Page 90 of Touch of Class

Now it was Gillian’s turn to laugh as she knelt on the bed between Daphne’s legs. “I think you’re also going to enjoy finding out that it’s not.”

Daphne seemed like she might have a comeback for that. She opened her mouth to say something, but whatever it was disintegrated into an unintelligible sound the moment Gillian’s lips pressed to her center.

The scent of her filled Gillian’s senses, making her dizzy with desire. How long had it been since she’d tasted a woman? It didn’t matter because she’d never tasted this woman, and right now Daphne was the only woman who had ever existed.

She’d filled her brain, her dreams, her physical space for as long as Gillian could remember, and now Gillian would fill her body.

Spreading Daphne with her tongue, she took her in, every curve, every ridge and dip, every swell and surge. She tasted like heat, like rain, like passion itself, and Gillian relished the rock of her hips rising to meet her.

“Gillian.” Daphne breathed her name, frustration blending into fulfillment. “Fuck.”

It wasn’t exactly the word she’d hoped to hear, but Daphne was getting closer, and Gillian was in no hurry. She’d spent so long avoiding this woman, and now she ached to expend the same energy and attention to knowing her. She wanted to memorize the way she smelled, the way her skin felt against her own, the way she moved to match the rhythm of Gillian’s mouth. She pressed forward, her body begging in a way her mind wouldn’t let her voice. Pressing, reaching, lifting, she silently asked for more. Daphne had always asked Gillian for more, only now she wanted to give it.

She wanted to make Daphne ache the way she did inside, to feel her fall the way she had, to make this last long enough for both of them to drown in each other. Easing up slightly, she lessened the pressure and the pace, but Daphne closed her thighs against her, holding her in place.

“If you tease me now,” she panted, “I will choke you.” Gillian smiled against her but stayed still. “I’ve wanted to strangle you for years. Don’t make this the moment I snap.”

Gillian heard just enough gravity in the breathy comment to heed the warning and begin her exploration again in earnest. She’d never intended to tease. She’d realized her own power early in this encounter, but she didn’t toy with women, certainly not this one. She possessed the power to satisfy, to bend this relationship into something more, make something more of herself in the process. She had the power to meet a need neither of them had the capacity to fully acknowledge, but she felt it to her marrow.

Daphne’s breath grew ragged, and she slipped a hand into Gillian’s hair, the pressure gentle but insistent as her hips rocked forward more frantically.

She was close, and Gillian had put her there, both an absurdity and a triumph, but with no time or inclination to reflect on how they’d gotten here or why. There was only one direction for them, and Gillian pressed forward with a certainty she’d long craved. She had no idea where they were going, but she knew how to get there, and she would not stop, not for anything.

“Gillian.” This time when Daphne called her name, it came out high and pleading. “Please.”

So close. So close to what she wanted to hear, and she surged into a higher gear, sending them both into a frenzy.

Daphne cried out, clutching her with hands and legs, holding her in place needlessly as she rode the climax with fits and waves until on the final peak, she said the one, precious word they’d been working toward for as long as either of them had existed for the other.

“Yes.”

Daphne and Gillian collapsed right where they were, Daphne flattened back on the pillow and Gillian resting her head on Daphne’s thigh. There was no more sparring, no more grappling, no more grasping, literally or figuratively, and without the pressing sense of urgency or guardedness, the emotions hit Daphne with nearly as much force as her climax.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let herself be bowled over like that. And by Gillian DeGarmo of all people. She’d learned long ago to keep her shields up around her, but she’d never faced such a formidable attack on them before. Gillian had been different tonight. She’d carried a kind of conviction Daphne’d never had pointed at her before. And as much as Daphne had tried to deny it early on, Gillian had been right from the word “go.” She’d seen straight through her bluster and bravado. Then she’d set to work proving herself both consuming and thorough, because of course she had. Nothing about Gillian being good at something should’ve surprised Daphne … and yet, she’d still been surprised.

Gillian had been confident and skilled, and oh my God, her mouth. No one could’ve seen that coming. Plus, she hadn’t even worked through the normal progressions. No script, no rest, deliberation, or wavering, no chance to reassert any kind of rational thought.

Shocking.

Daphne’d known she was cooked the minute Gillian pushed her onto the bed, but she was still wearing her shirt and bra, for crying out loud. And at work of all places. “Gillian, you had sex at work.”

Gillian chuckled against her skin. “So did you.”

“I think no one would be surprised by me. You, on the other hand …”

“So many would be flabbergasted, I’m sure.” Gillian crawled up the bed and lowered her long form beside Daphne. “Are you among them?”

“Understatement.”

“How gratifying.” Gillian seemed awfully satisfied, and Daphne couldn’t begrudge her that. She’d earned it, and somehow, she’d done so without barely a strand of hair out of place. It hardly seemed fair, and Daphne couldn’t resist the urge to rumple her a bit. She placed a hand atop Gillian’s red head and give it a little tousle. “There, better.”

Gillian arched an eyebrow.

“I couldn’t take you looking so put together while I’m lying here fully wrecked.”

Gillian propped herself up on an elbow and stared down at her with a mischief in those green eyes she’d never seen before. “Fully wrecked?”

“Are you seriously fishing for compliments after that?” Daphne reached between them and tugged one of Gillian’s belt loops. “I’m over here unable to breathe or think or remember my own damn name, and you’re still wearing perfectly pressed slacks.”