Like a daring fingertip following a bold path down her moist spine, the drop of sweat made her arch her back. Deepen her breath. And she swallowed hard.
On television, two women were driving in the night through the hills of Hollywood. Plunged in the dark. She had cut the sound a long time ago when the rain had started pouring outside and the hot breeze that came from the windows wide opened melted now in the breath of the fan; brushed her shivering skin.
In spite of the storm, the temperatures hadn't lowered a bit. It was hot and humid; plunging the city into a torpor deprived of sleep. The scorching heat lasted. Insidiously.
A knock on the door made her jump of surprise. She looked at it – from the hardwood floor where she had sat – and passed her tongue over dry lips. The bitter taste of beer spread in her mouth.
"Who is it?"
She pressed a button on her cell phone and the screen lit up the room of its blue, neon shade. Midnight. She wasn't expecting anyone.
The floor was hot under her bare feet and as she headed towards the door, Jane realized that it was even more suffocating there. Her fan didn't reach this angle of her apartment nor did the breeze of the rain. A loud – metallic – melody pierced the silence. She took the chain off, opened the door.
Drops of water were running down her face – sliding along her neck – before disappearing in the depth of her cleavage. She had done her hair in a loose bun but rebel strands had escaped and were now stuck to her cheeks. Her flesh was pink, her dress soaked wet; molding her curves with a tantalizing effect.
"Hard time falling asleep?"
Maura nodded in silence to the question and stepped inside; closed the door behind her as Jane headed to the kitchen to bring her back a beer. The icy contact made the blonde swallow hard, shiver running from the sweaty palm of her hand to her nape.
She took a sip and turned her attention to the television. The light coming from the screen crashed there against the opposite wall; making appear at a regular pace Jane's books on the shelves. A few pictures.
The two women of the movie had made it to one of these Mulholland Drive case studies that overlook Los Angeles. The city lights were glimmering below their feet as they approached a French window – stood there – then kissed. Eagerly, passionately.
The cam faded away.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Maura's heartbeats resounded loud in her head; like an odd lullaby which rhythm kept her alive. She looked back at Jane standing by her side, swallowed hard.
She barely saw the lightning, piercing through the living-room of its white – blinding – shade. All of a sudden her back hit the wall as her lips lost themselves against hot ones. Eyes closed.
Everything turned black.
It was spinning fast – the voluptuous kisses, the emergency of their breaths – and she lost balance in her friend's arms. Succumbing to her touch. Burning fingertips running up her thighs. Her moan died, stifled in Jane's mouth. A surge of power making her shiver, clutch to her partner.
A gulp of air – mirror game of lips brushing each other – before returning to the urging plea of their tongues chasing each other mischievously.
This time, Maura saw the lightning; just as she arched her back and slid a knee up between Jane's legs until she made contact with the silent heat that sent a shiver down her friend's spine. Echoing the quiet ballet of the movie – the waltz of neon lights – Jane's mouth found its way down Maura's throat, the tip of her tongue tracing a lustful path towards a chest moving roughly under agonizing sighs.
The glistening of the skin had long ceased to be caused by the rain. The blonde was sweating, now. The heat; the humid air that wrapped up her aroused body. Jane's hair brushed her shoulder blades in a cruel game of senses. She bit her lower lip – arched her back – and grabbed her friend's tank top to take it off in the ridiculous hope that it would release the urge boiling in her stomach.
Her dress landed on the floor and soon the heat of her body melted into Jane's as the skin-to-skin contact troubled her reasoning. Hips slid under her fingertips – a waist – a stomach that moved as she began to draw invisible patterns on it.
And then Jane's breasts, free from the bra she had unhooked in a haste.
Soft. The palm of her hands brushed them in a ghost of a caress that soon vanished as she felt her friend go down her own body. Jane's nails scratched against her thighs as she freed her from the black lace of her thong and the hot air making contact with her flesh made Maura gasp. Loudly. Unexpectedly.
Spirals. Jane's tongue was now drawing spirals, going up her legs; and as her mouth reached her knees, the tantalizing – damp – caresses took the direction of her inner thighs. Maura smiled – her head leaned backwards against the wall – more than ready for her final release.
A guttural sound escaped from her lips as the tip of the tongue brushed her sensitive flesh in a teasing lick. Her fingers disappeared in Jane's black curls. Her body arched, instinctively.
She pushed her friend closer to respond to the surge of her needs.
Curling against the hardwood floor, Maura's foot bumped against Jane's back before sliding along it – the heat of the contact of both bodies making her swallow hard. She rested it there.
If she hadn't got lost into the exhilaration of multiplied senses – spirals and abstract forms of a tongue driving her crazy – she would have noticed her rough breath. The way Jane's hands were clutched to her hips, the nails digging in the skin and leaving half-moons engraved on it. She would have noticed her gasps, her sighs, her moans. The way she frowned whenever her body was too close. Her tongue, moist on her own lips; following the cadence of her friend's ministrations on her sensitive skin.
Dizzy – on the verge of everything – Maura opened back her eyes. Suddenly, widely. Her body tensed, she stared at the ceiling and the lights of the television sliding on it. A world of silence and images in action, of no words; no thinking.
The heat between her legs was now unbearable. Jane. Her aroused flesh. A tongue that seemed to play in a ballet of twirls with whatever was left of her senses.
She pressed her free hand – the one that hadn't plunged into her friend's hair – against the wall. A loud bump that echoed a deep growl.
We call it the little death. That moment when someone loses control over the powerful wave of a quite unique warmness. It comes from the stomach – deep in there – then spreads to the rest of the body and leaves a cold signature that makes the subject shake. For long seconds, the release of oxytocin almost paralyzes the brain. Some people talk about a life force when others prefer to refer to it as a sort of transcendence.
And that feeling of floating that melts into a close state of unconsciousness.
A knock on the door. Jane jumps from the couch, wide awake. Her heart beats loud. She looks around. Her eyes stop on the wall there. By the door. The ghosts of sighs and moans slowly vanish along with the haze of her dream.
She stands up. Her legs are shaking.
The rain is still falling hard, outside. A fog emanates from the asphalt, absorbed by the heat of the night and the storm approaching the city.
She goes to open the door. Maura is standing there, soaked wet in a dress that clutches to her curves while rain drops fall down her face.
We call it a déjà vu. Paramnesia is its scientific term. This feeling of having already experienced a given situation at some point in the past that leaves you with the troubling sensation of surreality. Oddness is taking over the rest and leads to confusion, uncertainty. A few civilizations used to see in it the proof of reincarnation, the memories of a past life coming back suddenly when others assumed it meant that men had prophetic dreams.
Sigmund Freud assimilated it to the reminiscence of a perception, the one of a subconscious fantasy.