The thin, crisp pages of the San Diego Union Tribune crinkle and flutter in the morning breeze. Grace breathes in the smell of the sea and taps her pen on her knee as she reads the next clue. She’s curled up in one of the big Restoration Hardware wicker chairs out on the patio, her legs tangled beneath her as she rests the newspaper on her knees, open to the daily crossword.
36 across: “Coop group.” 8 letters. She sighs, smiles to herself, can’t resist an eye roll. She brings her pen to the paper and writes “CHICKENS” in careful capital letters inside the boxes.
She’s still smiling to herself as she looks out over the horizon, thinking about chickens and Frankie and how she might just be willing to get the damn chickens if it would cheer Frankie up a bit. Ever since Newsom’s first shelter-in-place order took effect, Frankie has alternated between being a ball of anxiety about the state of the world and just being overwhelmingly sad that she can’t go anywhere. Grace doesn’t like either.
Her eyes glaze over as she’s overcome with worry about Frankie, racking her brain for a way to cheer her up. Just at that moment, Frankie comes bursting through the open French doors and onto the patio.
“Grace!!!” She frantically approaches Grace’s chair before settling—if you can even call it that, she’s still moving all of her limbs—on the arm opposite the one Grace is leaned up against. “Grace! They’ve extended shelter-in-place until the END OF MAY!! It just keeps getting longer! Grace, what if we die in quarantine?!? Oh my God, we’re going to fucking die in quarantine!”
Grace instinctively reaches out and places both of her hands on Frankie’s, the one that isn’t waving her cell phone in the air. “Shhh. Frankie. Frankie. It’s gonna be okay,” she coos, almost as if she’s soothing a child, but she knows better than to assume that of Frankie. “First of all, we are not going to die in quarantine. We are literally staying in quarantine so that we don’t die. And second of all, if the only person I ever see again is you, that’s perfectly fine with me.” Technically, they’d see Robert and Sol too, since their house wasn’t finished before this whole thing broke out and now they’re all quarantined together at the beach house, but she doesn't really think they need to be included. It’s all about Frankie. Everything is, these days.
“You too, lady.” Frankie smiles. It makes Grace smile too. “Hey, you know…” Frankie continues, a little bit more light in her eyes, “I do love a good Say Yes night.”
Grace feigns annoyance, mostly out of habit. “I know you do,” is accompanied by a characteristic eye roll and a sip from her totally-not-spiked morning coffee.
“I’m free tonight!” Frankie exclaims as if that’s any kind of a shocker. “We obviously can’t have it end when we get back home if we can’t even leave. Hmm.” She looks up, as if that will help her think. “What if it starts as soon as we finish dinner and ends at midnight? Real Cinderella-esque.”
“I’ll clear my calendar.” Another eye roll, and a wink just for fun.
Frankie springs up off of Grace’s chair and bounds back into the house. “Want any ice cream?” she calls.
“Say Yes hasn’t started yet!!” Grace yells back. She can’t even help the grin that’s spread across her face.
As Grace descends the stairs for dinner, more dressed up than she’s been in weeks, she sees the table set for two.
“I told the boys to get lost,” Frankie emerges from the kitchen and nearly runs into Grace as she reaches the landing. “By which I mean eat on the patio, since they can’t exactly go anywhere, obviously.”
Grace smiles and tries to dull the warm feeling it gives her to know she’ll get to eat with just Frankie, like they used to. She chalks it up to her annoyance with the constant presence of their ex-husbands rather than genuine excitement at the prospect of alone-time with Frankie.
“Looking good, Hanson. Dressed up for me I see,” Frankie says as she looks Grace up and down, admiring the pale pink silk button down she’s paired with grey slacks. She’s even got heels on.
“It’s a special occasion, isn’t it? Besides, I had to remove the temptation for you to ask to dress me.” She has to stop her brain from rewinding to the last time Frankie dressed her, stealing glances and pretending she wasn’t, secretly loving the whole thing.
Frankie bounces excitedly on the edge of her seat as Grace slowly finishes her last few bites of food. As soon as she sets her fork down on her empty plate, Frankie is up out of her chair, a plate in each hand, and heading for the kitchen.
“Clearing the table?” Grace questions as she hoists herself up out of her chair, too. “That’s a first.”
“Dinner’s over!” Frankie chirps.
“So that means time-in, right?”
“Yep!” Frankie’s face glows with an energy Grace hasn’t seen in weeks.
“Frankie,” she pauses for dramatic effect, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Frankie, hon, would you do the dishes?”
Frankie’s face falls and she squints at Grace before grunting a begrudging “... yes” and walking over to the sink. Grace watches with satisfaction and grabs the vodka and vermouth out of the fridge, making herself a martini and watching Frankie from behind as she scrubs the plates.
Frankie can feel Grace’s eyes on her, and as she’s finishing the last dish, she starts to think of her next question, her next request. She’ll certainly have to get revenge for this “do the dishes” nonsense, won’t she?
Before Frankie can think of anything to do, she turns around to see Grace is standing a few feet away from her next to the stove, instead of sitting in her barstool like she was just a few seconds ago. She’s looking at Frankie intently, her eyes focused, searching.
“Why do you always wear so many layers?” Grace asks. She doesn’t even give Frankie time to answer. “You have such beautiful skin.” She pulls Frankie’s sleeve up a little and wraps her hand around Frankie’s wrist, moving her thumb in circles. “Why don’t you show it off more?”
Frankie laughs even though she’s burning inside. These days, she can never tell what the fuck Grace means and what she just throws at her for the hell of it. “Is that a request, Ms. Hanson?”
“Yes.” Grace steps a little closer, close enough to get a sense of the heat the other woman is feeling.
“Then okay. But will you do it?” She gestures at the long cardigan she wears over her t-shirt. Two can play at this game. Or whatever it is.
Grace realizes she’s still moving her thumb across Frankie’s wrist, and she doesn’t stop when she says, “Yeah. Okay.” The left corner of her mouth turns up in half a smile as she takes both her hands to Frankie’s shoulders and pushes the cardigan off, let’s it fall to the floor. She moves her arms reverently, absentmindedly down Frankie’s now-bare arms, drowning in the sensation of just how soft her skin really is.
“Don’t stop,” Frankie breathes, and it’s so soft that it could have been Grace’s imagination, but she obeys. It’s Say Yes, isn’t it? Who is she to deny a request, however quiet?
Eventually though, she speaks. “So are we watching a movie or not?”
“Right, movie, movie. Movie.” Frankie sputters, opening her eyes. “Can I pick? Oh Grace, say you’ll let me pick!”
“You know I have to say yes. What’s it gonna be?”
Frankie spends no less than 20 minutes debating between DVDs before she finally settles on Dirty Dancing and pops it into the DVD player. She plops herself down on the couch and Grace lowers herself beside her, leaving a few inches of space between them. They glance outside to see Robert and Sol standing up, abandoning their dirty dishes, and walking hand-in-hand toward the guest room. Grace feels a very strange pang of jealousy for their ex-husbands and shakes it off. Quarantine has made her too damn horny all the time.
She turns her attention to the TV screen as the opening credits start to roll. Not five minutes into the movie, Frankie pipes up again. “So, am I sleeping in your bed tonight?”
“Say yes ends at midnight, Frankie.” She knows full well she’s going to end up agreeing to this, but she may as well put up a little bit of a fight first. It’s all she knows how to do.
“Hey, length of commitment didn’t stop Sol and me from having to buy that Del Taco franchise. The question is now, the answer is yes. Unless of course you’re giving up on Say Yes altogether.” She smiles mischievously, loving how crazy she’s driving Grace.
“Alright, alright. But stay on your side,” Grace grumbles.
Frankie pouts dramatically and scoots away from Grace on the couch.
“Of the bed, silly. Come here.”
Frankie grins and moves back, even closer this time, letting their thighs brush together.
They trade stories and silly requests until they get to reminiscing about their very first Say Yes night, and Frankie suddenly perks up. “You know, Grace, if I recall correctly, you weren’t wearing a bra that night.”
Jiggly. “I remember.”
“So, I think,” Frankie starts again, trying to make her voice sound as innocent as possible, “that you should take yours off now. You know. Just for authenticity.” She smirks to herself.
Grace, not one to back down from a challenge or a Say Yes night, reaches behind her own back and feels for the clasp beneath the slippery silk, pushing it together until it pops open. With a bit of effort, she slides the straps all the way down her sleeves and over her wrists. Lastly, she reaches down the front of her shirt and grabs the middle of the bra, looking up to meet Frankie’s transfixed gaze as she pulls it out of her blouse. It’s white lace, unlined.
“Now you.” Grace commands. But Frankie isn’t even listening, she’s staring at the lacy lingerie in her best friend’s hand. Grace notices what Frankie’s looking at, how intently she’s looking, and her pulse quickens as she imagines what Frankie might be thinking. Does she like it? Is she wondering what it looks like on me? Does she wish she’d been the one to take it off? Grace feels a throb down below and wishes she could rein in her brain, stop being ridiculous. Somehow the feeling only spurs her on, and she clears her throat. “Frances… you next! Bra off.”
Frankie’s head snaps up and she smirks at Grace. “Joke’s on you, lady. I’m not wearing one.”
“Prove it.” The words tumbling out of her own mouth make Grace’s head spin and her stomach do backflips. Nerves, or something else?
Frankie brings her hand to the hem of her oversized Grateful Dead t-shirt and toys with it for a few seconds, making a decision. Then, quickly, before she can think better of it, she uses both hands to pull the hem up to her neck, revealing her round, naked breasts to Grace. Grace blinks twice, and just as quickly as it began, it’s over. “See?” Frankie’s saying smugly. It sounds like she’s a mile away.
She’s seen them before, the first time they met for Christ’s sake, but this is all different because this time it’s not Frankie it’s Frankie, and she can’t keep her eyes off the peaks of her nipples and the fact that they’re not exactly soft. Frankie appears nearly unaffected, but Grace can’t move, can’t speak. The throb between her legs is worse now, more insistent.
The silence grows deafening. Frankie’s the first to say anything.
“Snacks?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“Sure. Yeah. Snacks.” Grace is still in a daze.
Frankie hoists herself up off of the couch, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. Grace places a hand on her own sternum and tries to breathe, in and out. She squeezes her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some friction and takes a few more deep breaths, bringing herself back to the brink of sanity. What am I thinking, letting Frankie turn me on like this? It must just be the isolation talking…
Frankie comes back with what seem to be the first three snack items she laid eyes on: Hershey’s kisses, dark chocolate-covered strawberries (for a healthy option, she thinks), and a jelly doughnut. She plops herself back down next to Grace—is she sitting closer than she was before?—and sets the snacks down on the coffee table in front of them. She smirks as Grace looks at her quizzically.
“I brought the jelly doughnut just for you. Won’t you eat it, Grace?” she says, her voice as sugary as the doughnut itself.
“My favorite.” Grace says with palpable sarcasm and rolls her eyes before obliging, gingerly picking up the pastry and bringing it to her lips. She’s making eye contact with Frankie as she shoves the powder-covered mound into her mouth, so she misjudges the distance and takes a much-too-large bite. There’s powdered sugar deposited on her cheeks, and a dollop of jelly has leaked out of the doughnut and onto the corner of her mouth. She chews slowly and swallows, then starts to bring her hand to her face to wipe the jelly from her mouth. Frankie, eyes still caught in Grace’s, interjects, reaching out to intercept the trajectory of Grace’s hand.
“Let me.” She reaches out, slower than she needs to, and uses her ring finger to gently swipe away the jelly from Grace’s mouth, grazing her bottom lip as she does so. Grace shivers. Frankie brings her finger to her own mouth and sucks the morsel off, letting go with a faint pop and a satisfied “mmm.” At that, Grace goes from shivering to warm, too warm, and she blinks hard, cutting off the connection for long enough to regain composure. Mostly.
Frankie, for her part, can’t stop staring at Grace’s plump bottom lip and reaches the same hand back towards it, with her thumb outstretched this time.
“Your lips are pretty.” She softly brushes her thumb against the fleshy part of Grace’s bottom lip. “And soft.” When she draws her thumb away it’s streaked with the final remnant of the lipstick Grace had put on earlier, peachy-pink and warm.
Without thinking, Grace bites her lip, which sends Frankie hurtling dangerously down the Grace-is-hot path that she usually tries so hard to avoid. Lip biting has always been one of her weaknesses. Either to pull herself out of a place she knows she won’t be able to return from or just to utilize Say Yes’s ability to give her control over Grace and her lips, she speaks. “Don’t do that.”
Oh, shit, that didn’t sound right. Why shouldn’t Grace do that, other than that it will drive Frankie crazy? “It’s not good for your lips. To bite them like that.” Well, that sounded stupid. And it clearly holds no credence to Grace, who looks up at Frankie through her eyelashes and bites down, again, determinedly.
“Make me.” Grace isn’t entirely sure where that came from, where any of this is coming from. Her whole body is hotter than it should be and her stomach flips upside down at the fact that Frankie’s eyes are fixed on her lips. At the fact that Frankie just touched her lips, called them pretty. It’s all too much, but she can’t seem to stop herself. I thought Frankie was supposed to be the one with poor impulse control.
Frankie’s got to regain control. A joke, that’ll do it, right? A joke, just like all the others she’s made over the years, that’s laced with something more, something unacknowledged. “Okay, yes.” She says deliberately. “Yes, I’ll make you. I’ll make you stop.” It comes out lower than she’d planned, not as sing-song-y. Not quite the joking tone she was going for.
At that Grace’s mouth goes still. A few seconds go by.
“Hm.” Frankie chuckles, finally regaining some ground. “Didn’t know it would be that easy.”
More seconds tick by, each one more agonizing than the last. Grace’s mouth still hasn’t moved, and Frankie’s eyes are still fixed on it.
“Will you rub my sternum?”
“Is this gonna be like that time you wouldn’t stop moaning?”
Frankie chokes. Um, yeah, probably just like that, at this rate. But Grace, thankfully, doesn’t wait for an answer before she lifts her hand and places it softly on Frankie’s sternum, rubbing slow circles through the cotton of her t-shirt. As much as she likes to pretend she’s averse to it, Grace has done this enough times to know how to do it right. Frankie actually does have to suppress a noise that may very well have been a moan.
“Why do you like this so much, anyway?” Grace asks as her fingers work. It’s soft, not accusatory. Frankie does let herself let out a tiny moan, before answering.
“I don’t know. It’s just always made me feel safe. It’s relaxing.” She pauses, wrapped up in the sensation. “Has anyone ever done it to you?”
No. In her limited, vanilla repertoire of sex, no one has ever rubbed her sternum, or even so much as paid attention to her collarbones. “Um. No. I don’t think so.”
“You’re missing out.” Another pause. “Ever been kissed there?”
This time it’s Grace’s turn to choke. “Uh, no, not that I can remember.”
“Oh, you’d remember.”
Grace continues rubbing Frankie’s sternum as a method of release for herself as much as Frankie, trying not to think about how close her hands are to other parts of Frankie she’d love to touch, parts she’d just been shown, but not like that, at least she doesn’t think it was like that. Frankie talks a big talk, but has she ever really meant it?
Frankie’s still thinking about sternum kisses. “Wanna try it?” she asks Grace.
Grace’s hand goes still on Frankie. “I guess I have to say yes,” she laughs, a weak laugh, but it’s still a laugh. Maybe it’s just funny that they need the veil of Say Yes to actually say yes to one another.
Frankie surges forward, a little too enthusiastically, and parts Grace’s shirt above where its buttoned, not daring to even go near that top button. No. That would be way too much. As it is, Frankie’s mind has floated away from her body and she can’t believe she’s about to put her lips on Grace’s chest. She lowers her closed mouth to Grace’s chest and presses it in gently.
As soon as Frankie’s lips make contact with her bare skin, Grace’s body goes into overdrive and stops accepting any instruction from her. She feels herself heat up again, worse than before. And that throb between her legs is back. It’s insistent. She’s using every one of her brain cells to tell her body that it’s just Say Yes, that this isn’t real, that she needs to stop getting so worked up. Her body is saying “fuck you.” Actually, it’s saying “fuck me,” which Grace almost mutters under her breath before she stops herself, knowing what that would sound like.
Frankie can feel Grace’s erratic heartbeat, so she keeps going, picking up the pace, sprinkling closed-mouth kisses across her sternum, her collarbones, her shoulders. Anything that she can reach, really. But the line between collarbone and neck feels finite, and she can’t quite get herself to cross it, despite the apparent magnetism between Grace’s neck and her tongue.
But Frankie’s clearly not focused enough on boundaries, because she fails to stop her tongue from flicking out to lick Grace’s collarbone, tasting salt.
At that, Grace arches her body into Frankie’s. Her breasts collide with Frankie’s and both of them are instantly aware of the new point of contact, and Grace’s head dips back further, leaving her neck exposed and glistening with sweat and practically begging to be kissed.
“Grace?” Frankie asks tentatively as she ghosts her lips over her neck, just barely, enough to ask a question but not enough to cross a line.
“Yes,” Grace breathes. It’s enough.
So Frankie allows instinct to take over, diving in and covering Grace in closed-mouth kisses from the base of her neck almost to her jawline. The kisses are conservative compared to what she’d like to be doing, but certainly not chaste. What she’d like to be doing would involve a lot more tongue, and a lot more teeth. And a lot more screaming. Holy fuck.
Meanwhile, Grace is fighting a losing battle with her vocal cords. Frankie’s straddling her now, her mouth hot against her neck threatening to snap the remaining shred of self control she’s held onto.
“Frankie.” It’s soft and it slips from her traitorous lips before her brain can catch up. Oh, God, it was almost a moan, wasn’t it? I’m moaning Frankie’s name and she’s kissing my neck and none of this is okay. I won’t survive. “Frankie, what are we doing? We shouldn’t… should we?” Her resolve falters before she can even finish the thought.
“It’s a Say Yes night. What happens happens.” Frankie’s still lost in Grace, although she’s stopped kissing her neck. Did she moan my name just now? Is that what that was?
“So if… so if I wanted you to kiss me...” Want. So much want.
“I’d say yes.” It’s sincere, and not just because of the game, and she looks deep into Grace’s eyes as she says it.
Grace glances down at Frankie’s lips, contemplating, toying with the tension that’s pulling them together.
Suddenly, there’s a loud noise from somewhere in the distance, and they register it as a door being slammed. Robert and Sol. Grace’s face flushes, not from sex or embarrassment, but from the risk of something so private and precious and raw being walked in on by her ex. So instead of kissing Frankie, she grabs her hand and pulls. “You’re sleeping in my bed, right?”
“Grace,” Frankie calls from across the bed, her voice sticky-sweet in the air. “Tickle my arms?” Some of the energy from downstairs has dissipated and the transparent veil of joking has returned. Even though it’s technically SAY yes night, Grace abandons words as she shifts closer to Frankie in the bed and brings her long fingers to rest delicately on Frankie’s outstretched forearm, a yes in action rather than words. She starts to ghost her fingertips over the surface of Frankie’s skin, beautiful skin , she remembers, feels Frankie’s breath hitch at the initial contact. It’s different from the last time they did this—Grace has been keeping her nails uncharacteristically short as a result of having to do them herself at home. So the bare pads of her fingertips are twirling and dancing across Frankie’s arm, five direct points of skin-to-skin contact. Grace’s breath hitches too.
A little while passes, and while she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of Frankie’s satisfied humming, she’s a little bored of the repetitive motion so she brings her other hand to tickle Frankie’s armpit. This sends Frankie from humming to giggling and screaming in a matter of seconds. She should have known Frankie would tickle her back, should have known she was asking for it, but she still yelps when Frankie wiggles her fingers on top of her stomach and bursts into laughter at every subsequent touch. They roll into each other, tickling whatever they can reach, and before either of them knows it, Frankie is lying squarely on top of Grace.
As soon as they become aware of their position, the tickling ceases and their eyes are locked hopelessly together, Frankie’s hands trapped beneath Grace’s arms. Grace feels her face flush and her pulse quicken at the closeness of Frankie’s body and the depth and seriousness she sees in her eyes. Everything heats up. It’s never really been like this, the anticipation, the wanting. She doesn’t know what to do with it.
Frankie looks right back, admiring the way Grace’s hair falls away from her face as she falls straight into the blue of her eyes. She can feel at least six points of contact between their bodies. Or is it one large canvas of contact? Whatever it is, it sends shivers down her spine and elicits a throb between her legs, strong enough to propel her into asking Grace her next question.
“Can I…” Frankie chokes on the words before she can get them out. She tries again, wanting to shake herself back into something that could be a joke, safer territory. Something she’s said before. “Do you want me to do stuff to you?” She says, her face much too close to Grace’s, and manages a smirk. Yeah. Stay safe.
Grace’s eyes are still fixed on Frankie’s as her heart stops, the feeling of jumping off the cliff, the edge of which they’d been teetering on all night (much longer than that, really), overwhelming her as her heart makes up for lost time in the aftermath of the impact of Frankie’s words. She manages, painstakingly, to tear her eyes away from Frankie’s and glance at the clock beside her. 11:59. The numbers blink twice, or do her eyelids? She feels Frankie’s gaze follow hers and register what she’s deciding. In a voice barely above a whisper and far lower than it should be to keep up the pretense she’s still maintaining, Grace gets out a small, but not a timid, “yes”.
Frankie’s eyes are still glued on the clock as it strikes midnight, signifying the end of Say Yes night. “Grace.” It’s all she can say for a very long moment, questioning the answer from the woman beneath her, despite the warmth she can feel radiating from her entire body, despite the flush in her cheeks, and—is that? Oh. She can see Grace’s nipples peaked beneath her silk shirt, a sight courtesy of her bra shenanigans earlier.
Frankie’s breathing gets slower and shallower as she figures out how to make her tongue move to form the words she needs to say. “Grace.” she says again. Another pause. Great , she thinks, tongue tied at the worst possible moment. “Say yes is over,” she manages in a whisper, her eyes searching Grace’s for confirmation, for something, for anything.
Underneath her, Grace’s brain is short-circuiting, wondering if it’s possible that life could be so cruel to let her get so close to this, to let her believe it could happen, and to cut it off before she could even enjoy it with something as arbitrary as the changing of numbers on a clock. Pixels arranged to tell a time of day that, now, seems like it doesn’t even matter in the first place. And it would be a whole lot easier to think if Frankie wasn’t on top of her like that, lined up inches away from where she’s aching for contact. Is Frankie aching too?
But then Frankie’s voice falls down from above her, as if from outer space or somewhere else up there, and she hears the words, “Honey. You don’t have to say yes. Don’t say yes if you don’t want to.” A pause, which feels like a small universe in and of itself, in which Grace is processing and Frankie is weighing the risk she’s about to take against her body’s desperation. “Because I don’t think I could handle going back on this.”
At that, every part of Grace’s being melts and she has no choice but to do what she’s been waiting to do all night, all month, maybe longer. She lifts her head and tilts it to the right, just a little, before what she wants suddenly outweighs anything else and she’s surging forward and capturing Frankie’s plump lips between her own.
It’s short, because she pulls away and brings her hand to Frankie’s cheek gently, oh so gently, and whispers a low and certain “that’s a yes.” She thinks about adding “with or without your silly game”. But she knows that Frankie expects sarcasm from her, expects her to diffuse her come-ons with humor, and she cannot allow this energy to be diffused, cannot ruin what may very well be her favorite moment she’s experienced in nearly 83 years. And the fact is, she’s grown to love Say Yes night for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is having Frankie “innocently” put her hands all over her.
So she’s quiet as Frankie lowers her back down to the pillow, her hair splaying out across the blue silk pillowcase, and immediately less quiet when Frankie’s hot lips connect with hers again, this time with vigor. Grace moans as she slides her hand from Frankie’s cheek up to her long grey hair and pulls her into the kiss, pushing them both deeper into the mattress and their bodies flush against one another.
Frankie doesn’t waste much time in returning to Grace’s neck, this time holding nothing back. Instead of kisses, she starts with a long lick from her collarbone to her jawline, practically drinking her in. Then, starting at the jawline and moving downwards, she deposits sloppy kisses, letting her tongue have free rein.
Frankie opens her mouth to catch her breath, panting a little, and her teeth inadvertently scrape the skin of Grace’s neck, eliciting a low moan. Frankie smiles to herself before biting her again, on purpose this time. She barely even catches any skin in her teeth, more of a tease than a bite.
“More,” Grace commands, breathless.
So Frankie bites her neck again, with more pressure this time, and moves to sink her teeth into her shoulder, enough to leave a mark in the morning. She licks the spot to sooth it, laps again at Grace’s collarbone. Anything to get her to make more of those noises.
Grace moans as if she can read Frankie’s mind.
She moves her hands to the buttons of Grace’s shirt and is surprised to see that they’re shaking. With desire, with another line being crossed. Suddenly Grace’s hand is there, right beneath hers, and as their lips meet again, Frankie can feel Grace’s hand undoing her own button, inviting Frankie to undo the next one. She obeys.
Once Grace’s shirt is undone, revealing a strip of sweaty, tan skin between two pieces of damp silk (Jesus, she’s turned on), Frankie reverently slips one hand underneath the slippery fabric to cup Grace’s left breast, her thumb suspended for a moment over the peak of her nipple. She moves her thumb back and forth, just a little, barely even touching Grace, who squirms beneath her and whimpers.
Grace cries out when Frankie’s hand is suddenly gone, the lack of pressure so much worse than the teasing. But before she can beg for more, Frankie’s mouth is latched where her thumb was, her tongue working magic around Grace’s nipple.
“Frankie, oh my—”
Grace’s strangled cries make Frankie press harder with her tongue, an answering ache beating between her legs egging her on, towards whatever heaven must exist within Grace. Is this what it feels like, to want someone so badly that you’d do anything just to keep them near you?
Grace, panting and desperate, needs her hands on Frankie, somehow, so she brings her hands up above her to cup Frankie through her t-shirt. She can feel stiff peaks through the thin, worn fabric and she starts to move her thumbs, harder than Frankie had started with on her. She can feel Frankie’s nipples tighten under her touch, but she needs more. Needs skin. So she pulls one hand back and slides it underneath the cotton, squeezing her fingers a little with the relief of touch, finally.
Frankie gasps sharply, expelling a burst of cool air onto Grace’s wet nipple. The sensation in contrast with the warmth that was there just a moment before sends a pang right to Grace’s center and she instinctively tries to open her legs, bending at the knee a little to widen them. Her bent knee comes to rest right between Frankie’s legs, just inches from where she knows Frankie’s aching too, and it sends another wave of arousal through her body.
It’s too much for Frankie, the combination of Grace’s hands on her breasts and the sound of her legs, still encased in those wool slacks, sliding across silk bedsheets. Opening, for her. And it’s impossible not to be aware, not to intrinsically sense the place Grace’s knee—her good knee—has landed.
She can’t help herself.
Without a second thought, she bends her own knees and dips her hips, grinding into Grace’s knee, chasing a fraction of the relief she needs against the woman she needs it from. “Oh, fuck, Grace…”
Frankie’s head falls forward, her curls dancing across Grace’s skin as she pushes herself down on Grace’s knee, her shin.
God, my knees will pay for this tomorrow. Even if this is the good one. But Grace doesn’t care. What she cares about is that Frankie’s warm , no, hot , and she can feel an unmistakable streak of dampness through the fabric of her pants, proof that Frankie needs this as badly as she does.
She pushes her knee up as Frankie pushes down again, creating a rhythm for her, getting caught in it herself. She blindly grabs for the hem of Frankie’s t-shirt and yanks it through her mass of hair and over her head. Mustering a little muscle, she utilizes how weak she’s making Frankie and pushes up, rolling her onto her back.
Grace doesn’t even wait before bringing her palm between Frankie’s legs, not quite touching her, just splaying her fingers out and resting them on Frankie’s inner thighs, her whole hand less than an inch from Frankie’s throbbing center. “Tell me you need it.” Tell me you need me.
“Fuck, Grace, I need you to, please… right there, oh...” She tries to push up into Grace’s palm, but Grace’s fingers are freakishly strong for a woman with arthritis and she holds Frankie’s thighs firmly in place, her palm still suspended in the air.
Just when Frankie thinks she’s about to die, Grace starts to push her wrist down, albeit at a diabolical, glacial pace, the base of her hand finally making contact with Frankie’s clit. With the constraint of Grace’s fingers on her thighs relieved, Frankie eagerly pushes up again, making the delicious impact almost unbearable.
Grace can tell Frankie’s getting too close, so she slows and removes her hand from between Frankie’s legs. She leans down and brings their lips back together gently. She tenderly molds her lips together with Frankie’s, willing herself to keep it slow and shallow, bringing them both down just a little from the high they’re riding.
Still moving in slow motion, she disconnects her lips from Frankie’s and moves to her jawline, kneading the sensitive skin there with her lips and tongue. A shiver runs through Frankie’s body and vibrates through Grace’s mouth, making her moan against Frankie’s neck and pull away for air.
Grace lifts her head and focuses her vision just enough to connect her thumbs to Frankie’s elastic waistband, yanking her patterned harem pants all the way down to her ankles. She takes a deep, shaking breath and allows her eyes to rake over Frankie’s nearly-naked body for a moment—her ample breasts splayed a little sideways on her chest, her soft stomach and, fucking hell, the tufts of curly hair peeking out of the sides of her black cotton panties.
She brings her hand back between Frankie’s legs to the only place she thinks she’ll ever want it to be again, lets herself explore what Frankie feels like, wet and hot against her fingers with only a thin layer between them. She presses three fingers flat against Frankie’s clit, slides them all the way down to her center and back up again, trying to maximize the surface area of contact between them. But it’s not really contact. Not skin-to-skin.
Grace realizes she’s trembling, equal parts need and fear, not knowing what exactly comes next. It can’t be that different than what I do to myself, can it? She thinks back to nights when she decided to forgo the Ménage in favor of the organic warmth of her own fingers inside of her, deep and searching and earnest. All she needs to do is make Frankie feel that.
She licks her lips and lets her eyelids flutter shut, just for a second, as she pictures what she might be able to do to Frankie. She’s still scared, but she’s too hungry for more of Frankie to let it stop her. She slips her right hand into Frankie’s panties and uses her left to tug them down her hips, pushing them down as far as she can reach, bringing them to rest at her knees.
Grace, seeing Frankie for the first time, lets out an audible gasp, unable to do anything but take in the beauty of her for a moment. Is this always what women have looked like? No wonder Frankie paints so many vaginas. With the hand that’s already resting on Frankie’s bare lips, she pushes a little deeper, exploring. The wetness she’s met with leaves her gaping and she moves her fingers faster, listening to a symphony of Frankie’s moans combined with the faint squish of each audible touch.
Even with so much lubrication coming from Frankie’s body, Grace is afraid of hurting her if she goes any further without assistance. With her free hand, she gropes along the side of the bed for the handle to her nightstand drawer, which she yanks open and pulls out a jar of Frankie’s most recent batch of yam lube.
“Only for a second, promise,” she whispers apologetically into Frankie’s ear as she withdraws her hand from her depths, bringing it to the jar and scooping up a generous amount of the substance. She warms it between her fingers before bringing her hand back to stroke Frankie again, this time lubed-up enough to push further, further, and finally inside Frankie.
Frankie throws her head back as Grace’s long fingers enter her, reaching further than she’s ever been able to reach on her own, and Grace’s thumb settles determinedly on her clit, moving in little circles as her fingers move in and out. It feels like coming home, having Grace inside of her, and she lets out a low moan as she arches her back off the bed a little bit. Just as her chest pushes up into the air a little, she feels Grace’s warm mouth land on her right nipple, fingers still working down below.
She’s already used to Grace, and she wants more. She manages to pick her head up for long enough to look Grace in the eye, weaving her hand into her short blonde locks and pulling, just a little, to get her attention.
“More… another… please...” she gets out between pants.
Grace is pretty sure she’s never used more than two fingers on herself, so she’s floored by Frankie’s request, and her body responds with a throb, wondering how many of Frankie’s fingers she’s going to ask for when it’s her turn. Focusing back on Frankie, she pulls her fingers out and rearranges them so that her ring finger and pointer finger are pushed underneath her middle finger, creating a slightly rounder shape that she imagines will be more appealing than a straight line.
As she slides three fingers into Frankie a little tentatively, she’s shocked at how wet and ready she still is, and Grace realizes that she’s just as wet herself beneath her slacks and panties. Frankie grabs at her hair again as her lips land on her other breast, pulls until Grace picks up the pace of her fingers and moves her tongue to the same rhythm. What does she taste like?
Oh, God, where did that come from? The invading thought enters her conscious mind before she can suppress it and sends a pang and probably another surge of wetness between her thighs. She’s not ready to find out the answer yet, though, so she returns her focus to the current task. She concentrates her energy on her hand, bent at an odd but bearable angle in order to play with Frankie’s clit at the same time as she enters her. The small amount of pain in Grace’s wrist only amplifies the feeling of being so near Frankie, being inside Frankie, so she doesn’t mind it.
Grace’s lips are still working overtime on Frankie’s left nipple as she thrusts her fingers in and out, and Frankie feels her body start to give in to the orgasm. She never wants the visual of Grace’s plump, pretty lips wrapped around her breast, big blue eyes looking up at her adoringly, to leave her brain, and she’d love nothing more than to look right back into her eyes, but she’s panting and her eyes won’t stay open. She’s hurtling through outer space, the twin sensations of Grace’s tongue against her nipple and her fingers inside of her the only things tethering her to the ground.
Her breathing is getting shallower and shallower and she could swear she’s seeing stars at the edges of her closed eyelids.
“Grace—” she chokes out, “Grace, baby, I’m so close.”
Whether it’s Frankie telling her that she’s close, verbalizing it (although Grace can tell by the way her walls are pulsing stronger and stronger as she continues pushing her fingers into her) or Frankie calling her “baby”, Grace isn’t sure, but whatever it is, it floods her with warmth and leaves her aching, throbbing, desperate.
But despite her own body’s pleading, she wants nothing more than to feel Frankie come, to see her come unravelled before her eyes, under her touch. So she starts to curl her fingers as she plunges them into Frankie, quickening the circles she’s tracing atop her clit. Frankie’s legs start to shake with the tide that’s about to come.
“Grace, oh my... fuck!” Her walls clench, hard, around Grace’s fingers, locking them in place, her hips rolling into the long, strong pulses.
As Frankie comes down from what Grace thinks might have been the most beautiful orgasm she’s ever seen, she gently removes her fingers and uses them to rub Frankie’s clit in circles as her high subsides.
Frankie’s breathing slows and her eyelids flutter shut and then open again. “Holy shit, Grace. That was a good one.”
Grace smiles to herself as she plants her left hand, the one not covered in Frankie’s juices, right beside Frankie’s shoulder, propping herself up on that arm. She brings her nose to Frankie’s and nuzzles it before pulling back to stare into her dazed eyes. She starts to slowly move her other hand, the one that’s sticky and still warm, close to her face.
As she hungrily brings her own fingers to her mouth, she can’t help but picture Frankie doing the same thing with her jelly-covered fingertip just hours before. But this motion is different than that, because it’s not just one finger and it’s not just the tip. It’s the entire length of the three fingers that were just inside Frankie, slick with cum and yam lube, and the thought alone is enough to remind her she hasn’t gotten off yet.
When she pushes her sticky fingers into her mouth and tastes, finally, the raw, earthy flavor that is Frankie, she sags under a fresh current of arousal. “Mmmm, Jesus—” is muffled by her fingers still in her mouth, coming out in a barely comprehensible moan.
Grace’s cry snaps Frankie out of her post-orgasmic daze and propels her into action instead. Damn it! How did I let her make me come first? “I was trying to take care of you,” she scolds, and it’s almost a growl. She brings one hand to rest firmly on Grace’s neck, to the place from which that sound had originated, although they’d both felt its reverberation echo much lower. She tightens her grip, digs her nails in a little.
Grace’s whole body is shaking with need now, and, God, Frankie’s barely even touched her. She claws at Frankie’s bare back for stability, but thankfully Frankie begins to lower her down onto the pillow beneath them.
Frankie pushes Grace’s shirt, which has somehow remained on, off her shoulders, and Grace arches her back upwards to make room for Frankie to pull the fabric out from underneath her and toss it across the room.
“Much better,” Frankie says as she places wet kisses on every inch of Grace she’s just revealed. Her shoulders, down her arms, right between her breasts. She brings both hands to squeeze Grace’s breasts as she continues working her mouth down Grace’s stomach towards the waistband of her pants.
Frankie focuses her searching lips on parts of Grace that no one’s ever paid attention to, that Grace herself hasn’t ever liked much, if she’s being honest. But Frankie treats every inch of her like it’s precious, like she’s savoring the taste of her skin. She pulls her hands away from Grace’s breasts and down to the closure of her pants. She fumbles unsuccessfully with it for a few seconds before bringing her head up to look at them.
“Grace, are you fucking kidding me with these pants? There’s like, a button, and then a slide-y button, and then a zipper…” She touches each closure as she names it, getting to the zipper last and tracing it, long and slow, with her index finger. That sends a shiver down Grace’s spine and makes her hips buck, and Frankie smiles.
“You like that?” She does it again and feels Grace’s hand on hers, pressing her deeper when she reaches her clit. Grace moans into the pressure, shoving her hips up again.
Grace decides that it will take Frankie time she’s not willing to waste to figure out how to get her pants off, so she does it herself, effortlessly sliding the metal pieces out from one another and pushing the zipper down, popping the inside button in the process.
Suddenly, Frankie’s hands are at her hips and her fingers are bunching the fabric and pulling it down. Grace kicks them off as soon as Frankie lets go, leaving her in only a black stringy thong she’d nearly forgotten she was wearing. She knows she’s too old to be wearing things like this, but she loves the way she feels in something sexy, and judging by the look on her face, Frankie loves it too.
Frankie hooks her thumbs into the thin straps sitting Grace’s hips and Grace thinks she’s about to pull them off, but instead she starts to push upwards, stretching the fabric tight against Grace until the friction overwhelms her and she pushes herself deeper into it.
“Ohhh, Frankie. That’s…”
But before Grace can finish her thought, which is coming out as more of a moan anyway, Frankie has her hot mouth inches from Grace’s mound, breathing hard and fast so that Grace can feel it through the fabric. Frankie lets her tongue come out to wet the fabric and realizes that it’s already wet, that she can taste Grace through the thin barrier.
She licks harder, desperate to taste her again, but she can’t stand the thought of letting a piece of fabric stand between her tongue and Grace. So she takes her thumbs, still hooked in the waistband of the offending article, and starts to move them down slowly. She keeps the friction as long as she can before she pulls them all the way off and finally leaves Grace bare and open for her.
“You’re beautiful.” It’s so earnest that all Grace can do is smile down at her and accept the compliment.
Frankie’s hand comes straight to her center, dipping inside her the tiniest bit to capture the wetness Grace has been producing practically all night.
“And wet. My God.” Frankie strokes her a little more, and Grace starts to reach for the lube, just in case. But before she can capture it in her fingers, she feels Frankie’s mouth on her, hot and wet and moving quickly.
“HolyfuckingshitFrankie—” comes out of Grace’s mouth in all one word as Frankie puts hers to good use.
She starts with her clit, flicking the swollen bundle of nerves with her tongue, looking up to see Grace’s head thrown back and her mouth open in a low moan.
Frankie’s tongue is suddenly back at her throbbing center, lapping up her juices and moaning into her. The vibrations from Frankie’s moan, combined with the fact that she’s just pushed her tongue into her, nearly send Grace over the edge, but she grips the sheets around her frantically and forces herself to breathe. She can’t let this end, not yet, not when it feels this good.
Frankie pulls her tongue out and flattens it against Grace, licking slowly back up to her clit and flicking it again, harder than before. She alternates between flattening and pointing her tongue atop the little bundle, occasionally using her lips to suck at it as well, driving Grace higher and higher until she knows she’s too close to hold on much longer.
Frankie still has her mouth doing unholy things to Grace’s clit when she sinks just one finger into Grace’s depths, wet enough with the combination of her own cum and Frankie’s saliva to take it.
Grace gasps. “Frankie, fuck, I’m almost there, just…” Her hands fly to Frankie’s hair, pushing her head down harder onto her clit as Frankie pulls her finger out and immediately pushes back in, adding another this time. Grace’s legs shake and it’s her turn to clench around Frankie as she screams her name.
“God, yes, Frankie, just like that, yes, fuck, oh my GOD!”
Frankie can feel Grace’s clit pulsing inside her mouth and she keeps sucking, keeps her fingers inside, until Grace’s orgasm subsides completely and she slumps back on the pillow.
Grace can feel Frankie pull out of her gently, and her eyes are already closed when Frankie’s lips come up to meet hers. She’s taken aback at the flavor of herself on Frankie’s lips, and even more taken aback as she finds herself deepening the kiss to taste more of herself. The sensation sends a subdued wave of arousal between her legs again, and if she weren’t so spent she’d need to chase it.
She sighs and pulls away for a second before peppering Frankie’s face with light kisses. “Why…” she starts, “did it take us… six years… and the mask... of a Say Yes night… to do that?” she asks between kisses, the last one landing between Frankie’s eyebrows.
Frankie wrinkles her brow a little before pulling her face back to look Grace in the eye. “Beats me. But I do know one thing.” Her eyes twinkle.
“Quarantine just got a whole lot more bearable, what with all the orgasms I plan on giving you around the clock.” Pressed up against the fridge in the kitchen at 3 in the morning, my hand over your mouth so you can’t scream and wake Robert and Sol, out in my studio forcing you to pose for a painting but only getting through half of it before I have my hands all over you, in your bed again and again until we don’t know what day it is. Holy shit.
“Frankie?” Grace’s voice draws Frankie out of the daydream and her hands draped over her shoulders, coming to meet at the base of her neck pull her back to earth. “Thinking about what you’re gonna do to me?” Grace reads her mind, or maybe that’s just what she’s hoping she’s thinking.
“Uh, yeah, pretty much. And you?”
Grace is imagining it too. Your studio, on the couch, with sunlight streaming through the stained glass. Upstairs in the shower, finally letting you bathe me, my hands in your hair and everywhere until you can’t see straight. My mouth all over your body, making you scream my name again and again. Fuck.
“You won’t know what hit you.” Grace presses a soft kiss to Frankie’s lips as she tips them down towards the sheets and pulls the now-twisted comforter over their bodies snugly. For now , she thinks, just sleep.
Their bodies somehow rearrange themselves automatically, and Grace’s back is pressed up against Frankie’s front and Frankie’s arms are around Grace’s middle, holding her securely, promising to never let go. There will be plenty of time for orgasms later, but right now they just breathe each other in and drift off to sleep.