Chapter 1: Straddled in the Lounge
The rain blurred the world beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows into a shimmering, gray painting. Bette loved nights like this, the house a sealed fortress against the drizzle, the only sound the rhythmic tap-tap against the glass and the low crackle of the hearth. She sat deep in the velvet embrace of the sofa, legs spread, a heavy art monograph open across her thighs. Her reading glasses perched low on her nose, catching the flicker of candlelight from the low table. The text was dense, a critical analysis of postwar abstract expressionism, and she was absorbed, a finger tracing the line of a footnote.
She didn’t hear Lia approach. The first she knew was the cushion dipping, the warmth of another body displacing the air, and then Lia was simply there, straddling her hips, pressing her back into the sofa. The book was knocked sideways, thumping shut and sliding to the wool rug. Bette’s glasses went askew.
“Hey—” Bette started, her hands coming up automatically, finding the soft curve of Lia’s hips beneath her thin cotton shirt.
Lia didn’t speak. She just shifted forward, seating herself firmly in Bette’s lap, and ground down. A slow, deliberate roll of her hips. Bette could feel the heat of her, even through two layers of fabric. Lia’s eyes, that clear, probing green, held hers. She reached up and carefully removed Bette’s glasses, folding them with a quiet click and setting them aside.
“You think about work too much,” Lia said, her voice a low murmur, almost lost in the patter of rain. She did it again, that grinding press, and Bette’s breath hitched. “I need you to think about me.”
Bette’s intellectual stillness shattered. A current, hot and immediate, shot straight through her core. Her grip tightened on Lia’s hips. “I am thinking about you.”
“No. You’re thinking about budgets and faculty politics and Rothko.” Lia leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Bette’s ear. Her scent—warm skin, that faint, floral perfume from this morning, and something uniquely, essentially Lia—flooded Bette’s senses. “I can feel the tension in your hands. You’re here, but you’re not here.”
Bette wanted to argue, to defend her intellectual pursuit, but then Lia kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was deep and searching, a direct challenge. Lia’s tongue swept into her mouth, and Bette met it with a hungry growl, her control slipping. Her hands slid under Lia’s shirt, skating up the smooth, warm plane of her back. Lia arched into the touch, breaking the kiss to gasp as Bette’s thumbs found the sensitive spots just below her shoulder blades.
“See?” Lia breathed, her forehead resting against Bette’s. “Just me.”
“Just you,” Bette repeated, the words feeling foreign and absolutely true. She flipped them, a swift, fluid motion born of long familiarity and sudden, desperate need. Lia landed on her back in the velvet, a soft oof escaping her, her curls fanning out. Bette loomed over her, bracing herself on her elbows, caging her in. The candlelight danced across Lia’s face, highlighting the faint smile on her swollen lips.
Bette kissed her again, then dragged her mouth down Lia’s jaw, her throat, nuzzling the collar of her shirt aside to taste the salt of her skin. She cupped one full breast through the cotton, feeling the nipple peak instantly under her palm. Lia’s breath came faster.
“Take this off,” Bette commanded, her voice rough, tugging at the hem of Lia’s shirt.
“You take it off,” Lia shot back, but she was already lifting her arms.
Bette pulled the shirt up and over Lia’s head, tossing it aside. She stared, as she always did, a wave of fierce possession and awe crashing through her. Lia’s body was lush, strong, a landscape Bette knew intimately but which never failed to overwhelm her. She lowered her head and took a nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, laving it with her tongue. Lia cried out, her hands flying to Bette’s hair, not to guide but to fist, to hold on.
Bette switched to the other breast, her free hand working its way down Lia’s stomach, over the waistband of her soft pants. She palmed her through the fabric, feeling the damp heat already there. Lia bucked against her hand, a ragged “Please” tearing from her throat.
The politeness, the dean’s decorum, bled away completely. Bette yanked Lia’s pants and underwear down in one impatient jerk, Lia lifting her hips to help. She was exposed, glistening in the low light. Bette didn’t hesitate. She shoved Lia’s thighs apart, settled between them, and put her mouth on her.
The taste was explosive, musky and sweet. Bette groaned against her, the vibration earning her a sharp, broken sob from above. She licked a slow, firm stripe from opening to clit, then circled the hardened nub with relentless precision. Lia’s thighs trembled on either side of Bette’s head. Her moans were unchecked, loud in the quiet room, mingling with the sound of the rain and the wet, filthy sounds of Bette’s mouth working her over.
“Don’t stop—fuck, Bette, right there, right there—” Lia chanted, her hips rising off the couch to meet Bette’s tongue.
Bette slipped two fingers inside her, curling them, and Lia’s back bowed violently. She was tight, clenching around the intrusion, dripping. Bette fucked her with her fingers, deep and steady, while her tongue continued its focused assault. She could feel the tension coiling in Lia’s body, the approach of the edge. She wanted to push her over, to win this, to obliterate every other thought.
“Come for me,” Bette growled, lifting her head for just a second. Her chin was slick. “Let go. I want to feel it.”
That was all it took. Lia shattered. A raw, guttural scream was torn from her as her orgasm ripped through her, her body seizing, pulsing around Bette’s fingers. Bette rode it out with her, gentling her mouth but not stopping, drawing every last shudder and tremor until Lia was limp, gasping, her hands falling away from Bette’s hair to flop onto the velvet.
Slowly, Bette crawled back up her body, tasting Lia on her own lips. She kissed Lia’s stomach, the space between her breasts, her throat, finally finding her mouth again. Lia kissed her back weakly, languidly.
“Okay,” Lia whispered, her eyes still closed, a blissful smile on her face. “You’re here now.”
Bette rested her forehead against Lia’s shoulder, breathing hard. The heat of the fire, the scent of sex and sweat and candles, the solid, satisfied weight of her wife beneath her—it was all that existed. For a moment, it was enough.
Then, from the shadows near the hallway, Bette’s phone buzzed on the marble console. A short, sharp vibration. Then another. And another. Text messages, slicing through the quiet.
Bette went still. Lia felt it, the slight tension returning to the muscles under her hands.
“Don’t,” Lia murmured, her voice thick with spent pleasure. “Just leave it.”
Bette kissed her shoulder. “I should check. It could be about the gallery flood. The maintenance report was due—”
“Bette.” Lia’s tone was firmer now. She opened her eyes. “It’s 10 PM on a rainy Friday. The school is closed.”
The phone buzzed again, a persistent, insectile sound. Bette lifted her head, her gaze drifting over Lia’s shoulder toward the dim blue light now pulsating from the device. The spell was cracking. The real world, with its demands and its emergencies, was leaking back in.
She saw the flicker in Lia’s eyes—the disappointment, the resigned understanding—before Lia carefully masked it. Bette felt a cold knot of guilt form in her gut, right beside the fading warmth of their connection.
“It’ll just take a second,” Bette said, the words sounding hollow even to her as she began to disentangle their limbs.