“I propose a toast,” Reuenthal says, raising her glass. “As of today, I’m single.”
“Oh,” Mittermeyer exhales. She doesn’t seem so convinced, but clicks her glass to Reuenthal’s regardless. “The diplomat, right?”
“Yes, him. Funny fellow. Before he left, he threatened me,“ Reuenthal smiles, “and called me a whore.”
That makes Mittermeyer frown, her full, pretty eyebrows drawn together. “That’s not right. I will never understand how some men can disrespect women like that.”
It’s always like this, with Mittermeyer. Sometimes, Reuenthal whishes she could cut her open and see inside her head, to understand how she can come to such conclusions. It’s undeniably endearing, in the way naivety tends to be. In the way most things that make up Mittermeyer tend to be. “Don’t you think they’re right about me?” Reuenthal asks, amused. “It’s true that I dispose of them as I please. You know that.”
Mittermeyer shakes her head, then sighs. “Maybe.” One of her hands clenches into a fist on the table. “But they have no right to speak of you like that. Men do this sort of thing all the time.”
“Yes, but Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal says, ”you should know by now that men and women are the same. We’re all capable of doing terrible things.”
“That’s true,” agrees Mittermeyer, but not quite: “I really don’t think it’s as simple as that, though. One bad action doesn’t immediately make you a bad person.”
“Well,” Reuenthal refills their glasses, and avoids Mittermeyer’s gaze, “I guess you would know. You’re the one with someone waiting for you at home, not me.”
Mittermeyer doesn’t react to that. It’s not the first time Reuenthal has tried to stir her into anger like this. It had only worked until Mittermeyer realized that Reuenthal doesn’t care about her moral shortcomings, not in the slightest.
Reuenthal empties her glass in one swing, and licks her lips.
Of course, there are other things she does care about.
Rosy cheeks, face blushed from the whisky, and a small mouth, lovely and inviting as ever. Mittermeyer’s hair is beginning to come loose from her bun, soft curls framing her face. She looks younger, like the this, the same as when they first met. A perfect picture of virtue.
Reuenthal wants to see her break.
“Walk me back to my room, Mittermeyer,” she requests then, almost commands. It startles Mittermeyer, who looks at her in confusion. “I’m feeling a little faint,” she lies. Mittermeyer can see right through her, most definitely.
Still, she gets up and offers Reuenthal her arm as support. She doesn’t need it, but she takes it. Casually, she presses her fingers in to feel the muscles on Mittermeyer’s upper arm. Mittermeyer’s free hand comes up to rest on Reuenthal’s, in a gesture of permission. And really, that’s all Reuenthal needs.
They leave the bar. Iserlohn is always bustling with activity, but right now, Reuenthal wishes they had the luxury of a dark, empty street in the middle of the night. She only waits until they’re far enough from the lights and the open space of the recreation area to push Mittermeyer onto the closest wall, and kisses her.
Mittermeyer doesn’t fight it. She never does. Instead, she kisses back eagerly, all soft lips and tongue. Reuenthal squeezes a leg between Mittermeyer’s, who presses back into the contact, using Reuenthal’s height to her own advantage. The slight pressure is enough to make Reuenthal moan, but the sound is lost as Mittermeyer licks into her mouth.
With practiced ease, she unbuttons Mittermeyer’s uniform just so, enough to let her sneak a hand under her shirt. The skin of her belly is soft and warm, deliciously so. She keeps going upwards until she can cup one of Mittermeyer’s breasts into her hand, finding a hardened nipple over the material of her undergarment.
Reuenthal presses her thumb into it. “Have I ever told you,” she says, appreciatively, “how much I like to touch you here?”
Mittermeyer only moans at the contact, and Reuenthal kisses her open mouth. Small, sturdy hands grab onto Reuenthal’s waist, pressing her closer, closer, closer still.
In moments like this, Reuenthal thinks she can understand Mittermeyer with an unusual clarity. If she wants to see Mittermeyer flushed and gasping for air, it’s only because Mittermeyer makes it so difficult to get to her under different circumstances. Reuenthal can only take what she’s offered, and no more. And what she’s being offered right now is soft, supple skin to grab onto, thick thighs embracing her own, a wet, warm mouth and the knowledge that no matter what, Mittermeyer is as weak to this as she is.
The sound of footsteps makes both of them freeze. Reuenthal pulls apart from Mittermeyer’s mouth to look at her face: her eyes are wide, eyebrows raised. They wait, and listen. As the footsteps get farther and farther away, Reuenthal kisses her again.
Mittermeyer breaks the kiss and puts some distance between their bodies. “Reuenthal.” Her hands are still on Reuenthal’s waist, and she sounds breathless. “This is improper.”
“Is it, now?” Reuenthal teases, lips almost touching Mittermeyer’s.
“Anyone could see.”
Reuenthal almost, almost asks her if she would like that. Something tells her she might be right, but she’s already tried her luck enough for one night. That’s the trick with Mittermeyer: knowing her self-imposed limits, and only crossing them enough to make her feel a little rush, but no further.
“Then should we go back to your room? Or mine?”
That, finally, makes Mittermeyer push her away. “Goodbye, Reuenthal.” She makes a quick job of rearranging her clothes, and then, “I think you no longer need my help to stand.”
Reuenthal can’t help but grin. With one last accusatory look, Mittermeyer steps out from where she had been trapped, between the wall and Reuenthal’s body, and strides down the still empty hallway.
Reuenthal lets her, chuckling to herself. She exhales, and rests her weight against the wall she had pressed Mittermeyer into just seconds before. She thinks of Mittermeyer’s taste and heat, the way she’d melted under Reuenthal’s mouth and hands, and Reuenthal knows, without a doubt, that she’ll be back for more.