusts of her skilled hips.

“It depends. Do you think you’re wet enough for me?”

Too dazed in arousal to laugh, Skye said, “I’d probably slide off this couch without you pinning me down.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Celene hungrily licked Skye’s jaw to elicit a choked cry. “I love foreplay. I love to torment.”

Skye’s insides constricted entirely. “How will you know when I’m wet enough?”

“You’ll show me.”

“You’re killing me,” she answered once it sank in. Celene wasn’t a take-charge type to simply throw her in bed and plow into her—Skye coiled, thighs rubbing fresh wetness between them—she demanded compliance. She’d assert, then she’d retreat, making Skye lose all sense of anything but the need for release.