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Mike and his boys are even better than she remembers. They were always good, but there’s something fresh and creative about them this time around, a seductive sincerity that adds to the way they light the room on fire.

God, this show makes her hot. She wants to take her panties off and crawl all up on one of those boys. Except Rome is here, so. There’s no way those boys can really compete.

Rome catches her after the show, and Paris lets herself be caught because that’s how they do things. It’s how they’ve done things since she was a rebellious teenager fresh off the pageant circuit and Ramona Grayson was the most exhilarating thing in her life.

Rome’s got her backed against the wall in one of the hidden hallways of the venue, bracketed between her arms. Despite the height difference, there’s a command to Rome’s presence and an unflinching energy in the press of her body that makes Paris shiver with sense memory, a tremor down her spine, an ache of anticipation between her legs.

Rome is staring at Paris like a foregone conclusion. That’s fair. Paris still smiles her pageant smile, and bats her beauty queen eyelashes and says, “Your boys did good. You sure we shouldn’t go out to celebrate with them?”

Rome leans in, brushing her lips against Paris’ collarbone, and Paris shakes.

“Girl, get me out of here.”

Paris does.


It’s a slight exaggeration to say Rome taught her everything she knows.

She knew some things. She knew how to dance. She knew how to smile and smile and push through pain (her own) and disappointment (her family’s). She knew how to take what they threw at her and respond with politeness and grace and unfailing charm. She knew how to get boys with pedigrees to buy her dinner. She understood obligation in her bones.

She didn’t know what she wanted or even how to identify it. Rome taught her a different kind of performing, that pleasure is its own reward, and how to prioritize herself.

Rome also taught her how to eat pussy. In terms of practical skills.


Rome’s gorgeous, laid out against Paris’ sheets, staring up at her unguarded, like she has nothing to guard, which is true, and it isn’t. They’ve all got their stuff; Rome's no except, and Paris even knows some of it. But Rome doesn’t apologize for what she wants, and Paris is something she always seems to want, openly and honestly and without demands. They haven’t seen each other in a couple of years, but they always circle back into each other’s orbit; they always end up back here. It's both liberating and reassuring, and Paris wouldn’t have it otherwise.

Rome arches against her, where Paris is kneeling between her legs. She's laughing a little, eyes bright and wicked. “Get on with it.”

Paris leans in, catching her mouth in a kiss that Rome returns hungrily, bringing her hand up to knot in Paris’ hair. Rome kisses fiercely, whole heartedly, like she does everything. Paris relaxes into it, stretching out over Rome so they’re fully pressed together; it's like being lit up everywhere they're touching, an electric charge through her whole body. She finally slides one hand down between them,dipping her fingers between Rome’s legs. Rome's slick and sensitive, arching up and inhaling sharply into the kiss when Paris presses against her clit.

Paris pulls away, dropping kisses along Rome’s collarbones, on the tight peaks of her nipples, lower across her stomach, until she’s down where she can see, sliding two fingers quickly into Rome, pressing up and watching her keen. Even without any real attention to her clit, Paris can feel the walls of Rome’s pussy fluttering around her fingers. Rome comes easily, and usually three or four times. She can come just from this, the steady press of Paris’ fingers inside, and it's maybe the hottest fucking thing Paris has ever seen (and look at her life; she's seen a lot of hot fucking things). She does want to see that this time, before they part ways again, but this is the warm up round. Paris relents, grinding her thumb just above Rome’s clit until Rome is crying out and she can feel the contractions, Rome coming on her fingers.

She keeps going, knowing Rome will stop her if she goes too far or pushes into sensitivity. Rome reaches out, as though she wants to pet at Paris’ hair, but the height difference means her hand falls short.

“Hey, Beautiful,” Rome says; it comes out raspy and winded.

“Hey, yourself,” Paris says. She drops a kiss to Rome’s hip, and then twists her wrist, more pressure against Rome’s slick heat, Rome groans and turns her head into the pillow. “Again?” Paris asks.

Rome lifts her head and they lock eyes. “Yes, another. You good for it?”

Paris raises her eyebrows and grins, then drops her head to lick the flat of her tongue directly over Rome’s clit. Rome falls back against the pillows with a gasp, rolling her hips up again, and Paris licks her through it, following the rise and fall and the rhythm of her body. It take a little longer the second time around. She slides a third finger in, knowing how much Rome likes the stretch. She sucks Rome's clit between her lips, keeping the pressure steady and strong until Rome shakes apart again.

They lie in silence for a moment, Paris’ head on Rome’s hip. She breathes lightly over Rome clit, just to watch her twitch, and debates the merits of trying to tease her into round three when Rome says, “hey, get up here.”

Paris goes, kissing her again. Rome kisses her back, just as hungrily. She told Paris once she liked the intimacy of tasting herself on her partner's lips. “Your turn,” she says. “Ready?”

Paris has been so turned on she’s nearly aching with it since the show, but she isn’t responsive like Rome. She almost never comes more than once, and it takes awhile. Only a few people have ever been able to get her off every time, though Rome’s always been one - was the first one, actually, probably because she was the first person Paris every slept with who bothered to learn her body's tricks and tells. Not the last, but chalk that up to one more important lesson from Rome. Life is way too short for selfish lovers. Rome knows she likes the build up and the anticipation, that watching Rome come, making Rome come is going to do more than almost anything to get her there.

“Ready,” she says. Rome grins.

“Roll over, hands up, eyes closed, and just let do my thing.”

Paris rolls onto her back, and takes a deep breath, stretching out and letting her eyes fall shut. If Rome just wants her along for the ride for this one, she’s more than okay with that. There’s not really a bedpost for her to hold onto, but she fists her hands in the sheets, hiolding still and keeping her breath steady, as Rome kisses her way down her body.

Rome’s kisses are light, a flick of her tongue, a whisper of breath against Paris’ stomach, her hip, the inside of her thigh. She’s trembling by the first press of Rome’s tongue against her where she wants, but it’s still a shock to her system; she arches up, but Rome brings one arm up over her hips, holding her down. She keeps her eyes closed, and lets feeling wash over her, everything centered on the sensation building between her legs. The pleasure is intense, almost sharp, and she loves this, how easy it is to surrender to Rome, how easy it’s always been. For Rome pleasure is valuable and beautiful and pleasure shared and given is sacred. Rome taught her that too. So yeah, Rome taught her a lot.

She’s wound up from the show, from holding Rome twice as she came, so she's close, closer than she would be this quickly with just about anyone else, but she’s not quite there. She's contracting, right on the edge, but nearly cramping on the emptiness. She likes something inside her when she comes, to clamp down on and feel full. But Rome knows that too, of course; she slides two fingers in, fucking her just forcefully enough to give the right counterpoint to the unrelenting pressure on her clit.

Paris gasps and comes so hard her whole body quakes. Rome fucks her through it, and then keeps rubbing her, more gently, as Paris brings one hand up over her face and trembles with the sensitivity of the aftershocks. When it finally gets to be too much she still can’t quite speak, so reaches down to grab Rome’s wrist and finally still it.

Rome slides up her body, kissing her lightly on the lips, and stroking her hair until Paris flutters open her eyes. Rome blinks at her slowly and smiles. “God, you are gorgeous when you come.”

Paris smiles up at her; she’s sated with a contented warmth settling under her skin, but still, they have all night, and she doesn't want to waste it sleeping. She leans up to kiss Rome again.

“Give me fifteen minutes and you can have round three.”

Rome laughs, bright and affectionate, and settles in against her side.