"Sit," Vanille says, putting one hand on Fang's breastbone and giving her a push. Fang dropped into the chair, more startled than obedient.
"Vanille," she said. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Do you know what today is?" Vanille asked, putting her hands on the back of the chair, one hand on either side of Fang's head, and leaning forward. Leaning way forward. Fang could smell the sweet-spicy scent of the herbal rinse Vanille used on her hair, and could see straight down her shirt.
"The first time I ever did this," Vanille breathed, and then closed the gap and kissed her. Even when she was at her most whimsical and commanding, Vanille's mouth was so soft, her hand on Fang's cheek so gentle . . .
And yes, Fang remembered; now she remembered. It wasn't an anniversary she kept particularly in mind (that she saved for the first time Vanille had told her she loved her; the first time they'd had sex), but two years ago this day Vanille had first turned around with a determined look in her eyes and pulled Fang into a kiss that was all she'd longed for and hadn't dared to hope for.
Vanille pulled back after a long, slow, long moment, during which Fang's hands had wandered up the bare small of her back. "Remember now?" she said.
"Of course," Fang said.
"Good," Vanille said, and then she slipped up to her knees and away, off Fang's lap, out of Fang's reaching hands. "Because I have a present for you."
"You don't need to give me a present," Fang said, but what she thought was, just come back here and that'll be present enough.
But Vanille slid away from her, wriggling and bright as a river fish. "Maybe I want to," she said. "Sit there."
"Oh . . . .kay?"
"You'll like it, I promise," Vanille said, and then, humming (as she did so often; it was like she had her own inner music), began to strip off her bracelets. One by one.
Oh. That kind of present.
One two three bracelets off, which Vanille let fall to the ground at her feet; two clinked and one rolled before toppling over in slow motion. Then the other hand: four five six bracelets, and Vanille arched her hands over her head and she pulled them off so that Fang could see, so close and yet too far to touch, the long smooth line of Vanille's arms, the shape they made, the curve of her elbow, the vulnerable dip of her underarm . . . .
The last of the bracelets shed, Vanille stepped—swayed—forward until her knees were touching Fang's. Fang reached for her, only to have Vanille catch her hands and hold them away.
"No touching," she said, and planted Fang's hands, palm-down, on the arms of the chair.
"You little tormentor," Fang said.
"Maybe," Vanille replied, and dimpled again, an expression that was so sweet that it belied what she was doing, which was torturing her girlfriend.
Vanille leaned forward over Fang, close enough that Fang could once again smell her . . . and now that scent of herb-washed hair and soap-clean skin mixed with something muskier, the first taste of Vanille's arousal.
Fang was a strong woman. She wasn't going to make noise. She wasn't. Not when Vanille hadn't even touched her yet. But it was still intoxicating and unfair when Vanille reached up to the nape of her own neck and unhooked her choker, and then began to unlace the long strings of beads that hung through and around her top.
"Vanille," she said, half groan, half complaint . . . and in response Vanille stepped back, smiled, dropped the choker and long strings of beads so that they spun and rattled across the floor. And then, humming to the sound of the patter of beads, Vanille began to sway.
Blessed creature. Damn her, anyway.
Fang's fingers closed reflexively on the chair arms as she watched Vanille move, a soft subtle shiver of her body from her bare feet through her liquid hips and her narrow waist, to her breasts still in their concealing top and her hair loosed and spilling in bright curls around her face. Vanille raised her hands over her head, gave Fang a smile that was equal parts sweet and wicked, and drew her hands down; fluttering down from the empty air, trailing down her throat, over her sweet breasts and her narrow waist, down to the sensual curve of her hips.
She watched, dry-mouthed, as Vanille unhooked the belt that held her pelt sash in place. It fell to the floor with the soft whisper-whoosh of fur, leaving Vanille in nothing but her abbreviated top and even more abbreviated skirt she wore.
"Would you like me to come over there?" Vanille asked coyly, clasping her hands and putting her head to one side, and looking so much like the girl Fang had fallen in love with when they were both not much more than children.
Of course I do, came into Fang's mind, and What kind of stupid question is that? and No, I'm just sitting here drooling because that's my idea of a good evening. But what she said, with her tongue as arid as the southernmost plains, was, "Yes. Please."
Vanille moved with her own sensual and unselfconscious grace to the chair, and this time, thank the spirits of air and darkness, she didn't stop. She brought one knee up onto the chair next to Fang's hip, and then the other, so close that Fang could feel the heat off her skin like a small sun, like the center of her own personal solar system.
But when she reached up to lay her hand on the sweet curve of Vanille's waist, Vanille smacked her hand out of the way again.
"No touching," she said, leaning so far forward that Fang could feel Vanille's breath on her lips. "Not until I'm done."
Fang would have liked to say that her response wasn't a longing whine, but it would have been a lie.
Vanille arched: knees firmly planted but body as flexible as a sapling, drawing a smooth line from her hips through her belly and breasts to her shoulders, her vulnerable throat, the delicate line of her jaw. Fang could see her brilliant gold-red curls spilling over her shoulders, see the thrum of her pulse in her throat, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed.
And bit by bit, pulse by pulse, Vanille began to move again. She swayed with the throb of blood in her veins; her body rose and fell to the timing of her lungs: inhale, exhale. She hummed a little and moved more, unbending her body and shifting astride Fang's lap and yet not touching, so that her breasts moved soft and free beneath her top and her hips moved strong and sure. Her hands trailed up her flat belly, up to her shoulders, down over her breasts to the hem of her top . . . and then she pulled it off with one smooth movement.
When they were on a hunting trip Vanille wore her breastbands to keep things comfortable, but this time there was nothing, nothing, under the thin fabric of her shirt. Her breasts moved free and soft and so beautiful, skin creamy but flushed and nipples already firm and deep-pink as the ripe berries they gathered together near streams in the wildwood.
And she was still moving, her breasts moving with her, the soft tremble as she swayed, the more pronounced jiggle as she moved forward and then back and then . . . forward.
Vanille raised her arms up over her head again, then put her hands on either side of Fang's head, She was so close that now Fang felt that she could sense, not only Vanille's scent and her heat but also the beat of her heart, the primal feeling of her lifeblood just under her skin.
"Vanille," she said, her voice a rasp, a sound of longing. And Vanille . . . smiled, leaning forward to press her forehead against Fang's. It was the first contact they'd had, and innocent as it was, it shot through her like electricity.
Then Vanille sat up and slipped her hands under the waistband of her short skirt, drew it and her underwear down, shimmied a little and cast it off, and then was naked in Fang's lap.
Naked. Naked and lovely beyond compare.
Fang didn't even try to touch her this time, hypnotized and completely floored as she was by Vanille's body, Vanille's voice, the rhythm to which Vanille breathed and danced and lived. But she couldn't keep herself from making soft noises.
And Vanille touched her: rubbing her breasts against Fang's through Fang's sari-wrap and breastband, lowering herself to grind shamelessly. There was nothing for her to do but stay: she was a head taller and quite a bit stronger than Vanille but she was utterly at her mercy, and she writhed and breathed her moans and watched as the flush descended from Vanille's cheeks down her throat to her breasts.
"Touch me," Vanille said, and that was all Fang needed.
Her hands found Vanille's hips to draw her home, sure and tight in Fang's arms. She couldn't seem to let go, couldn't seem to stop running her palms up from the curve of Vanille's arse to that spot in her back that made her arch; to the soft tops of her breasts and the way they trembled beneath her touch, and then down, down, down . . . .
Vanille was pulling at her clothing, unwinding the sari and loosing her breastband. Down to claw at the short pants she wore under her wrap. But Fang paid her no heed: she was sliding her hands down Vanille's belly, and into the bright rich curls between Vanille's legs.
Vanille threw her head back and cried out. Fang's fingers slipped deeper, between the soft folds to find her clitoris, to touch and touch and make her cries turn higher and more breathy. Vanille writhed, now, without purpose but with a rhythm that moved deeper than her own personal song. She ground against Fang's hand and made noises, soft squeals and little cries, and Fang took one of her nipples in her mouth and sucked and Vanille writhed and shuddered and came apart.
Vanille gasped and panted against Fang's shoulder, her body turning soft and languid by degrees. Fang wound an arm around her, glad to be able to touch her at last, glad to be able to be here with her.
"That was supposed to be your present," Vanille said, with a mixture of lassitude and reprimand.
"It was," Fang said, and kissed her throat. And then, rising up to shuck of her shorts and pulling Vanille flush against her, pubis to pubis and prickly and wonderful, "It will be."
Later, when they were both wholly naked and sticky and sated, with Fang's sari crushed beneath their bodies, Vanille shifted against her.
"Mm?" Fang asked, running her fingers through Vanille's sweat-damp hair.
"I'm glad I kissed you," Vanille said, "two years ago." Her eyelashes flickered against Fang's damp shoulder.
"So am I," Fang said, and kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her salty mouth. "More than you can believe."