Passions Prologue
By Dana Keylits

A/N: An alert reader noted that there is an inconsistency between this story and Passions Past, in terms of the timing for some of what happens in this chapter. I simply beg your indulgence, and ask that you keep in mind that the events that were shown in Passions Past were through the memories of the characters, and could therefore have been imprecise. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. :-) I hope you enjoy the chapter. I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Eighteen: Taking Charge

It was the gentle, purposeful, subtle scraping of her fingernail down the column of my spine that did it. The kisses, the nakedness, the illicit whispers against my ear had set it in motion, but it was this ghostly touch that had sent me spiraling into nirvana.

I was suddenly transported into some utopian version of my life in which every bad or wrong thing that had ever happened to me had suddenly disappeared from the cabinets of my memory, every problem or worry or regret vanquished to the darkest, quietest corners of my mind, and all that mattered, all that existed, was her.

With agonizing deliberateness, she tripped from one ridge to the next, her mouth hot against my ear as she murmured her desires, her promises, her intentions.

And, while her breath was warm, it sent an army of goose bumps rippling over every inch of my trembling, infused flesh, and I shuddered, a mewling prayer escaping my lips.

After she had removed my sweater, divested me of my bra, she'd stepped back to gaze at me, her obsidian eyes absorbing my nakedness with a carnal resolve that was engraved across every shadow and line on her face. She'd smiled, running her fingers down my front, pausing at my breasts, my nipples, stepping closer to me, her lips skimming my cheek, peppering me with tiny kisses. I reached for the top button of her blouse, but she'd batted my hands away, stepping back to do the job herself.

Her midnight eyes never leaving mine, she'd slowly unbuttoned her blouse, taking it off and letting it fall to the floor in a delicate heap at her feet. Her black lace-trimmed bra quickly followed. I stared at her as though it were my first time seeing her in the flesh, as though I had just stumbled upon the lost statue of Michelangelo, a work of art so stunning, so breathtaking, I could only gaze upon her with dewy eyes.

She floated towards me, pressing her breasts against mine, her hands sliding around my waist, her fingernails leaving white trails along my back as she ran them up and down the my back.

And, then she found my spine.

And, sent me spinning.

She began to kiss my shoulder, her lips soft against the rise of bone beneath skin, and she trailed a wet path down my arm until her mouth found the inside of my elbow and her tongue licked the tender skin, her lips kissing me wetly. My whole arm vibrated with pleasure, and I could feel it there, between my legs, in the wanting, throbbing place that waited.

Waited for her.

She moved to my wrist, her curious tongue examining every millimeter of sensitive skin, until she left it to kiss my palm, where she lingered.

Deftly, she straightened up, her fingers manipulating the button on my jeans, sending shards of energy coursing throughout my body. I threw my head back, my hair tickling the already excited skin that draped my spine, my hands surfing her upper arms, as she slipped the button through its eyelet and then roughly unzipped my jeans.

She thrust her hand in the opening, slipping her fingers beneath the gentle fabric of my panties until they easily slipped between my wet folds, her fingers twirling around my hardened clit, expertly massaging, coaxing, teasing. I gasped, my fingers digging into the sinewy flesh of her upper arms and I knew what would happen next, knew her body her signals, her breath, and scent and intention.

And, as much as I wanted it, wanted her, I curled my fingers around her wrist and croaked, my voice husky and unrecognizable. "Wait, Bette. Stop."

She paused, her body stiffening. "What?"

I shook my head.

"Kate? What? Don't you want…?"

I guided her hand from beneath my jeans, my fingers entwining with hers, noting the dampness of them. I kissed her softly, my lips seeking her mouth with silent explanation. "Yes, yes, I want." I emphasized. "I definitely want."

She quirked an eyebrow, leaning slightly away from me, "Then what…?"

I gazed into the pool of obsidian lust that adorned her eyes and smiled, a slow, coy lilt of my lips. "I want to be in charge this time." I clarified.

She stared at me, and then her lips inched upwards, her eyes danced, one eyebrow arced playfully. "Yeah?"

I nodded.

She stepped backwards, raising her arms as if in some ritual offering to an ancient diety. "Then, take charge, Kate."

I swallowed.

And, as my feet took their time shuffling towards her, our carnal gaze never breaking, I swallowed nervously, scores of erotic thoughts and images racing through my mind like a slide show on fast-forward.

When I reached her, noting with pride that her flawless mocha skin had broken out into a sea of goose bumps, her eyes staring at me with an uncertain need, I reached out, my fingers dancing over her skin, determined to explore every inch of her body with the determination of Magellan, a transcontinental discovery of flesh, and bone, and lust and love.

And, desire.

This time it would be I who was the grand master, and she the expensive instrument.

It was difficult for her, at first, to just let me take charge. She kept wanting to take over, take control, dictate how our bodies would dance. But, I would gently remind her that I was the choreographer of this ballet, and then she would smile and nod, her body would soften, and she'd let me lead the dance again.

Which began with my undressing her, watching her step out of her clothing, her body radiant against the lamplight, shining, effervescent, humming. I stood there, practically for a full minute just looking at her, absorbing her beauty, her body looking positively like an artists rendering. And, when she'd whimpered, her need becoming evident, I guided her to the bed where she lay below me, one arm raised above her against the feathered pillow, the other draped across her middle, and I'd wished I'd had the talent of Matisse so that I could capture this moment on canvas, vibrant colors, swirling brushstrokes, a nude worthy of the revered halls of the Louvre in Paris. But, I could only paint her in my mind; my hands, my eye, lacking the talent for anything else.

I was discovering a different kind of talent, however, one that made her purr and gasp, exhale with deliberate measure, her body rolling and rippling below me, and as I divested myself of the last of my garments, I used my whole body to make her cry out, her mournful murmurs, her animated sobs, as sacred to me as a Gregorian chant to a monk at Vespers.

I heard myself speaking, unsure of what jumbled words may have slipped past my tongue, but they must have been surprising, risky, because she raised her head curiously. There was an infinity of silence between us; more than enough to make me question myself, but then she lowered herself to the pillow, cocking her head to the side as she regarded me, open, vulnerable, and my doubts subsided like a receding tide, she had met me, matching risk to risk. Just like the first time I'd shared her bed.

Shared her body.

My hands acted according to their own wisdom, touching her body with a growing certainty, and she gravitated to me, in that unmistakable arc of a women giving herself, so that something in me finally moved, finally bent towards her and I explored her using my hands, and lips, my teeth, my breasts, even the soles of my feet as I let the full weight of my body to drape over her. And, when her teeth sunk into the softest part of my shoulder, I knew that I was most certainly in charge. For the first time, the first time since she'd seen me from across the room, hiding behind a fichus plant at that party over a week ago, I was in control.

And, I liked it.

I straddled her, my knees pressed against the mattress on either side of her hips, and rose above her body, allowing her to gaze upon me, wanting her to look at me. And, as her hooded eyes slowly scanned my upper body, I was overwhelmed by the sense that I was journeying to a greater depth of myself than I had ever known, drawing back from her, letting myself be seen. And, as always happened with her, the awkward, uncertain version of me, the version of me that cared what other people thought, was inexplicably relegated to the shadows, banished from my personality like a demon exorcised with the skill of a priest.

I shuddered, my body feeling every bit of this experience, in every fiber, every cell, every organ and hair and bone, and the pleasure of it, the power of it, rippled through me.

The room was dark despite the ancient lamp that cast an amber glow across the floor, and I closed my eyes. I knew how to smell, to taste and touch and breathe her in, to make her cross the boundaries, to open to me through every pore. I knew how to make love to this woman, but I had never made her come with my mouth. My hands, it had always been my hands, and this time, on this turbulent night, I would finally taste her.

My hands responded to the silent calling of her body, tracing a path along the sharp angles of her collarbone, my palms molding to her delicious breasts, my fingers pinching her elongated nipples, my fingernails scraping the tepid flesh that covered muscle and bone as I traveled towards her naval. I ran my fingers through the soft down of hair at the apex of her thighs, and I scooted down her body, my eyes locked on hers, hungry, their intent and purpose more than clear, and she raised her head, her lips parting.

"Kate,"

I dipped between her legs, my tongue eager, and I felt, more than saw, her head hit the pillow, an agonized cry rising from her throat. The throbbing of my own sex both distracted and encouraged me as I went down on her. Her scent was inviting, heady, erotic, and her taste, it was beyond my ability to adequately describe, but it was pleasing and sultry, visceral.

I moved my tongue, first in circles, and then back and forth, then touching her clit, laving it, trying to find a tempo, a rhythm that would please her. I felt unsure, like I was bumbling this, but she bucked against me, her moans and sighs, her 'Ohhh, Kate's' telling me I was on the right track.

"Yes, this," she said, her hands reaching down and touching my head, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Just like this. Just, ahhhh, yes. Kate."

I felt her rising against my mouth, her clit hardening, and she tasted different, tinny, and it aroused me, excited me, made me need her, need this, this crashing against me, this coming, this opening and vulnerability, and raw, carnal sharing of each other. And I was falling.

Hard.

I must have said so, because I heard her say, 'me too,' or something to that effect, and right after that, her body tensed below me, her breathing increased, a rapid in and out that made me wonder if she would hyperventilate, and then she paused, and suddenly grew still, rigid, a strangled cry rising from deep within her chest, as I felt the contraction against my mouth.

And, she came.

I held on, my chin hard against her clit, riding out the waves of her orgasm as it crashed against her like a whitecap on rocky shore, and she screamed my name, her velvety voice echoing throughout the darkened room.

Her pleasure pulled me into its rising currents, making me move in an irregular, syncopated rhythm, clutching, and breathing hard against her until she came down, the orgasm subsiding, only the condensed shudders of its aftershocks remaining, rippling through her, rippling through me.

And, when I knew I could breathe normally again, when I could safely ascend her body, I crawled back up the bed and lay on top of her, my mouth hot on hers, my kiss deep, my tongue probing and curious, and she wrapped her arms and legs around me as we kissed, a soft moan rising from her throat that I sipped up like I needed it to live. Like it was a talisman that would ward off our darker thoughts, our uncertainty and fear, the shame that others would have us feel for what we were doing.

Her hands in my hair, my lip trapped between the dangerous ridges of her teeth, I laid very still, watching the shadows of the trees that danced against the windowpane, not believing that my eyes were open, but knowing why. They had to be, to make sure that this was real, this time, this place, this woman, that it was real and not the ghostly imaginings of my fertile mind.

Something inside of me shook itself open, leaving me exposed and vulnerable, wanting something more, something more from her. And, when she looked at me, truly looked at me, I could see that she saw it, recognized it.

I smiled, gazing down at her through misty eyes, feeling requited, loved, until something skittered across her face, some emotion, or fear, something I couldn't quite identify, and I panicked. But then it was gone, and it was just her again. Just her looking at me, smiling at me, luring me into her seductive grasp, and whispering against my ear, "Your turn."

And, she flipped us over so that now she was on top of me.

And, just like that, I was no longer in charge.