Page 27 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

Roz made herfeel.

It could be love; she had no other context for the emotion. If that kiss in the dressing room had lifted her curse—

Standing on the bathmat, Deepa didn't bother drying off. Instead, she untied the towel from where Roz had tucked it high around her chest, letting it fall open teasingly before bending forward at the waist, her hair tumbling down in front of her face. Roz took a sharp breath in, as if about to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Smiling behind the privacy of her hair, Deepa let Roz look, knowing she could only catch glimpses of Deepa’s body from that angle. She wrapped the towel around her hair, gently twisting it atop her head before flicking it over her shoulder to hang down her back like a peacock’s train. Only then was she properly naked and on display for Roz.

Her skin was already beginning to dry, but little rivulets of water ran down her body like streams of crystals. Droplets gathered in the dip between her collarbones before darting down between her breasts, over her naval to catch in her belly button, then meandering down her long legs to finally pool between her painted toes. Roz traced each path with her eyes.

“My hair takes a while to dry,” Deepa informed her huskily. “We’ll have to pass the time.”

“I can think of a few things to do.” Roz’s voice came out in a dark rasp that sent shivers down Deepa’s bare back.

They walked to the bedroom hand in hand, their steps light and careful like they were afraid of disturbing the gossamer bubble of summer night around them. Roz held Deepa’s hand at shoulder level, just her fingers, like Deepa was a fine lady inneed of an escort, and for a second, Deepa pictured herself as a fairytale princess, with Roz her steadfast knight. She wore no crown but the towel wrapped around her hair, and no gown but the faint shimmer of bathwater still clinging to her skin.

In the bedroom, she took down the silk robe that hung overtop the flimsy privacy screen in the corner, slipping it over her arms and tying the sash loosely around her waist. It was red, printed with intricate gold peonies all over, and looked more luxurious than it really was. It was thinning at the elbows and around the middle where the sash rubbed it. Soon she would hand it over to her mother so it could be cut up and sewn into something new, but until then, she enjoyed wearing it around the flat when she wasn't dressed to the nines.

Sitting delicately on the edge of the bed, she reached for Roz, drawing the other woman to sit beside her.

“Tell me this idea of yours,” Deepa said, “about what we should do.”

Roz leaned in fractionally, the merest shift of weight, and Deepa turned to meet her. They both shut their eyes at the same time, fingers brushing on the bedspread, and the last thing Deepa saw was the strong angle of Roz's nose and the dark sweep of her lashes against her cheek, so close to Deepa’s own. When their lips met, the kiss was as good as it had been downstairs, and maybe better. In the dressing room, there had been an instant in the beginning where they had both been shy and tentative. Now, knowing each other’s taste, with nothing separating Deepa’s body from Roz's touch but the thinnest layer of threadbare silk, there was a delicious hunger to the meeting of their mouths.

Roz slid off the edge of the mattress, her hands on Deepa’s knees as she sank to the floor in front of her. As Roz slipped up her outer thighs, hands just under the hem of her robe, Deepa’s breath hitched.

“You want me to?”

Deepa’s reply was in the spreading of her knees. Roz’s grin was wide and wicked as she pushed Deepa’s robe up to her hips and moved in.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IN WHICH A DELIGHTFUL EVENING COMES TO AN ABRUPT END

Deepa had no idea it was possible to feel so good. Furthermore, she had no idea how to go about returning the favour. She might not have had much — any — practice at it, but she was certainly willing to try. The mechanics seemed straightforward enough, and she knew all the parts involved, which must make it simpler than anything with a man.

But Roz had other ideas. In very little time, every thought of reciprocity fled Deepa’s mind, followed by every other thought, until her head was completely empty save for the syrupy waves of pleasure Roz wrung from her. Every time Deepa got close, Roz pulled back just enough to keep her balanced on the edge until time slowed down, stretched out, and lost all meaning.

Finally, when Deepa couldn't do anything but gasp and squirm under Roz's hands, which were firmly holding Deepa’s legs apart, Roz stopped teasing and brought her off. Open-mouthed with her head thrown back and her eyes shut, Deepacame silently, one hand clenched in her silk gown and the other in Roz's hair.

Having finished her work, Roz licked her lips before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, brusque and careless, and god, how did that make Deepa want her even more?

“Good?” Roz asked huskily.

“Very,” Deepa breathed. “Good, and new.”

“Has no one done that for you before?” Roz looked ready to fight every man Deepa had ever been with.

“They have, but nothing like that.”

Sitting back on her heels, Roz looked well pleased with herself.

“Can I do the same for you?”

Deepa somehow doubted Roz would complain at any lack of skill. She was a quick study, and, based on previous disappointing experiences, she suspected she had yet to reach her full potential in the bedroom.

But Roz shook her head, rocking forward to kneel upright, her hands light on Deepa’s knees. “I'm not done with you yet. Can I brush your hair?”

Wordlessly, Deepa tucked her trembling legs onto the bed and turned, freeing the heavy curtain of her hair from the towel and sweeping it behind her shoulder, offering Roz her back. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hair reached the mattress like a waterfall of ink. Though the outermost layers had dried in the air, those closest to her skin were still damp, her hair too thick and heavy to dry evenly.

Carefully, Roz knelt behind her, getting into position like she was faced with a task far more serious than what it was. Though she had Deepa’s soft brush in her lap, she didn’t use it at first. Instead, she gathered Deepa’s hair in both hands, lifting it away from her back as if to test the weight, before running her fingers through it like a comb, teasing apart the wet innermost strands.

---