Free Weekend by Jane Eaton Hamilton

imagine we’re in Whistler at a romantic ski chalet.”
    â€œPoof!” said Logan. “It’s winter.”
    â€œIt almost is in here now,” said Ajax. After the lake, her hair was coated and filthy. She’d pulled it into a mass on top of her head, but the curls hung heavily. She broke out in goosebumps. She said, “That just makes me think of how I miss you when I go home.”
    â€œWe should fix that,” Logan said, wrapping Ajax in a bear hug so they fell back together on the couch. Logan pulled off Ajax’s shorts and top. “We should fix that really soon.” Logan softly kissed her, exploring her mouth, her puckered nipple tips. They stood Ajax on her feet, stood up and freckled delicate kisses across Ajax’s shoulder blades, her breasts. They sat, slid Ajax’s panties down her legs, kissed her hips, turned her around andnibbled her ass. Ajax shuddered. Her hands roamed Logan’s face, reading Logan’s skin like braille, as if she could take in everything that had happened to Logan before tonight: their infancy, their teen years, their lovers, their disappointments, their delights. Ajax touched Logan’s mouth, pinching their lips as she kissed them. Logan licked the side of Ajax’s lips.
    â€œFuck me halfway to heaven, honey,” said Ajax.
    â€œNuts to purgatory,” said Logan. They stood, grabbed the top knot of Ajax’s hair, pulled back hard. “I’m sending you to the moon.”
    Logan turned off the air, damped the fire, threw open the windows.
    The antler chandelier swayed, and on the chunky pine table, ivory candles sputtered.
    Ajax noticed a peculiar pressure in her ears.
    Ajax watched Logan turn off ordinary life, become the prowling, haunting top Ajax needed. “Hands over your head,” said Logan, eyes narrowing.
    Thunder rumbled distantly, lightning electrifying their windows, making Ajax startle. She was on alert anyway when they had sex—instantly open, wanting, but also on guard because Logan changed things up so she never knew what was coming her way. She lifted her arms.
    Logan’s eyes bleached to the lightest wolf-grey.
    An ornate French mantel clock ticked out seconds.
    â€œUp against the wall,” said Logan. They walked behindAjax, cupped her elbows, pressed her hard. “Keep your arms up. Legs apart. Eyes closed. Don’t look.”
    Ajax could hear Logan moving around the room and moaned.
    Minutes later, Logan’s nipples contacted Ajax’s spine, stroking Ajax’s back on either side of her spine. No binder. Logan spun her, rubbed nipples to nipples, fullness to fullness. Then, kneeling, pushed legs wide to rub a nipple over Ajax’s clit.
    Ajax pushed toward her.
    â€œI’m going to enjoy fucking you.”
    Ajax said, “Now, now. Oh, please.”
    Crickets falling silent. Thunder, the cracking lightning. Logan’s tongue slid across Ajax’s leg, the insides of her thighs, continued higher. They pushed Ajax down, ran their nipple over Ajax’s mouth, told her she couldn’t close her mouth on it.
    â€œRemember strippers’ rules?”
    Logan had taken her to a Toronto strip club, to the private, low-ceilinged red rooms for a lap dance. The cubicles had looked like first-class airline seats, except for its decrepitude and the rhum in the air—Logan and Ajax squeezed into one cubicle.
    Sweethearts, the dancer said. You are, aren’t you, you two? You’re lovebirds. You a fella, Mister, or you a girl? She ran her hands up Logan’s binder. Honey, you got sweet boobs. Where’re you from? I’m from Vancouver.
    I’m from Vancouver, too.
    Get on out. Burnaby.
    Harsh whisper in Ajax’s ear: Never tell a stripper anything true.
    They watched her dance, her platforms six inches of gleaming plastic. Ajax scanned up her legs, to her face-level crotch: silver lamé thong, shaking bells. Pasties.
    Don’t fucking tell her