Page 29 of The Duet

“I want to see you,” she says, again. This time, it’s more of a whisper than a question. Her fingertip dips in the space where my thighs meet.

I spread my legs and let her see.

Cleo sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. It makes her look completely irresistible, but I resist. I let her go through whatever she needs to go through. I let her have her moment. There will only ever be a first time for this.

Her breath comes faster and her lips are slightly agape. Her fingertip skates along my inner thigh, drawing more delicate figures, until it meanders up higher.

She slides a finger through my wetness as she leans in to kiss me again. It’s all so gentle and tender and unlike how I’m used to going about things when I’m in bed with another woman. I always feel like I have to give them the full Lana Lynch experience, whatever that is, and exceed any expectation they might have had about sleeping with me.

It’s the opposite of that with Cleo. She’s giving me the Cleo Palmer experience and every single second of it is as exquisite and delicate as she is.

I run my hand through her hair as I moan in the back of my throat. I hope she knows this is as much—if not more—a treat for me as it is for her. She might have known that she wanted this for a while, but the suddenness of my realization, the lack of time leading up to it, doesn’t take away from its acute fierceness. I want her so badly. I want her all over me and inside me. I want her so much that despite my inability to predict the future, I already know that one night won’t suffice for all the things I want to do with her.

Cleo kisses her way down again. Her lips against the skin of my neck rev up the engine of desire inside me even more. So much so that I’m perfectly happy relinquishing full control to her. Cleo pauses at my breasts, bestowing the full attention of her lips and tongue on them for long, delicious minutes. Then she kisses her way down my belly, lingering around my belly button, but it’s clear to see she has only one final direction in mind.

When she reaches her destination, I’m already half beside myself. She cranes her neck and looks back at me and her expression is so serious, it sets me off all the more. I spread wide for her, and then Cleo bows before me. She kisses my inner thigh and delightfully slowly makes her way to the apex of my thighs.

Her tongue is warm and soft on me. Her hair tickles my belly. Her fingertips dig into the flesh of my behind. Everything about this moment is utterly perfect. It’s that dizzying instant before everything explodes, like when I walk on stage, glance at the audience, and curl my fingers around the mic, anticipation building to that sublime crescendo, just before I sing the very first note. On stage, a moment like that doesn’t last very long. I have to follow the music and I can’t revel in that magic space longer than the song allows. But here, I can linger as long as my body will allow me. As long as I can take it. As long as I can withstand the deliciousness of Cleo’s divine tongue on me.

Oh, damn. I usually last a hell of a lot longer than this, but my neglected body is no match for Cleo’s intensity. For her effortless sexiness. For how she sings “I Should Have Kissed You” with me. For how much she wanted this and how she could so perfectly translate that desire into a climax for me.

I come wildly at her deft tongue. I let myself be carried away on this dazzling wave of her, because Cleo is nothing if not dazzling. When she takes to the stage as well as when she kneels between my legs.

Next time we sing together, when she sings to me, this is the image that will come to me and—no doubt—as long as we’re on stage together, I won’t be able to resist doing this over and over again.

So much for not predicting the future.

Chapter 18

Cleo

I’m feeling cockier than after the rare occasion of a perfect gig. Did this just really happen? The evidence is on display in full glory right in front of me. Lana Lynch climaxing is the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen in my life. My elation is greater than after the first time we sang together. Maybe this is my ultimate high: making Lana come. I sure hope this won’t be the only time I get to do this because there’s an addictive quality to having the great Lana Lynch clasp her thighs against your ears in ecstasy like that.

She opens her arms to me and I nestle inside her warm embrace. Lana rolls on her side and slides her knee between my legs as she holds me close. As glorious as making her come was, to lie in her arms like this is even more of a thrill, although it’s only this thrilling because of what came before. Because of everything that has come before. I gaze into her eyes and all I can think of is how the hell I’m going to stop myself from falling in love with her—if that’s even still possible.

I can still taste her on my tongue; I can still smell her deepest essence on my lips.

“Hey,” she whispers, her mouth close to mine. “That was…” She juts out her bottom lip. “Out of this world.”

“Thanks.” Thanks? Way to go, Cleo. Way to, in one split second, destroy your image in Lana’s eyes. “I mean, my pleasure.”

Lana sends me a sweet smile. She looks so different than she does on stage. Much more vulnerable without that ever-present mask of cool she likes to hide behind. She brushes my hair away from my face.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t coming to my room to talk.” Her fingertip skates along the edge of my ear.

I shake my head as I smile back at her. I seem to have lost the ability to talk altogether—it’s better than spouting nonsense, anyway.

“Let’s see if I can return the favor.” Her fingertip slides down my neck to the hollow of my throat. “You’re so beautiful.” She sounds as though she means it from the bottom of her heart. Her finger makes a straight line down as she leans in to kiss me. Her kiss is soft, her tongue heavenly against mine. I close my eyes and press myself against her. She cups my breast and brushes her thumb over my nipple. I want her so damn much. Even though I’m wrapped in Lana’s arms, part of me still finds it hard to believe this is happening. That she’s about to ‘return the favor.’ But my breast is cupped in her palm. My lips are claimed by hers. My clit is beating like a second pulse. My body is more than ready for Lana even though my brain is still trying to catch up.

While we kiss, she gently pushes me onto my back. Her hand slides down my belly, then stops, her fingertips so close to my clit that the delicious anticipation is overwhelming.

We break from our kiss and she stares at me for what feels like the longest seconds of my life. To have Lana Lynch look at me like this, like I’m the most delicious piece of food she’s about to take a bite of, with her fingers dangerously close to my clit, is at the same time the most torturous and divine sensation in the world.

While I know, in my head, that my infatuation with Lana is based on a version of her that probably doesn’t even exist, my heart doesn’t care. For now, I let my heart win. My head will—hopefully—be there for me when I need it most. But I don’t need it now. What I need most of all is for Lana’s fingers to slide down, and down, and down.

I know her and I don’t know her, yet I want her with the kind of ferocity that I usually reserve for someone I love. I don’t give away my heart so easily. Yet, to Lana, I would give it in a single heartbeat. I would give it to her in the space it takes for us to sing a song together. Because it’s our duet that has sealed this deal. It’s because of us singing together that her fingertip is edging closer and closer to my clit.

She’s still looking at me as though she wants to absorb every expression on my face, as her hand finally disappears between my legs. Her fingers are light as a feather as they slide through my wetness. I want so much more of them—of her.

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