Read Sleeping with the Frenemy Online
Authors: KT Grant
Sleeping with the Frenemy
Sleeping with the Frenemy
KT Grant
A Ravenous Romance® Original Publication
A Ravenous Romance® Original Publication
Copyright © 2011 by KT Grant
Ravenous Romance®
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-408-2
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Dedication
To Mary Paige, the best beta reader I ever had.
The howling of the coyote in the distance gave Deborah Murnay a chill. She wrapped a towel around her body after rubbing in the vanilla-scented lotion her wife had ordered special for her from Paris. Deborah could barely stand the smell of vanilla any longer, but since Genevieve enjoyed the scent, and always took time out of her busy day to kiss a part of her body covered in the lotion, Deborah wore it nevertheless.
Ignoring the howl of another—or possibly the same—coyote, Deborah walked out of her bathroom and into her bedroom where lying on her king-sized bed was the short gold dress she planned to wear for the season opener of the Peyote Springs Opera House. The opera always started the year with a performance of Giuseppe Verdi's 1853
La Traviata
. The first time Deborah had seen the tragic opera, she cried. The second time she was overcome by the beauty of the music. Now, her fifth time, she was bored. Even though Genevieve hired a tutor to teach her Italian, Deborah could barely understand a word of it. Genevieve loved going to the opera, which they tended to do every three months. Deborah would rather see something more modern, like a Broadway show, but since her wife found popular musicals gauche, Deborah kept her mouth shut.. Genevieve would expect it no other way.
The clock on the far wall released a soft melodic ping. Deborah had less than a half hour to get dressed before they had to leave. Sighing, she pulled a comb through her damp highlighted blond hair that would dry soon enough in the Nevada heat. At six in the evening, it was still a stifling ninety degrees. Her dress was perfect for tonight, and for the after party that always followed. They always attended, since Genevieve was one of the opera's generous patrons. Deborah hoped Genevieve wouldn't be upset by her wearing gold instead of the standard white she wore on Sundays.
Pulling open a drawer, she found her beige thong. Her lips curved as she almost decided to go buff; a small surprise for Genevieve in case she wanted to play with her under her skirt. But she wasn't that outrageous, so she concealed herself with the small scrap of fabric. Searching through the pile of underwear and socks, she found the small shiny box she planned to give Genevieve before they left. Inside lay a silver locket with her picture in it—even though she purchased the jewelry with Genevieve's money—in celebration of their anniversary tonight.
I can't believe I've been with the same woman for so long
. Deborah turned her diamond-covered wedding band around her finger and took a moment to reflect as the blazing orange sun dipped below the horizon.
The bedroom door opened and in walked Genevieve, wearing a short tight black dress complete with a choker and high-heeled sandals that added even more height to her five foot eight inches. Deborah held her breath, stunned by Genevieve's beauty.
Genevieve held a small box wrapped in silver and left it on the dresser as she rested her hands on Deborah's shoulders and smiled. Deborah smiled softly, her heart speeding as it did whenever she was in Genevieve's presence. Her wife's straight, copper-toned hair falling down past her shoulders complemented her wonderful dark tan. Unfortunately for Deborah, she didn't tan as well as Genevieve, even with the smattering of Native America blood that had been diluted centuries ago.
“Dearling, why aren't you ready yet?” Gen pursed her lips, tilting her head to the left as she examined her.
Deborah stopped herself from wincing. She hated when Gen called her dearling. She'd rather be called ‘my sexy nurse’, as Gen sometimes said. It reminded her who she was and where she came from.
“I wanted to take the extra time to look perfect for you tonight.” Deborah wrapped her arms around Gen, lifted up on her toes, and kissed her under her ear. Gen shivered and tightened her hold. Deborah closed her eyes and inhaled Gen's scent—a combination of aloe and papaya. They stayed like that until Gen's hand went under her towel and caressed her bottom, her thumb drifting into her thong and brushing in between her ass cheeks. Deborah stiffened and almost clenched down on her wife's roaming finger.
Gen released a husky laugh and stepped away. She removed her hands and wagged a finger in front of Deborah's face. “If we had another hour to spare, I'd lay you out on our bed and rim you until you screamed, but you're running late.”
Deborah blinked at the crude words Genevieve used to explain the intimate act she enjoyed doing. And the emphasis on how
she
was late, and not
we
, had been noticed as well.
“Give me ten minutes and I'll be already to go,” Deborah said and dropped her towel, contemplating whether or not she needed to wear a bra. Genevieve observed her openly through the mirror as she fluffed her hair.
Before she could pick up her dress, Gen walked over and held out the box. “I know you've wanted to open this since I came in the room. Happy fourth anniversary, dearest.”
Genevieve gave her a kiss and her tongue went deep into Deborah's mouth, licking the inside of her cheeks and eliciting a moan. Deborah almost fell back onto the bed when Gen tweaked her nipples and rolled the hard nubs with her thumbs. When she went to slip her hand inside Gen's bodice, Gen backed away, breaking the kiss. She patted Deborah's mouth with her manicured hand and laughed.
“Open your gift,” Gen urged and Deborah slowly untied the bow when all she wanted to do was rip it apart. She took her time, building up the anticipation, and when she pulled off the lid, her jaw dropped at what she saw on lying on a red satin pillow.
“Oh, it's breathtaking.” Deborah lifted up the fragile gold strand with a small diamond in the middle.
“It's not a necklace, but a belly chain. Knowing this will be tied around you would please me immensely.”
“Like a collar?” Deborah joked weakly.
“You can call it that if you'd like.” Gen took the chain from her and latched it around her waist.
Deborah stood in front of the mirror admiring her gift. Gen fingered the chain and dipped lower, cupping her mound and pressing her fingers in deep.
“Thank you. I love it as much as I love you,” Deborah said in a husky whisper and spread her legs apart, hoping Gen would push aside her panties and play with her clit for a minute or two.
Gen laughed again and backed away, leaving Deborah hot and frustrated.
She loves teasing me.
Hiding her irritation, Deborah went over to the dresser to give Gen her gift.
“Before I forget, I have your—” Deborah turned around, finding herself alone. Her beautiful gold dress was missing, and when she glanced over at the walk-in closet, Gen came out holding a silky white tank top that gaped low in the bodice, and a matching miniskirt. Deborah had only worn it once when she and Gen had gone to Las Vegas for a weekend getaway. This type of ensemble was suited for a dance club or a casino, but would be very out of place at the opera.
“Did you forget it's Sunday, dearling?” Gen asked, placing the outfit on the bed.
Deborah's pulse increased. “I thought I'd shake things up a bit. I bought the gold dress to impress you. I know how much you love the color.” Deborah flicked her anniversary gift for emphasis.
Gen gave her an easy smile, although irritation lurked in her eyes. “You're sweet, but I prefer we stick to protocol. Don't you agree? We can't have you going back to wearing ratty T-shirts or those horrible-colored scrubs you once wore.”
Deborah shut her eyes for a moment to stop from saying something that would lead to an argument. Those scrubs Gen always denigrated were what Deborah had worn when she worked as a nurse for her sick mother.
She opened her eyes and gave Gen a remorseful smile. “Sorry. I hate disappointing you.” She looked down at the bright white, very expensive outfit. “I don't know what I was thinking.”
“That's perfectly okay. We all make mistakes,” Gen responded and gave her a delicate kiss, gently rubbing over her small brown mole near the right corner of her mouth. “How about I help you with your makeup?”
Deborah gave Gen a full smile. She loved when Gen did her makeup. “Oh yes, please.”
Gen pulled her by the hand and into their bathroom where not only did Gen make her look beautiful, but also well loved and pleasured since they did have five extra minutes to spare.
* * * *
Deborah was always awestruck whenever she entered the lobby of the Peyote Opera House. Built in 1845, the building was a masterpiece of architecture, from large sloping buttresses and marble staircases with red runners that complemented the marble walls. Billboards of the various operas performed there since the turn of the nineteenth century hung on the walls of the first floor. She wished she had more time to inspect each poster, but Gen expected her to meet and greet her associates and various friends she knew from other formal functions they attended.
With their drinks in hand—a glass of chardonnay for Gen, a vodka and cranberry for Deborah—they made their way to their box on the third level, situated right smack in the middle of the auditorium. Deborah sat in a seat on the right and Gen sat on her left. When Deborah tried to cross her legs, the belly chain got caught and pinched her stomach. She hissed and tried to shift in a way that wouldn't be too risqué since her skirt was quite short and at Gen's urging, she had gone commando: no bra or thong.
“What is it, dearling?” Gen asked in concern as she put her drink in the cup holder next to her and stroked Deborah's arm.
“Ah, my chain pinched my skin.” Deborah quickly corrected her embarrassing problem and sat back, taking hold of Gen's hand.
Gen brushed her mouth alongside her knuckles. Deborah rubbed her legs together, that familiar dampness coating the inside of her thighs as Gen looked at her with desire. She swallowed the rest of her drink down and sucked on an ice cube.
A soft laugh escaped Gen and she lowered Deborah's hand on the arm of the chair.
“What's so funny?” Deborah asked as she fanned herself with her program.
“Don't make it obvious, but the Van Moores are staring at us with daggers in their eyes.” Gen pointed out from the side of her mouth and played with Deborah's fingers as she lifted her hand again and rubbed her cheek against the inside of her wrist.
Ever so subtly with half-closed eyes, Deborah zoned in on the older couple across from their box, who whispered to one another. Mr. Van Moore, with his bald shining head and triple chins to match his wife, who barely fit in her seat, turned her nose up at her the moment she caught her eye. Deborah smiled brightly and Mrs. Van Moore's mouth dropped. Her husband licked his lips and his eyes dropped down to Deborah's chest.
Dirty old fart
. Deborah slouched in her chair, hoping the velvet covered balcony blocked her front. It was bad enough she didn't wear a bra; her nipples grew hard over the slightest thing.
“It seems to me old man Van Moore is bored and needs to be amused. Why don't we shock him even more?” Gen purred and pulled Deborah around the back of her neck, not only giving her a passionate kiss, but one where her tongue delved in deep, making Deborah moan. She lifted her hand up to Gen's cheek to caress it, the urge to straddle her obvious to all who could see.
Gen ended the kiss, barely out of breath while Deborah panted. She cleared her throat as Gen wiped her drool away from the corner of her mouth.
“You've made me wet,” Deborah announced softly, her face overly warm. From the corner of her eye she noticed the Van Moores's heads close together as they whispered furiously, agitated.
“Mission accomplished,” Gen whispered and rested her hand high on Deborah's knee. Her thumb rubbed over her skirt, lifting it up until Deborah placed her hand on top of hers.
“Behave, Mrs. Murnay,” Deborah said lightly, willing herself to relax so she wouldn't excuse herself to clean away her come in between her legs.
“Only for the moment, Mrs. Murnay,” Gen responded with sass and a hush spread over the crowd as the orchestra played the overture.
As Deborah concentrated on the action on the stage, she hoped Gen meant that when they went home, they'd celebrate in lusty ways not meant for the public eye.
* * * *
By the time Alfredo and Violetta began their duet of
Un di, felice, etera
, Deborah had just begun to nod off. But as soon as Gen dug her pearl-colored nails into her thigh, she became alert. Deborah glanced at an enthralled Gen as she hummed her favorite section from the opera.
“If I choke up, don't make fun of me.” Gen sniffed as Alfredo proclaimed his love for Violetta.
“I promise I won't, dear—dearest.” Deborah stuttered, not used to calling Gen by a pet name. It didn't feel right to her.
Gen shifted closer, her lips brushing over Deborah's earlobe. “The way Alfredo sings his passion for Violetta is the way I feel about you.”
Deborah closed her eyes as Gen whispered the Italian lyrics in her ear, trying not to sigh as Gen's husky voice fill her head. She bit her lip when Gen's hand brushed along the inside of her leg.
“
Genevieve
,” Deborah whispered, her eyes widening as Gen's hand moved higher until she was almost touching her mound.
“You told me to behave and I said I would. But now is later and I want to feel you come against my hand as my favorite duet is sung.” Gen's tongue lapped over the side of Deborah's neck, and Deborah's legs opened wider, allowing Gen access.
“What if someone sees or hears?” Deborah asked, her eyes darting around. Complete darkness surrounded them, the only light coming from the stage. And since the sides of the box were high, as well in the front past waist level, those near them and across the way wouldn't notice how Gen was about to get her off.
“If you keep your eyes on the stage and your mouth closed, no one will suspect a thing,” Gen said.
Deborah dug her fingers into the seat and the stage went blurry as she grew wet from her maddening lust. Gen's middle finger circled around her folds and with a simple flick, found her clit and tapped it.
Deborah's head rested back against the seat as she swallowed a moan. Her near cry was drowned out by the orchestra as a second finger went inside her. The sounds of slapping, wet suction filled her ears, and she swore she smelled her feminine musk as she dampened. Gen's breathing grew harder and she bit down on Deborah's shoulder. Her teeth dug in her skin and Deborah rose half out of her seat, then back down to impale herself on Gen's fingers.