Free Stolen Moments by Radclyffe Page B

the lounge or my bed, casually as I could manage with my heart beating purple and swollen on my sleeve. She took the bed and took my hand. I led her up the hall and into my bedroom. The battle was won. It was so natural, so real. There was nothing uncomfortable in the way she undressed. I didn’t feel self-conscious when I couldn’t get my foot out of my jeans and my hair caught in her necklace. I didn’t feel the need to turn off the light, I wanted to see her. We fell into bed and she covered my face with kisses. I looked at her and I wanted to eat her up. It was sexual but so much more than that. If it were a purely physical attraction it’d almost be perverted. It was so strong, obsessive even. Her smell was in my cells. She electroshocked my DNA. My hair follicles wanted to feel her.
    My hands were everywhere and nowhere resisted, we fit together perfectly. She is slick and it’s easy for us to fall into a tidal rhythm, a lunar sway. We’re made of water and taste like the sea. My tongue found the hard pearl of her clit. She’s a thing of sea foam and dreams. She is an orchid that blooms once in a lifetime.
    I wanted to say “I love you” but the words seemed like oversized dress-up clothes…sloppy and unreal, used too many times for meaningless bullshit. I love her but I wish I didn’t have to use that word. What we have is more pure than that. “Love” has been used and abused and misused too many times. “I love you” is lip service. I need to create a new word just for us. A word made out of salt meat and peach fuzz, of sweat and saliva. A word made from the crystallized feelings I have for her, shining like the sun with a million rainbows. A word no one else in any language ever can pronounce…A word just for us. Our word, our world.
    Love-drunk.

Overdue
Kim Baldwin

    The clock on the wall of the Meriwether Community Library refused to budge. Emily Fairfield stared at it the way she had the ones in grade school when it was nearly time for recess. She felt now, as she had then, impatient to have her fun.
    And sex with Lindsey Carter certainly was fun. More than fun. It had become almost an obsession. Emily still couldn’t quite believe it. The best sex of her life—by a long shot, she would add—had happened to her at age forty-two. And with a woman! Who’d have thought?
    Emily had been all raging hormones and full-speed-ahead libido in the six months she’d been seeing the TV reporter, and thank goodness the feeling was mutual.
    One or the other made the hour-long trip between their homes every day or two. They always ended up in bed. Sometimes they started there. Lindsey had been celibate a long time too. They couldn’t get enough of each other.
    But then Lindsey had been sent downstate for a week to shoot a series of reports on small-town harvest festivals, and they’d been reduced to nightly telephone conversations.
    Their talks inevitably included vivid descriptions of what they were going to do to each other when they were reunited, the promises getting hotter and more explicit as each day passed.
    Emily was simmering on a low boil.
    She’d had to fight not to touch herself the night before, while Lindsey described in a seductive purr some of the body parts she planned to explore with her tongue and mouth and hands. And then, just before they hung up, Lindsey had teased her with the promise of a nice surprise when she got back to town.
    Emily was never disappointed when Lindsey came over with nice surprises. The last one had been chocolate body paint.
    In her rooms above the library, Emily had set the stage for the perfect reunion. The dining-room table was festooned with her best china and candles, and she’d sprung for some incredibly soft new sheets for her queen-sized bed. Dinner would be takeout from the Slice of Heaven café down the street, because Emily knew that neither of them would want to take time for cooking.
    Now she just had to wait. But waiting was impossible. She tried