Page 65 of The Lovers
“What does it mean?” My throat is tight; my voice is breathy.
“Conscious connection, meaningful relationships. Some tarot readers describe it as the soulmate card—when it represents a relationship, it’s usually not casual.” She looks it over thoughtfully, as if this is the first time she’s ever really seen the card, like she needs to take in all the details again just in case she’s missed something. “There’s a lot to say here about vulnerability and raw honesty, opening your heart to someone else to let them see your truest self.”
“Family.” The word comes in a burst, surprising me. She searches my face. “I always thought that was the closest you could get to real security. Finding someone who you trust like family.”
I’ve looked for that in every romantic relationship I’ve ever embarked on.
I’ve never found it.
Her eyes drop back to the card. “At its heart, the card is about choice, so actually, you’re right on.” She smiles, soft. “The choice of who you love. What you want. How you connect and how much you trust.”
Trust. The scariest word in the English language.
“It’s also a sexy card,” she says, her voice sly.
Heat pulses between my legs, an ache hot and fast.
“Like, go forth and fuck?” I ask; the wordfuckis loaded. Ready to bang.
“I think the exact wording from one of my guidebooks issexual gratification beyond basic lust and longing; deeper, soul touching, tantric.” Each word drips with desire.
Mine and hers—I feel the need open up between us.
“Lust and longing,” I say, watching her face. She goes still. “Is a good place to start.” I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, running my hand over her cheek, to her chin. She melts into my touch; I can smell the faint hint of cherry in her lip gloss. “I’d like to kiss you now.”
“Go ahead,” she breathes.
I crush my lips against hers. Every reservation and all my lingering questions evaporate.
I pull her in so that our breasts press together as my tongue slips inside. Her mouth is the most delicious dessert, sweet and soft and warm, lusciously tinged with fruity rosé. I want to touch her everywhere, I want to make her scream my name, and when her hands clutch my hips, and the cards fall to the ground between us, I know she wants the same thing.
I tilt her head back so I can pepper kisses over her neck, breathing out the question, “Is this okay?” I need her to say yes. I need to know she wants this—wants me.
“Fuck yes,” she gasps. One hand running up my waist to cup my breast over the shirt. “Can I please”—she tightens the grip her other hand has on my ass—“unbutton your shirt?”
I chuckle against her neck, flicking my tongue on the tender skin behind her earlobe.
“Go right ahead,” I affirm.
She makes fast work of the buttons. “So tiny, so many,” she grunts as she unhooks them one by one. I feel them spring open, revealing my uninteresting, basic black bra. It’s got a littlepadding because Mother Nature did not endow me with much up top, helped even more by the racerback design.
She pushes back to get a look.
Her lips are swollen from kissing, her eyes delirious.
All pupils, all want.
She scoots closer, lifting her leg to fit around me and tug me in. Her eyes eat up the sight, and with her finger she traces the line of my collarbone, touching my heart pendant, down to the spot where the clasp holds the bra in place. Her eyes trek back up to mine, a question reflected in her dark pupils. I nod, fighting the urge to touch myself as heat pools between my legs. The ache to release that growing pressure is overwhelming, but in the best way.
She flicks the edge of the clasp with her fingernail and the bra pops open. It slides away from the little mounds of my breasts, revealing my nipples. She touches them with her eyes first. Her mouth drops open, hungry and eager. After a few seconds, she gently, almost cautiously, cups my breast in her palm, grazing the nipple with her thumb. It tightens beneath her touch, and she leans forward to kiss me.
Her thumb works over the ridge as my hands wind up beneath her shirt until they meet the resistance of her underwire. I trek beneath, lifting the bra up and touching her nipples. They’re already alert, but she lets out a moan into my mouth, ayes, more please, and I am so ready to comply. Anxious to give her exactly what she wants.
My fingers slow their pace as they brush across the mound of her nipple, feeling the soft curve of her breast, heavy in the palm of my hand. She’s full busted, something I’ve always been attracted to, and something she used to hate about herself becauseit got her all kinds of gross attention from guys—men, teachers, literally anyone with a Y chromosome.
I gently fondle her before snaking my hand out from under the bra and traveling around to the clasp in the back. She twists out of the straps, pulling back to let the bra fall to the floor, and I grip the small of her waist to tug her into me. My exposed breasts brush the thin layer of fabric between us. Her lips twitch into a smile beneath mine.
We’re moving fast, though, maybe too fast. I want this, and so does she—I can tell—but I also want to savor this moment. I want to know her better.
