Page 97 of Quiver

Chapter Twenty-Three

Fletcher’s mouth felt like every monumental, hyperbolic cliché Kylie had ever heard and then some. Rain in the desert, light in the darkness, home after exile. Without the anger and aggression that had fueled them last time, the passion they’d locked away finally had the chance to expand. It filled the spaces between them and continued to grow until they kissed deeply in a haze of unencumbered desire.

Their lips parted, a simultaneous request and acceptance, and Kylie’s world tilted as Fletcher’s tongue slid across her own. She’d had hundreds of kisses over the years, on sets, on stages, in dark rooms and hotel beds, but every memory of the others dissolved against Fletcher’s lips. She’d forgotten the sensation of being the singular focus of something so intensely consuming. Fletcher was flawless in her approach, thorough and attentive, unrushed without ever growing lazy, every detail seen to, explored, lifted up. Kylie relished the press of her lips, the heat of her breath, a strong hand closing on the curve of her hip.

Lord, how Kylie wanted this woman, ached for her in her marrow. Her body arched toward her like a bow eager to be drawn, or an arrow made to be lifted from a quiver. She couldn’t exist in an inert state any longer. Sliding her palm up from Fletcher’s neck, she sank her fingers into the lush, black curls and wrapped her other arm around her back. She needed more contact, all the places. She had no plan here, but her body remembered the way. They melded together so easily, so naturally without the hard edges they’d honed over the years. How could she have let herself forget the way they fit against each other’s languid forms?

Moving both hands down Fletcher’s back now, she caught the hem of her shirt and slipped underneath. Her nails ran lightly over the heat of toned muscle, and Fletcher shuddered. The little tell sent another shot of arousal through Kylie, and she intended to repeat the motion, only this time she pushed the shirt higher to encompass the entirety of Fletcher’s torso along the way. She was nearly to the underside of those strong arms when Fletcher stepped back.

“No.”

Kylie’s eyes flew open in a panic, her body and brain both screaming at the withdrawal, but the flame in Fletcher’s eyes said the opposite of the word on her lips.

Kylie froze, no longer wanting to override Fletcher’s will with force, but still not at all certain either of them could trust themselves to honor a command given so weakly or warrantlessly. Standing there in a swirl of her confusion, a terrible fear welled up that Fletcher might reject her again. The prospect left her nearly bereft as she echoed the word still ripping through her brain. “No?”

Fletcher shook her head. “I mean, not here.”

Kylie managed to arch an eyebrow. It was all her brain could summon in the form of a question.

“We’re not teenagers anymore.” Fletcher bit her lip hard enough for it to turn white. “That’s the point you’re trying to make, right?”

Was it? Kylie wasn’t sure she’d been trying to prove anything. Then again, she couldn’t remember much before the moment their mouths met.

“We’re talking about rewriting old stories and breaking patterns.” Fletcher stepped closer again, her hand once more against Kylie’s hip. “Surely, we can find an actual bed this time.”

Relief surged through Kylie, every bit as hot and full as the desire that drove them to this point.

Fletcher kissed her again, as deeply and passionately as before, but without the frenetic rush or edge of desperation.

Then they moved together, down the aisle and out of the barn to where even the cold clutch of winter couldn’t diminish the fire building between them. Pouring into the house, they kicked off boots, stripped socks, and dropped outer layers to the floor before Fletcher took Kylie’s hand with a tender kind of command and led her barefoot up the stairs.

As they reached the second-story landing, the kiss resumed and Kylie closed her eyes. Feeling along the way in some sort of long-recessed memory, she counted the steps to the bedroom they’d shared so many afternoons and nights all those years ago. Only when her fingers smoothed against the door of Fletcher’s teenage room, they didn’t turn. Instead, Fletcher urged her on, steering subtly with her hands until Kylie bumped up against another door that swung back under the slightest pressure.

She opened one eye enough to see they’d entered Fletcher’s current room, the space she inhabited in the here and now. Different and thrilling, the setting spoke to more than a convenient location or a soft place to land. This time it also signified a deliberate shedding of who they used to be in favor of who they’d become, or perhaps who they could become if they dared to blend the two.

She grew dizzy with anticipation and drunk on possibility. Thankfully, this time, Fletcher didn’t pull away when Kylie caught hold of her shirt, pushing up slowly. Breaking the kiss only long enough to pull it over Fletcher’s head, she tossed it to the floor. Never one to be outdone, Fletcher worked her way, one button at a time, up from Kylie’s navel to her throat before slipping her shirt over her shoulders.

From there they took turns undressing one another, kissing when they could, their mouths and hands working independently, skillfully, purposefully on belts, snaps, and clasps. Fletcher grinned slightly against Kylie’s lips as she unclipped her bra.

“Still good with your hands, Bouchard,” Kylie mumbled, “and still amused by your own skill.”

Fletcher laughed, a low little rumble, sending a thrum of desire through Kylie’s chest.

Stepping back enough to take hold of Fletcher’s sports bra, she peeled it off, and they stood for a moment, transfixed at the sight of each other, not as who they’d been, but as who they were here, now, in the full light of a winter afternoon.

Kylie might have worried about the comparisons Fletcher could draw between the body before her and the one she likely remembered from their youth, but as dark eyes traced the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the slight rise of her stomach, nothing but unabashed desire played across those usually stoic features, giving no space for insecurities to take root.

Fletcher continued to stare at her hungrily as she unclasped Kylie’s jeans and pushed them down low enough for gravity to take hold and do the rest. “You are gorgeous.”

Kylie intended to mirror both the motion and the sentiment, but as her hands skimmed over Fletcher’s waistband, her fingertips grazed the fresh scar along her lower abdomen, and she stopped short.

“It’s okay,” Fletcher said. “I barely feel it anymore.”

Kylie shook her head. How could that be possible when she still felt it so acutely? Bending low, almost to her knees, she kissed the scar before noticing a smaller one higher on her ribs. She kissed that as well, and when Fletcher’s hands moved to cup her face, Kylie caught hold of them, kissing each scar on her knuckles and a light white line on her forearm. So many scars, so many wounds barely healed, how had she not seen them until now?

She remembered something her mother mentioned about water under the bridge between them. She couldn’t deny the reality, but here, standing exposed and open in front of Fletcher, nor could she believe their bridge had been washed away completely. There was still a path for them between their many divides. There had to be, or else they couldn’t be here now, with her body aching to be touched softly by those rough hands.

Reverence gave way to something stronger. She unbuckled Fletcher’s belt and swiftly removed both the jeans and boxers. This time she didn’t stand idly by to admire the body before her. No, she wanted a more active form of worship at this temple. With a hand flat against Fletcher’s firm chest, she pushed her back to the bed until her knees buckled against the mattress and she fell without a fight.