Inn on the Edge (13 page)

She kissed the top of my head, sighing happily. “You are a
goddamn natural, Angie Taylor,” she whispered, her hand resting warmly on my
mound, her hair falling on my back, blessing our union.

I felt like a natural.

Two women, exploring each other’s bodies. What could be more
natural than that?

“Lie down,” she whispered.

I did, my heart pounding. I looked up at her.

Slowly, taking her time, she worked a foot between my feet.
Oh!
Then she pressed her knee between my knees.
Oh! Oh!
Then she reached
under me and cupped my butt cheek in her hot little hand and began to knead it,
causing other, more sensitive parts of me to tremble with desire. Still
fondling my ass, she kissed my neck again.

I gasped.

I couldn’t help myself.

I pressed close to her, so close. Her hand roamed under me,
from butt cheek to butt cheek, driving me insane.

I was more turned-on than I’d ever been in my life.

Zenith.

Pretty Zenith of the Burnt Sienna hair. My Zenith. I drew my
fingers down the lock of her hair that trailed over my shoulder and suddenly I
was racked with shudders. They rose from somewhere deep within me, swelling and
powerful. I jerked in her arms, moaning. One touch of that wonderful hair and
look what happened—I was
this
close to having an apex of mammoth
proportions!

Oh…my…god.

Making love to Zenith—to a woman—was a revelation. It was so
new, so breathtaking. I hadn’t expected to feel like a virgin again. To feel
that first touch again. To wallow in the thrill of discovery. It didn’t matter
that I’d had raging-hot sex with two invisible men not long before.

Cascades, entire waterfalls of feeling coursed through me
with Zenith’s every move.

I writhed, moaned, whimpered.

And she hadn’t even touched my cunt yet
.

“Try to be still, sweetie,” she whispered, asking the
impossible. “You’ll wake up Josh. Can you do that? Can you be still? Should I
stop?”

“Yes, I can! No, don’t stop!”

She inched her knee up, up, up, closer and closer to where I
throbbed with need—who knew a knee could turn me on, that it could do such
delightful things? She worked her knee between my legs, opening me, spreading
me, preparing me.

Her breath in my ear, whispering. “You like that, sweetie?
You want more of that?”

“Yes!
Yes!
” I squealed. Then I turned my head to the
side and buried my face in the pillow as she gently spread and raised my knees.
Cool air brushed me, caressed me. I moaned, biting my lip as her hands made
their way up my inner thighs.
Oh, oh, oh!
Must be quieter! Much more
noise from me and Josh would wake up! But it was so hard—so hard! I wanted to
shout and holler and yell. I wanted to scream my passion. To broadcast to the
entire state of Washington that I’d just discovered a whole new world.

And it was un-fucking-believable.

But no. Mustn’t wake Josh. I screwed my eyes shut. I lifted
my sex to her instead.

What else could I do?

I lay there barely breathing. Not thinking. Only feeling.

Fingers, playing with me. Fingers, wandering through my
pubic hair, tugging gently. Twisting, pulling, winding my curlies around
themselves. Pulling the hair up, down, from side to side, and taking my clit
along for the ride.

“How about this?” she whispered. “You like this?”

“Fuck
yes
!” I gasped. “This, I love!” Her breast was
so close to my mouth. I reached for it with damp lips but missed.

She laughed softly. “Oooh. You talk dirty. I like that in a
girl.”

I arched my back as her finger teased and flitted and danced,
as it tickled and rubbed and flicked. My breath came in shallow puffs as every
nerve of my body focused on that glorious finger. But it didn’t venture into
me, into the place where I wanted it most, it only played around the edges.
Go
in! Go in!
I silently begged, but that dastardly finger never dove in,
never took the plunge.

“You’re driving me crazy,” I said, trying to help her finger
get inside me where it belonged by lifting my hips off the bed. It didn’t work.
I reached for her hand but she shoved it away.

“Likewise,” she answered, rubbing my clit.

“I hate you,” I whispered, moaning.

I felt her shoulders shake with silent laughter.

A beautiful torment, but torment all the same. Zenith knew
exactly what she was doing.

Oh! Oh!

We moved together, my Zenith and me. Her hand, my hips.
Making the bed squeak.

“Shhh…” she said, resting her cheek on mine. Her finger
slowed.

Josh mumbled in his sleep and threw his arm over his
forehead.

“Okay,” she whispered after a long, agonizing moment, “he
didn’t wake up.”

I howled into my pillow as Zenith lowered her mouth onto my
breast, sucking and slurping and licking. Teething, even, just a little. The
feeling that had started after I drank the tea, that started as a tingle and
worked its way to the boiling point, now surged within me, skipping entire
levels, moving all the way up to…what? Pressure-cooker level? Jet-engine level?
Volcano level?

More! I wanted more!

“Finger? You like finger?” Her muffled words tickled my
nipple.

“Yes!”

“More finger? Is that what you said? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Yes! I said hell yes!”

Slowly, so slowly, the finger at last worked its way inside
me. I reached between my legs and pressed my hand over hers, helping it to go
deeper.

“Twofingers,” I begged. “Three fingers—please!”

She tugged on my nipple, a smile on the corners of her
mouth. The shameless tease. “Fine. How about an entire handful of fingers?”

“Uh…uh…ungh!” Which, translated from
Angie-having-sex-language, meant,
Just
do
it already! Fuck me! Fuck
me with those nice slender fingers! Shove them far, far up me!

And then…

She kneeled beside me and reached to the bedside basket for
a tall white bottle. She squirted a large dollop of lubricant on her left hand.
She rubbed the translucent liquid all over her hand and then…

And then…

Holy shit!

A noise unlike any I’d ever made escaped my lips. Her
fingers—all of them, held together in a neat, tight bundle—pressing, pressing,
pressing
…

And me, helping…

And Zenith, sucking on my breast…

And me, locking my eyes on her magical hair as her hand
moved at my cunt. I reached up and twined those glorious locks of Burnt Sienna
in my fingers. Brought the hair to my mouth.

Sucked on it.

The bed shook with my shudders. How was Josh sleeping
through this?

And her hand, inside me now, all of it, fingers and thumb
and knuckles, filling me, stretching me, making me more than I’d ever been
before. Making me writhe in ecstasy. Then she did something new, something
indescribably wonderful…she withdrew her hand, just a little. Or maybe she
didn’t withdraw it at all? Maybe she only pulled on it? Whatever. She pulled.
Then, leaning over me, breathing hard, she pushed her hand back in
.
Somewhat more forcefully.

I gasped. My toes curled.

Pull…push…pull…push…

Pumping me in a wonderful sequence.

Oh,
oh
…oh,
oh
…

Rocking my body with her rhythmic motions. With every drive
of her hand, a tiny gasp from me. And it hurt, just a little. How could it not?
Which made it all the more wonderful.

Zenith, fist-fucking me.

I cried out.

And Zenith, trying to swallow my breast.

I moaned.

And Zenith, touching herself between the legs with her free
hand
.

And then I bit down on the hair in my mouth as my jaws
clenched…

Explosion! The volcano inside me blew apart into a thousand
molten pieces. Raging, rampant, shattering. Cataclysmic heat streamed through
my cunt, through my womb, spreading everywhere, working its way into legs,
belly, breasts. I groaned and pumped my hips up and down, taking her hand along
for the ride. Apex! What a perfect word to describe something so perfect!
Earlier, with Vane, I hadn’t understood why we had to use the word, but now I
did.

I truly did.

An apex was
other
. It was
better
. It was more
than an orgasm.

It was with Zenith. My Zenith.

And herhand was inside me.

I hadn’t known such a thing was possible. Amazing, but true.
I could never have done this wonderful thing with big-handed, long-fingered,
guitar-nailed Josh.

The world could end right now, and I’d be happy.

My breathtaking apex blossomed, glowed, lingered, then grew
fuzzy around the edges. The heat receded slowly, leaving paths of shimmering
brightness behind.

I breathed, deep and long, feeling her inside me still.

She slumped over and we lay there, the two of us. The three
of us, actually, if you counted Josh, and you have to count Josh. Zenith’s hand
still loved me but it was quiescent now, tender. She gave my nipple one last,
sweet suck, then raised her head and smiled at me. I lifted my arm—how heavy it
felt—and traced her top lip with my fingertip. She was flushed. There was a
reddish patch above her breastbone that hadn’t been there before, and I loved
her for that. Her hair fell over her face, making her more beautiful than she’d
ever been. She was breathing almost as hard as I was. Had she apexed too?

I smiled back.

Carefully, gingerly, she withdrew her hand. Then she
snuggled next to me in the bed, sighing. We pressed against one another,
spooning again, just as we had before. She pulled up the blankets. Kissed me.
Closed her eyes. Draped her arm over my shoulder and held my hand in hers, that
marvel of a hand that had given me such pleasure. What a hand it was! I thought
I might paint a study of that amazing, talented appendage.

I smiled at the thought. No one but Zenith and me, and later
Josh—and Mr. Abiba too, he seemed to know everything—would understand the
significance.

“Zenith,” I whispered, “did you…?”

“Did I what?”

“You know.”

She chuckled. “What do youthink?”

“I think you did.”

She threw her leg over mine. She yawned. “Then you think
right.”

And then, satiated, twin female bodies in a three-person
bed, we slept.

The next morning when I woke up, Zenith was gone. It was
Monday, although it felt as if we’d been there for weeks, not days. Josh and I
awoke in each other’s arms in a blaze of North Tower sunlight.

“Hey…” he said, kissing the top of my head. “How are you
this morning, wife?”

I smiled, loving the sound of it. Wife. I formed the word
silently with my tongue and lips, over and over, until it almost lost meaning.
Wife, wife, wife…wife. I was someone’s wife now. I put my hand on his stomach.
“Hey yourself, husband.”

He hugged me close. “Really. How are you? How’s your head?”
He reached over and plucked a flower from the vase beside the bed. These
particular flowers popped up all over the inn. They must be favorites of Mr.
Abiba. Someone had refilled our two bedside vases yesterday and this new batch
of flowers was still mostly in bud. The delicate little things were small and
rose-like and grew in tight clusters on a thornless stem, but they weren’t
roses. I didn’t know what they were exactly. I’d look them up after our
honeymoon. Perhaps even plant some in our garden if I could find them in a
nursery, as a reminder of our time here together. Josh tucked the stem behind
my ear.

I smiled. “Thanks. My head is fine.”

“Sleep well?”

I paused. “Um. Well. Zenith and I…”

“Had raging-hot sex. Yes. I know.”

I slipped from under his arm and sat up. “You know?”

He laughed. “The bed was rocking. You were yowling. Did you
really think I slept through that?”

“But—”

“Hey. You girls were having so much fun, I didn’t want to
stop you. I peeked. Listened, mostly.” He scratched his cheek, looking bashful.
“Masturbated a bit. You know.”

I made a choking sound. “I didn’t know you were awake!”

“You weren’t supposed to. I’m good at faking. Remember the
arm on the forehead bit?”

“You faked that?”

He closed his eyes, let his mouth fall slack and slapped his
arm to his forehead. He made a soft snoring sound deep in his throat. Then one
eye opened a slit. “Look familiar?” he said, reaching for me. Laughing softly,
I nestled into his arms again, right where I belonged. I yawned.

“Just so you know, it was fabulous,” he said after a few
minutes.

“Perv.”

“Lez.”

We kissed.

I smiled through the kiss. “Just so you know,” I said, my
lips still touching his, “you’re right. It was fabulous.”

We lay in bed, enjoying our small island of peace. Soon
enough the inn would come to life and the day would be a flurry of activity.
Breakfast. Lessons. Tools. I couldn’t wait. What did Mr. Abiba have in store
for us today? More games? Would I get another chance to play last night’s game,
the one I couldn’t remember? I rather hoped so, even though it would perhaps be
better not to. Not if that particular game threw me into fits.

But I hated to be left out.

What a life. What a honeymoon. All the wonderful things we’d
already experienced at the inn, and it was only Monday. Only a day and a half—how
could that be? It seemed as if we’d been there so much longer. The place felt
comfortable, the routines, familiar, the people like dear friends, every one of
them. Even Mr. Adi Abiba.

Especially Mr. Abiba.

Speaking of routines, we were locked in our room again. I
had a vague memory of Zenith, lit with the first rays of morning light—probably
not all that long ago—tracing the line of my cheek, my chin, my earlobe, with a
finger as delicate as a feather, and kissing me. Then slipping out of bed,
tossing on pajamas, gathering up teacups, crossing the room in bare feet and
finally turning the bolt after she closed the door behind her. Definitely
turning the bolt. I looked at Josh. Did he know we were locked in? He had to.
It was Mr. Abiba’s way.

“Josh,” I said, “remember how we thought it was so weird
here when we first came? How we almost left?”

He grunted softly.

“What a shame if we had. We would have missed so much!”

His arm tightened around my shoulders. “I can’t believe we
were scared of Mr. Abiba.”

I frowned. “We were? When?”

But he didn’t answer. After a while he sighed. “I can’t
remember exactly. But it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Mr. Abiba’s so kind!
He’s…he’s…he’s…”

He was a lot of things. Brilliant. Caring. Unpredictable.
Fun.

“Fascinating,” I supplied.

“That’s it,” said Josh, nodding. “That’s it. He’s
fascinating.”

A few minutes later Valerian unlocked the door to our room.
He poked his head in, saying we were free to roam about the inn for a while.
Breakfast would be in an hour. Then he asked how I felt. I assured him I was
fine, but he didn’t look convinced. “Your head doesn’t hurt anymore? You’re
sure?”

“Not even an ache. Mr. Abiba examined me. And Zenith stayed
most of the night.”

“Zenith stayed the night?” he said, grinning. “She sexed you
up? Yes? I can tell by your smile that she did. Tip-top shape? Lube and tune?
She’s very good, you know.”

“I…uh, yes. I know,” I said, blushing.

Josh and I shared a look.

“Were you satisfied?” asked Valerian.

He wanted to know if I apexed? I bit my lip. “Yes. Zenith is…um,
very talented.”

He waited, leaning on the door, wanting more. He wasn’t
leaving until he got it.

“She showed me the ropes.”

“Yes?”

“I never…with a woman.”

“Oh? How exciting for you! What kind of ropes? Real ropes?”

“She used her hand,” I said, giving in. I cleared my throat.
“And she sucked my breast. And I had a huge apex. And—hey! I finally understand
what apex really means!”

Valerian beamed at me. “Good! That’s very good progress,
Angie. Mr. Abiba will be so proud.”

I reached for Josh’s hand. It wasn’t easy to talk about sex,
to let myself be drawn into Inn-on-the-Edge-style discussions. To be so
completely frank about it, to discuss my sex life as if I were discussing a
workout in the gymwould take some getting used to. Obviously I still
had a ways to go, as was evident by my blush.

“Zenith is the best,” said Valerian, not noticing my
awkwardness. “Absolutely. We fucked earlier in the day…and she gives a hell of
a blowjob. And what a dancer! I once saw her do a Spanish dance—flamenco—and it
was hot. Damn hot.” He pretended to fan himself.

Zenith. Flamenco. I could see that. With her long hair and
svelte body, Zenith would set the place alight. All she needed was a flouncy
red dress, black shoes and castanets.

And a guitarist.

Josh perked up. “Flamenco? I know a bit of flamenco guitar.
I could play for her.”

Valerian’s eyes widened. “Is that so? You ought to suggest
it to Mr. Abiba. He’d love that. So would we all!” Valerian began to close the
door, then stopped. “Oh! I just remembered the messages I was supposed to give
you! Number one, your wedding clothes are all cleaned and pressed. They’re in
your wardrobe. Two, Angie, Mr. Abiba says to bring your painting gear when you
come down. And three, Josh, he wants you to meet him in ten minutes in the
Instrument Room. Do you know where that is? It’s on the second floor, above the
Fine Arts Room.”

“Yep. I’ll be there,” said Josh, drumming his knee with his
fingers.

The door closed and Valerian was gone.

Josh turned to me with a puppy-dog look.

“Go!” I said. “Go see your antique instruments. I’ll meet up
with you at breakfast.”

He threw on his clothes, kissed me goodbye and took the
stairs two at a time. He probably beat Mr. Abiba to the Instrument Room.

Ten minutes later I tucked a pad of canvas paper under my
arm and lugged my painting case downstairs,
bump, bump, bump
,and
into the front parlor
.
The room was empty. No Zenith. No Vane. No other
guests, although I could hear voices. Ignoring a slight soreness between my
legs—which wasn’t surprising, given the workout I’d given my body the last few
days—and avoiding that odd patch of floor in front of the fireplace, I dragged
the case over to the longest couch. I sat down and opened it. What, exactly,
was in my painting case? How odd, not knowing. I only hoped Josh had thought to
include the basics when he packed. Brushes. Acrylic paints. Palette and palette
knives. Charcoal pencils and erasers. And, of course, several rags, a water
container, a small drop cloth and my portable easel—the usual.

So much paraphernalia! At least I didn’t paint with oils.

I opened the case and rummaged through it. There was my
favorite brush, the long-handled stiff-bristled one that came to a perfect
rounded point. And its companion, the quarter-inch flat edge. I set them on the
couch beside me. I picked up the wide brush, the one I used for backgrounds and
for covering large areas. I held it across my hand, frowning. It wasn’t good
enough. The bristles were stiff and too short. They weren’t angled quite right.
I didn’t like it very much. What I really wanted was a Tennenbach.

My local art supply store carried them. They were beautiful.
Top-of-the-line, German-made, numbered. But Tennenbachs were frightfully
expensive, hundreds of dollars, way beyond my budget. The Tennenbach I had my
eye on would have to wait.

I was pretty well set up. Josh had chosen wisely, even if it
was by accident. My favorite colors were all accounted for—tubes and tubes of
luscious acrylic hues. Cadmium Orange! Cobalt Blue! Viridian! My dear old
friends. I ran my hands through the cool, fat tubes, sighing with pleasure at
the feel of the unopened containers. Josh had grabbed the expensive new
jumbo-sized tubes I’d been saving for a special, mural-sized project, but I
didn’t mind. Better to have too much paint than not enough.

“Hi, Angie. Feeling better?”

I looked up. It was Nikki Millhouse. She threw herself down
on the other end of the couch, making my brushes roll under my leg. I rounded
them up and set them carefully in the case. I smiled at her. “Yep. Sure am.
Thanks.”

“I’m on my own for a bit,” she said. “Zora’s giving Logan a
tour of the hothouse garden. A private tour.” She rolled her eyes, laughing. “She’s
probably giving him a blowjob right about now. Isn’t that how things work here?
Ha! Just listen to me. She’s probably giving my husband a blowjob—I can’t
believe those words just came out of my mouth! Especially so soon after getting
married.”

“I know!” I said. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

“And I don’t even mind that she’s giving him a blowjob. Or
screwing him, even.” Nikki paused, biting on a fingernail. “Especially after
what Vane and I were up to last night. Besides, Zora is cute.”

We looked at each other. Nikki would make an excellent
portrait subject, with her huge eyes and long, wispy lashes. Her short, spiky
hair suited her, made her look pixie-like. It would also be wonderfully
challenging to paint, that hair, the way it stuck up in twenty different
directions, the way it caught the light. I wanted to touch it. I blinked,
swallowed. So I had a thing for hair. Who knew?

I thought she was cute.

“I’m starving,” Nikki wailed, tossing her head. “They feed
us mountains of food and yet I’m always hungry. Don’t you think that’s
bizarre?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “What are you doing? What’s all this?”

“Painting supplies.”

“Oh! Cool. What are you going to paint?”

“You.”

Of course she loved the idea. I arranged her in the armchair
to the left of the fireplace, where a shaft of sunshine fell across her hair,
her face, her shoulder. Sunlight was always good. Then I stood back, sizing up
possible compositions. Nikki and the fireplace? Nikki and the potted plant?
Nikki alone? Yes, Nikki alone. With perhaps the merest suggestion of fireplace
bricks, a nice textural contrast to her wayward hair. I put my hands up and
peered through a square made of my fingers and thumbs, a trick I’d learned in art
school to help design a new painting or drawing, a tool—I smiled at the word—to
help me decide what to place where.

Nikki watched me, a half-smile on her lips.

I’d have to work quickly, before the light changed, but that
was not a problem. This first painting for Mr. Abiba would be a quick study, a
character sketch, done with strategic strokes of line and color. It would be
done in plenty of time for breakfast. I loved character sketches. I was good at
them. My final project for senior year figure-painting class—fifty sketches ofstrangers, was I nuts?—received the highest grade from my professor. It was
my proudest moment from art school.

So I could do this.

I set up the portable easel and slid the pad of canvas paper
onto it, squeezed generous dabs of paint onto the palette and set to work.

“So you’re an artist?” asked Nikki.

I took a corner of my rag and smeared a thin layer of
watered-down Burnt Sienna all over the white paper.
Burnt Sienna
—
Zenith.
I pushed the thoughtaway before the tingling started up. It was time to
paint, not play. “Yes. I am.”

“You went to school to learn this?”

I took my round brush, filled it with a Cobalt Blue and
Burnt Sienna mix and made a long, expressive line representing the back of her
head, her neck, the upper slope of her shoulders. Then, more slowly, I painted
a fine line to pick out her forehead, the determined slope of her nose, the
rise and fall of her lips, the flirtatious lift of her eyebrow. Less is more in
character sketches. “Yes,” I said after a minute, “art school. At the
University of Washington.”

“Oh,” she said, watching my every move. “My cousin went
there. But not to the art school.” She paused. “Hey, Angie. Did you hear the
commotion? About twenty minutes ago?”

Carefully, I extended the line of her shoulder to suggest an
arm, made delicate squiggles for hand and fingers. Then I took a step back,
squinting, my head tilted, studying what I’d done. It wasn’t half bad. I added
a touch of shading to her face and suddenly my painting took on life. This is
why I love to paint. “No. Josh and I didn’t hear a thing. What happened?”