I Hear Your Name in Certain Circles: Part 2

Every time I move, there's a breeze that reminds me how wet I am.

I check my reflection one more time to make sure that nothing shows, especially in profile. Gotta admit that going full-body commando while packing feels kind of weird. Hella hot, though. And the look on Delphine's face when she realizes I'm leaving wearing my coat over nothing but my harness and tackle is fucking priceless.

"Cosima, why are you going out like... that?"

I love how she gets that little divot between her eyebrows. "To get some, um, supplies. I'll be right back."

She sits up in bed, leaning propped up on her elbows. Boobs front and center, framed by the edge of the sheet. Nice. "Room service exists for a reason, you know, chérie."

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure they're not gonna have what I want."

"There are three restaurants, a wine and cheese bar and a Starbucks in the hotel alone. Anything they don't have, we could ask the concierge to have delivered. There's no need for you to leave."

"Babe, I'm going to the post office to pick up the order of weed I sent myself from Phatnug. Then I need to hit a head shop. Happy?"

Delphine flops backward into her pillow. She winds her hands into her hair and busts out laughing, making her breasts dance. "Get some ketchup chips and Coffee Crisps."

Probably a good thing she can't see what I'm saluting her with. I can still hear her giggling when I head out the door.

The cab driver speaks English about as well as I speak French, so we're both relieved when I show him the address on my phone. Traffic's pretty bad but it's a really short trip to the nearest Canada Post — the hotel is actually still in sight, looming like Québécois Hogwarts. I feel a little silly not walking but it's still pretty cold out and the last thing I want is to irritate the fuck out of my stupid lungs and spend the weekend coughing up blood. Especially since that would mean Delphine going into Doctor Mode. Maybe not the end of sexy times, but not exactly romantic, you know?

Somehow I manage to dig "Attendez, s'il vous plaît" out of the belly button lint of my memory. He nods in that exaggerated way you do when you're trying to communicate mostly through gestures and leaves the engine running while I duck inside. It's not busy, so in just a few minutes I'm back out in the cab with my generic, unmarked Xpresspost envelope. I give the package a sniff on the QT but I can't smell a thing. This is the first time I've ordered from these guys; obvs they know their shit.

After a quick search, I show the driver my phone again. He drives me to a tobacconist's called J. E. Giguère right around the corner. I grab a packet of Elements Artesano papers, an aluminum grinder and a cheap plasma lighter. The guy behind the counter looks pointedly at the package in my hand, then practically glares at me while he's ringing up my shit. It takes a lot of effort not to roll my eyes and tell him, Relax, dude, I know the etiquette. On the way back to the hotel, I have the driver stop one more time at a little grocery on Rue des Jardins so I can load up on drinks and snacks.

I pay the driver and give him a fat tip. He points at the padded envelope, mimes holding a joint to his lips and gives me a wink, then takes off.

Back in the suite, I dump my coat and bags, then shuck my shoes in the entryway. Patricia Barber plays over the sound system. I check my reflection in the big mirror, dancing to the music. Dreads, rockin'. Tits, hella perky. Abs, thank you yoga. Ginormous purple hard-on, oh yeah, baby.

No hot French doctor in the bedroom or bathroom. "Babe?"

"In here, chérie," she calls from the depths of... somewhere. This place is freaky big. You could put my entire Minnesota apartment in a corner and lose it behind a curtain.

"Here, where?"

"Living room."

I go out the bedroom's other doorway and stop dead in my tracks.

Wet dream doesn't even begin to describe it.

She's sitting by a window in one of the dark brown velvet wing chairs with a towel folded under her ass. The chair's been repositioned to face the bedroom door, giving me a primo view as she glides her fingers in and around her pussy; she's so wet I can hear the little lapping sounds from here and so swollen she looks like a split ripe fruit. One leg is draped over the arm of the chair; her other leg is planted on the floor and splayed to the side. Sheer black stockings and a garter belt. Wicked spike heels so high, I wonder if she can actually walk in them. And nothing else.

Sometimes Delphine is the queen of subtle, conveying a world of meaning in the lift of her eyebrow or the tilt of her head or the tiniest twitch of her lips. This is not one of those times.

Thank fucking goodness.

"See anything you like?"

How does she manage to maintain that doe-eyed innocent expression while displaying herself for me like that? "See everything I adore."

And before I know it I am kneeling on the floor, eye to eye with the holiest of holies and inhaling until I'm dizzy. I want to taste and touch and bathe myself in her cunt, but I make myself wait, kissing my way along the inside of one thigh above the lacy edge of the stocking. The muscles tremble and bunch under her skin. Only the bracing of my elbows keeps her hips from bucking into my face when I just barely graze my mouth over the damp curls covering her mound.

"Cosima."

I smile up at her, making sure she can see me licking the trace of her come from my lips. "Yes, Delphine?"

"I need you. Now!"

Trailing my hand up her leg, I tease at her entrance, soaking my fingers as I outline the lips of her sex and trace each fold. She makes an impatient sound. Her hips jerk upward but I anticipate the motion and pull my fingers away, making her grunt with frustration. I haul myself to my feet, bracing a knee between her legs on the edge of the seat so I don't have to hold up all my weight with my arms. I paint her wetness all over her lips and kiss her deeply, then smile as she sucks my fingers into her mouth. "Your period's about to start, isn't it?"

She lets go of my fingers with a slurp. "What?"

"I mean, it's like clockwork. Not like mine." Ever since I was a kid, my period has always been irregular. Sometimes it's just a few days of spotting; sometimes I'm birthing blood clots. Sometimes I go months between periods, which always used to make things a little anxious back when I dated or fucked dudes. Add in the uterine tumors and it's just all kinds of unpredictable fun. "But I don't need to look at a calendar to know when you're about to... clock."

Those huge hazel eyes come back into focus and narrow at me. "Okay. So how can you tell?"

"Well, for one thing, I can taste it in your come. There's a kind of metallic edge that isn't there any other time. For another," I deliberately drag the ends of my dreads across her breasts, making her hiss, "your tits are like extra super sensitive right before."

Which gives me an idea.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what, babe?" I kiss my way along her jawline; she leans her head back so I can kiss every part of her neck.

"Your Grinch smile. You're up to something."

"Maaaaaaaybe." Nibbling just below her ear, I let my fingertips brush the sides and under-curves of her breasts.

"Nnngghh. Are you going to tell me what it is?"

Small circles and bigger circles, back and forth, tapping, flicking, varying the speed and pressure. "Nah. Let's just see what happens." I deliberately avoid her nipples, concentrating instead on the incredibly soft and smooth flesh surrounding them until she's squirming and moaning. Every tiny papilla stands out in her areolas and she jumps when I lick the edges of first one, then the other, feeling the pebbly surfaces contract under the tip of my tongue. Her head is flung back over the top of the seat and her hands are gripping the arms of the chair, like they're the only thing keeping her from lunging toward me. I butterfly a kiss to her chest, barely skimming, mostly letting just my breath caress her, watching her skin go all goose-pimply and flushed. The back of my brain supplies the lyrics to the song that's playing but mostly I'm trying to ignore the liquid heat between my legs and the insistent throbbing of my clit that's trapped beneath the base of my cock. It helps to concentrate on listening to Delphine panting and swearing, tasting the salt of her skin and getting drunk on the scent of her.

By now her nipples are like pencil erasers. Perfect. I take one into my mouth, grinning to myself when she nearly levitates out of the chair. Swirl my tongue around the hard little nub and suck. Release it with a wet pop, then capture the other one. Back and forth, lavishing attention on her nipples, licking and biting and sucking harder until the snuffly little whimpering sounds she's been making change to increasingly louder and higher pitched cries. Suddenly she arches outward like Kate Winslet in "Titanic" and all I can think is Goddamn right I'm king of the world.

I don't want her to get too sore so I lay off her nipples and go back to gently caressing her breasts while she shivers and pants. My legs are kind of shaky and my back is starting to stiffen. Guess she notices, because she manages to scoot over enough to let me snuggle into the chair next to her, half sitting across her lap. I lean my head against hers, sliding my arm behind her neck to support it; her arms snake around my waist.

"That was... that was..."

I crane my head to kiss her softly. "Good, I hope?"

"Oh, yes." Delphine smiles into our kiss, still trying to catch her breath. "Very. I didn't expect — I mean, I didn't know you could even..."

"Come just from having your tiddies sucked by your incredibly talented girlfriend?"

"Brat." One eye cracks open in a half-hearted glare, then squeezes shut again. "Yes. It's different, though, isn't it? Kind of... "

"Tingly and warm and melty inside while you're flying but floating in a bath that's the absolute perfect temperature?"

" ... Yeah."

No further elaboration. I feel incredibly smug. I mean, it's not every day you reduce one of the most brilliant, articulate women in the world to monosyllabic incoherent mumbling. Won't last, though, because if I know anything at all about Delphine Cormier, once she recovers and the gears start turning again in her mind, she's going to grill me on the physiological and philosophical and spiritual bases of boobgasms. And then, relentless first class scientist that she is, she's going to experiment until she figures out the best and most deliciously torturous ways to one-up me.

I can't fucking wait.

To be continued...