Work Text:
Carol wakes slowly. She can tell that the bed is empty. When she peeks an eye open, the clock on the mantle reads 7:57. Therese had to be out of the house by 7:00 this morning, in order to get to an assignment at a VA hospital in Brooklyn. She doesn’t normally have to work on Saturdays, but it being a holiday, she’s been tapped to cover a number of stories about how the city’s various boroughs celebrate Valentine’s Day.
Just that phrase—Valentine’s Day—makes Carol scowl. It’s never been a particular favorite of hers. Every year Harge would get her a bouquet of red roses and a box of chocolate truffles. Every year Harge took them to the steak house where they had their first date. They would eat dinner, and Harge would talk about the office, about his latest business deals, about his success, before presenting a gift—always jewelry, or perfume. When they got back to the house, they would have sex, lights off, quiet. This, actually, was the part Carol minded least, because if she took control, she could usually orgasm. Harge would fall asleep afterwards.
And every year was exactly the same. The same bouquet, the same box of chocolates, the same restaurant—the same bland shudder of release in the dark.
It all came to represent, for Carol, the hollowness of their marriage, the performance of it. And their final Valentine’s Day, the Valentine’s Day in 1952, when Carol had abandoned Therese in Chicago and Harge had stolen Rindy away and everything was a miasma of despair and fear and regret—on that Valentine’s Day, Harge had still had the gall to send her flowers, and a box of chocolates. Carol remembers sitting in the dark on her bedroom floor, unable to choke down her sobs, her longing for Therese.
So no, Carol has little use for Valentine’s Day. She and Therese both have to work today, and they agreed a week ago not to make a fuss about it, not to make plans. Carol will be home before her, so perhaps she’ll make a nice dinner. Nothing fancy, but something Therese particularly enjoys. If Therese gets home before eight, they’ll at least have time in the evening.
Carol sighs. She needs to get up, too. The furniture house is having a “Lover’s Sale,” and she agreed to help staff it today. She’s got to be there by 9:00.
Carol rolls over, toward Therese’s side of the bed—and stops.
There is a flower resting on the pillow.
It is not a red rose. It is a pale pink camellia, petals blooming outward in a geometric spiral so exquisite it begs for a camera. This, in fact, was exactly what happened three weeks ago, when she and Therese were walking downtown, and passed a florist. Therese saw the camellias in the window, those incredible winter blooms, and insisted they go inside so she could ask the florist to let her take a few pictures.
“Isn’t it incredible what nature can do?” Therese said softly, as Carol and the florist smilingly watched her work. “You think to yourself, how could anything like this be real? But in fact it’s the most natural thing on the world.”
They bought a bouquet, and when they took it home and set it in a vase and Therese stood beaming at the sight of them, she turned to Carol and asked, “Do you like them?”
Carol walked up to her. She wrapped her arms around her from behind, setting her chin on Therese’s shoulder as they looked at the vase. Then, she murmured, “I like them very much.”
“You do?” said Therese. It was one of those times when she needed to be reassured that her tastes aligned with Carol’s, for she always viewed Carol as so much more sophisticated than she was.
“Yes,” Carol said softly. “They actually… remind me of something. That pale pink color. That soft, dewy petal. That darker bloom in the center.”
In her arms, Therese shivered. Carol ran her nose up her young lover’s neck, to the tender spot behind her ear, and told her in a low, silken voice, “Quite the loveliest color I can imagine…”
Soon, the flowers were forgotten, as Carol sought that color elsewhere…
Now, the sight of the single camellia on the pillow makes Carol’s belly swoop with erotic memory. But it also does something in her chest, something that aches. There’s a kind of grief in it that she can’t quite understand. Perhaps it is the grief of lost time. Of so many years, without this in her life. This simple, perfect camellia.
Carol brushes her fingers against the petals—and then reluctantly gets up.
<><><>
The store is incredibly busy. Families and couples and singles have flocked to the promise of discount bedroom sets and loveseats and hope chests. Carol is in the middle of discussing a four-poster bed with a young pair of newlyweds, when a man in a winter coat, clearly having just come into the store, approaches her.
“Excuse me, Ma’am. Are you Ms. Ross?”
A little annoyed to be interrupted, Carol smiles apologetically at the newlyweds, and answers, “I am.”
He immediately holds out a package. “Special delivery for you, Ma’am.”
For a moment Carol looks at the package in bafflement, and then accepts it. The man doffs his cap, and hurries away. Carol is just trying to think how to store the package somewhere, when—
“Oh, say!” says the young wife she’s been speaking to, “Is that an Economy Candy package?”
Confused again, Carol looks down at the package. For the first time she realizes that it does indeed have the Economy Candy logo on the front of it.
“It must be from your Valentine!” says the young husband. “Don’t mind us—open it!”
Without thinking, Carol does. The small box is full of lemon drops. Carol stares down at it, and through her goes a different memory. Her and Therese, on the road from Canton, Ohio. They had stopped on their way out of town, and bought a bagful of lemon drops. They split them on the drive, laughing at each other’s sour faces, teasing each other for their greediness as one lemon drop became two became five became ten—until the whole bag was empty and their tongues were practically numb.
Suddenly the young husband says, “I thought for sure it’d be chocolates!”
“Maybe she doesn’t like chocolate, George!” says the wife, grinning at Carol. “It looks like your husband knows to get you what you like. That’s a keeper right there.”
“Oh, yes,” says Carol, fighting to maintain her composure, her heart pounding with a deep and powerful joy, with a longing for Therese that feels almost like pain. “Do you mind if—I’m just going to go put these in—”
“No problem,” says the husband, George. “We’ll be here!”
Carol rushes to the back of the store, and into the offices. In her own office, she grabs her purse off the coat rack, meaning to put the box inside. But only then does she realize—there’s a note taped to the bottom.
She opens it, and reads:
I love your lips when they’re wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.
Carol breathes in sharply. She reads it twice, recognizing the poet from a book of love poems that she read to Therese a few months ago. This poem made them laugh like schoolgirls, because it spoke of wine—and Therese always feels so naughty when she drinks red wine.
Therese has of course been wise enough not to sign her name to the note, but that she has sent this poem along at all… Carol feels an illicit thrill. She folds the poem and tucks it deep into her purse. She’s about to do the same with the box of lemon drops, but at the last moment she opens it, takes one out, and pops it in her mouth. The sharp sourness floods her tongue.
<><><>
They close the store between 12:00 and 12:30 so everyone can take their lunch break. Dennis, Carol’s boss, has had a lunch catered for them, a special thank you to the staff who are working on what should be their day off. Everyone gathers in the breakroom, enjoying turkey sandwiches and potato salad, and passing around a tray of sugar cookies the shapes of hearts, with red icing. Carol is sitting next to Glenda, a floor manager, who shyly shows her the bracelet her husband gave her that morning.
“He can’t keep a secret for anything,” Glenda says. “He was gonna give it to me at dinner tonight, but he couldn’t wait. I’m making breakfast and I turned around to hand him his eggs, and there it was, just sitting on the table.”
Her cheeks are rosy with pleasure, and Carol grins. “It’s absolutely beautiful. He’s got wonderful taste.”
Glenda shrugs, still shy. “You think, you know… you think, after ten years, all the romance will be gone. With kids and work and… just time, going by. You think, he won’t look at you that way he used to. Won’t care about you like he used to do. And you think—I won’t look at him that way, either. He’ll be just like a roommate. But then…” she chuckles, as if embarrassed at herself. “Look at me, prattling on!”
Carol smiles gently. She thinks of Therese—somewhere, in the city. Carol has loved her for a year, has known her for only slightly more, been with her for only slightly less. It is in so many ways still new, and fragile. But oh, she hopes, she hopes…
“He’s a good man,” Carol tells Glenda. “Believe me, if you’re still sweet on each other after ten years, you’ve made it.”
Glenda beams with pleasure. And then, suddenly, frowns. Her eyes widen and she puts a hand on top of Carol’s, whispering urgently, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry! I didn’t think! Days like this—they must feel awful for you.”
But Carol laughs, squeezing her hand back. “Don’t you worry about me. Things were a lot more awful when I was married to him.”
Glenda is clearly unsure whether this is an act, but after a moment she declares, “Well, you know it’s only a matter of time before somebody snatches you up again. You say the word and I can think of at least five nice guys I could introduce you to.”
Carol winces internally, says, “Thanks, Glenda. But I just don’t have that inclination these days. I like the way I’m living now.”
Glenda looks skeptical, but just then there’s a knock on the door. Nathan, one of the younger men, comes inside saying, “Hey, Carol, delivery for you.”
Carol’s body freezes. As Nathan comes to her, she thinks of all her coworkers in the room. She was lucky with the earlier package—no one who knows her saw it. But if Therese has sent her some new gift, they might guess that she—
But Nathan doesn’t hand her a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers. He hands her a letter. Carol opens it, perplexed, and out slips a single photograph.
It is a photograph of the woods in high summer, with a cabin nestled in the backdrop. It’s a cabin out in the Adirondacks, isolated and private, where Carol took Therese for a weekend getaway in July. They had been together for four months, but Therese was still living in her own apartment. Carol had accepted this, even though she hated it. She knew that Therese needed her own space, needed time to recover her trust in Carol, and though Carol wanted nothing in the world so much as to live with Therese, she knew better than to press the issue.
The weekend away, however, was a concession to their mutual need for an escape, both exhausted from work, and struggling with the fact that they had seen rather little of each other in the past two weeks. A vacation was just what the doctor ordered.
On the morning of the photograph, they had gone out for a walk in the woods. They spoke of all sorts of things, casual things, before the conversation naturally segued to their living situation. They commiserated over the difficulty of having to keep up appearances—and of still having to consider Harge. Therese described her continuing reservations about moving in. Carol promised that she would wait as long as necessary.
Then suddenly Therese said, “Oh, Carol, look at that view of the cabin through the trees? Isn’t it perfect?” She raised her camera, and took a single picture. Carol watched her, full of such adoration and love that tears came to her eyes. She thought she might weep with the pain of wanting more, while being so grateful for what she had.
But then Therese lowered her camera. She went on gazing through the trees, and after a long silence she said, “I will still want my independence, you know.”
Carol’s heart had stuttered. She breathed in, barely daring to hope. “Of course,” she said.
“And it may end up being… different from what you think.”
Carol swallowed. She said, “I’m willing to take that risk.”
Then Therese looked at her. Her eyes were serious, but after a moment she smiled, small and gentle.
“All right,” she said.
And that was that.
“Oh!” exclaims Glenda, looking at the photograph in Carol’s hand. “What a beautiful picture! Who’s it from?”
Carol hesitates, scrambling for a lie, and says, “Oh! It just—a friend of mine said she was going to send me an old photo from when we were young.”
“Strange she sent it here, instead of your house,” observes Glenda.
“Yes, of course,” Carol says vaguely. Then, still holding the envelope it came in, Carol becomes aware of a piece of paper inside. “I’m just going to dash to the ladies,” she tells Glenda. “Don’t let anyone eat the rest of my cookie!”
Locked in the bathroom stall, Carol pulls out the folded note inside the envelope, and opens it.
I loved you first: but afterwards your love
Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? my love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be –
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’
Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.
Carol clutches the little piece of paper. She remembers lying in bed with Therese. It was the middle of the night. They were naked, panting, sweaty in the aftermath of sex. Therese was dragging her mouth all over Carol’s belly and breasts, murmuring to her, “I loved you first, but afterwards your love outsoaring mine sang such a loftier song.”
Carol had grabbed her, pulled her up to her, kissed the poetry in her mouth and slid a hand between her trembling thighs, and it was starting all over again, as it always does, with Therese. Love making them one.
<><><>
The shop closes at 6:00. Carol gets a taxi back to Madison Ave, and it crawls through traffic. She doesn’t mind, as she’s not in a hurry—Therese will be a couple hours yet. She gazes out the window at the passerby. There are flower stands almost every block, men lined up to get a bouquet for their sweethearts. There are restaurants with hearts painted in the windows, and there are couples walking arm-in-arm. The route takes her past the very steak house where Harge always took them, and as they go by Carol stares at the sign and the familiar oak door.
She feels a weight in her chest, a sadness, which is both the lingering pain of her marriage to Harge, and also the new sensations brought to her by Therese. Therese, who has sent her these little gifts, these unobtrusive signals of her regard and her desire. Part of Carol thinks that it was reckless. If her coworkers got any inkling that Carol might have a beau, she’d never hear the end of it. And then what?
But Therese has always been so much freer with their love. Less cautious. It’s not that Carol is ever ashamed of them, but she also fears their exposure. Sometimes if she and Therese are walking down the street, and Therese tries to put an arm through hers, Carol will subtly step away.
They argued about it, once.
“Women walk arm-in-arm all the time,” Therese informed her. “No one is looking at us, Carol. No one suspects anything.”
“You don’t know that, Dearest,” Carol told her fretfully. She felt guilty, but also frustrated with Therese’s blasé attitude. “You never know who we’ll run into. Or what they’ll think. We can be ourselves here, at home—we don’t need to flaunt it out in the world.”
“Flaunt it?” Therese had repeated, incredulous. “You think I—flaunt us? In public?”
Carol scowled, looking away from her impassioned young lover, who was of a different generation, and a different temperament, too. When Carol first realized that she was attracted to women, the feelings that consumed her were dread and confusion and embarrassment. But Therese—as intense as her own feelings had been when she met Carol, she never doubted them. Never felt shame over them. It was hard, sometimes, not to resent her for this, even as she simultaneously admired her, and longed for her courage.
“I simply prefer that we exercise… an abundance of caution,” Carol said.
Therese sighed. She shrugged in a listless way. “Fine,” and went about her own business.
Later, they made up. They made love. But this tension has never fully relaxed between them, and Therese sending her gifts pokes at that tension. Carol expects herself to be annoyed with Therese, to interpret these gestures as a rejection of Carol’s wishes.
But the two poems are tucked in Carol’s pocket. And the box of lemon drops is tucked in her purse (she’s sucking on one of them now), and as Carol thinks of her love, she feels no annoyance. Or, only annoyance at herself, for her own fears, and withholding nature. Not for the first time since Therese took her back, Carol finds herself thinking that she is not good enough for her. That she will never be able to give her what she truly deserves.
The cabbie drops her outside her building. The doorman lets her inside. In the elevator, Carol leans back against the car, trying to think what she’s got in the cupboards. Therese loves chocolate cake. Perhaps she’ll make one, a surprise for her to come home to. And Carol has that new Nat King Cole record squirreled away in her dresser. She was planning to give it to Therese for her birthday in a couple of months, but may instead, tonight…
Musing over this, Carol walks to her front door, takes out her keys, and lets herself in.
She hears the music immediately. Billie Holiday croons from the record player in the living room. For a moment it stops Carol dead in her tracks, totally baffled—
I'll never regret the years I'm giving
They're easy to give when you're in love
Carol heads toward the music—
In the living room, she sees Therese at once, standing at the entrance to the dining room. There are candles everywhere. There are camellias in vases. There’s a meal laid out on the table. And Therese is wearing a very fine blue dress. Her hands are clasped in front of her, twisting a little, her nerves on display even as she smiles. Carol stares at her, stunned.
“I thought you would be late,” Carol says.
The smile on Therese’s face falters.
“Oh,” she says. “I… I suppose I lied about that. I’ve been home since 4:00.”
Carol looks around at everything Therese has done, the beauty of the flowers and candles, the smells of the food and the soothing familiarity of the music.
“Are you upset about the telegrams?” asks Therese, her voice small.
To Carol’s shock and horror, there are tears in Therese’s eyes, tears of dread, and Carol realizes all of the sudden that her own expression must be completely unreadable to Therese—for she is too shocked to smile. And so how else can Therese interpret it, but that she is upset? When really, she is almost too moved to breathe.
“Oh, Dearest,” she says, voice catching in her throat. “This—you—you’re… incredible.”
Therese’s face goes slack with relief, and then bright with joy. She goes to Carol, who is still standing frozen in the living room, and helps her out of her coat.
“I was watching for you at the window,” she giggles. “I saw you come into the building before I turned the record on.”
As if on cue, they hear Billie’s refrain—
Living for you is easy living
It's easy to live when you're in love
And I'm so in love
There's nothing in life but you
It is the most important poem in Carol’s life. She pulls Therese to her, pulls her into her arms. She feels the warmth and softness of her small body, molding to her own, and she doesn’t understand how it can be possible to feel such joy.
“Angel,” she whispers. “You—you did all this? And I haven’t done anything for you. I haven’t—”
“Carol, hush,” Therese smiles up at her, arms around her waist, eyes shining. “I wanted to do this. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“But, Sweetheart—”
“You’re always doing special things for me,” Therese says. “Taking me out to nice restaurants and buying me gifts and things. I wanted to do the special thing this time. I wanted you to feel special. Come here, let me show you.”
Therese takes her hand, and leads her to the dining room. The plates are laid under the candlelight, glasses of white wine beside them. The meal is a white fish in a bright sauce, with green beans and saffron rice, and there’s even a little basket of bread rolls. Carol looks at Therese in disbelief.
“Is this—?”
“Yes, it—it’s like the meal we had at The Drake. I know I’m not a very good cook but Abby let me come over and practice in her kitchen and, well… I think I got the hang of it. Here, sit down, let’s see.”
Overwhelmed, Carol lets herself be ushered into her chair. Therese sits, too, and looking as excited as a child, she urges her to eat. Carol does, and has to fight not to look hurtfully amazed. It’s true that Therese, for all her gifts, is not a particularly good chef. But this meal—the fish is cooked perfectly. The green beans are flavorful and maintain a bit of crunch. The saffron rice is rich and buttery and a perfect complement to the tangy sauce on the fish. It’s not exactly like the meal at The Drake. It’s better. Because Therese made it for her and Therese, seeing that she likes it, looks so proud and delighted that Carol doesn’t know how she can go much longer without kissing her.
They eat and talk. Therese tells her all about her work throughout the day. Photographing a Valentine’s Day breakfast at the VA hospital, where veteran families got together to eat pancakes with strawberries and cream. Heading next to Harlem to document the work of a local florist who makes arrangements that resemble famous African American artists. Ending up, at last, at a chocolatery in Manhattan, where a ninety-two-year-old Swiss grandmother makes chocolate truffles based on a family recipe dating back three hundred years.
“I got us some,” Therese tells her, grinning. “Her kitchen was… magical.”
When they have finished their meals, they go on talking, Therese wanting to know how things went at the shop. Carol can’t imagine anything less interesting to talk about, especially when all she wants right now is to gaze into Therese’s eyes—but she indulges her. About twenty minutes later, Therese’s eyes light up again.
“There’s tiramisu from Barbetta’s. Let me get it.”
She is up in an instant, and turning toward the kitchen—but Carol catches her hand before she can go. She reels her in, smirking at the wide-eyed, surprised look on her face. She pulls her into her lap, wrapping her snug and close, and nuzzling against her throat.
“Just a moment, Darling,” she murmurs. “I haven’t even had a chance to properly thank you yet.”
She feels Therese’s swallow against her lips. Therese asks, “For—dinner?”
“And the lemon drops. And the photograph. And the flowers.”
Therese shifts in her lap, pleased. She pulls back so they can kiss, gentle, tender. They look into each other’s eyes for some time, and Carol has the sense that Therese is thinking, reading her, building up. It sends a flutter of anxiety through Carol, not aided when—
“Were all holidays awful, with Harge?” Carol frowns questioningly. Therese says, “New Year’s… Valentine’s Day.”
Carol considers a moment, and then says, “Not all. Christmases tended to be good, especially after Rindy was born. We always spent Thanksgiving at his parents’ house, so that I never cared for that. In the summers we went to a picnic at the country club every Fourth of July. Abby always came, too, which made it fun. But I would say that, generally… holidays simply accentuated the unhappiness that was already there.”
Therese nods her understanding; her quietness is an invitation to continue. Carol looks at her adoringly. “Holidays with you have been quite… wonderful.”
Therese blushes, obviously embarrassed and pleased. But it’s true. This year, July 4th was a BBQ at Abby’s house. For Thanksgiving, Abby and Dannie and his girlfriend came to the Madison Avenue apartment for a veritable feast. And Christmas—it was just the two of them, and Rindy. A perfect, quiet holiday.
As for New Year’s, their… unofficial anniversary—Carol can hardly think of it without shivering from remembered pleasure. How she went into the bedroom to find Therese brushing her hair at the vanity. How the sight of it, and the memory of it, tore through them both as their eyes met in the mirror. They didn’t even make it to the bed. They made love on the carpet, stripped bare and straining, rocking toward orgasm that took them both, simultaneously, transcendent. It was so different from their first time, in Waterloo. And yet the excitement and need and longing Carol had felt, all those months ago, was not the least diluted.
Carol reaches for her, cupping her face in one hand, kissing her very gently—and yet there is a heat in it; there is hunger in Therese’s softly indrawn breath.
“Leave the tiramisu for now,” Carol whispers against her parted lips. “I want to make love to you.”
Therese nods eagerly, kisses her back, hands running up her arms to cradle her neck. She asks, “The bedroom?”
In answer, Carol smirks. She looks down at Therese’s spread thighs, straddling her on the chair. Carol finds the hem of her pretty blue dress, inching it up, past her hips, so she can see her stockings and garters and a lovely, lacy pair of panties. Carol groans, low in her throat. There are buttons down the front of Therese’s dress, and she starts to undo them, looking into her eyes again.
“I suppose we could go to the bedroom,” says Carol musingly. “But that seems so far away.”
Therese releases a little shuddering breath, squirming in Carol’s arms. Carol opens her dress, and sees the lacy bra that matches the lacy panties. She leans forward, mouthing at her through the mesh, finding her nipple and taking it between her teeth. Therese jerks, head tipping back. Carol unsnaps her garters; slides her hand across the panties and murmurs, “Stand up. Take these off.”
Therese obeys, and Carol watches her hungrily as the panties slip down her thighs. She takes hold of the hem of her dress, pulling the whole thing up over her head, tossing it aside. She straddles Carol again, kissing her hard. Their tongues wrestle; Therese’ hands knead eagerly at her shoulders. Carol reaches between her legs and finds her already warm, already slick.
“Oh, Carol,” Therese sighs. “I love you. I love you so much.”
The simplicity and honesty of it makes Carol’s whole body throb with want. She spreads her knees apart, so that Therese’s legs are spread apart, too. She plays in her wetness, dragging it up to her clit and toying with the hard little pearl, rubbing in firm circles. Therese gasps. Carol watches her in hungry awe, watches her hips twitch, watches her thighs clench. With her free hand, Carol pushes the cups of her bra up and over her breasts, licking her nipples like a cat licking a bowl of cream. She focuses the stroking of her finger to mimic the rhythm of her mouth, creating a counterpoint between the two sensations that makes Therese undulate and pant. Before long, she slips down to gather more wetness, and Therese is like a river, dripping onto her fingers. Carol groans into her breast, quickly returning to her clit to speed up the circling pressure.
A hard shudder goes through Therese’s body. Suddenly she grabs at Carol’s wrist, gasping, “Wait—wait—”
Carol pulls back from her breast. She lets Therese drag her fingers away. Carol watches her, focused.
“What is it?”
“I—I—” Therese’s head is tipped toward the ceiling. “I’m sorry—I—I was about to come.”
Carol grabs the back of Therese’s neck, pulling her down into a ferocious kiss. She growls into her mouth, “Don’t you want to come?”
Therese whines, kissing her back with the same intensity. “Not—not yet.”
“All right. Then what do you want, my love?”
Therese answers by pulling at the buttons of Carol’s blouse, pulling it out from the waistband of her skirt.
“Take this off,” she gasps. “I wanna feel you.”
They work together, dragging her shirt off her shoulders and taking off their own bras, so that when Therese presses forward again, arms around Carol’s shoulders, and Carol’s arms around her waist, their breasts come together with a tantalizing intimacy. Carol loves the feeling of her body. Loves the silk of her skin and the notches of her spine. Loves her small breasts with their perfect, blushed nipples, the very color of the camellia. Loves most as all the flavor and familiarity of her mouth, her flickering tongue, her lips like a succulent fruit.
After a moment Therese breaks away, but instead of looking at Carol, she looks at the table, where their empty plates sit, wine glasses beside them. One of the glasses has a little wine left in it. Therese picks it up and pours it into her mouth and kisses Carol again. The wine slips from her mouth into Carol’s, flavor passed between them in a bright, erotic exchange. When Carol has swallowed the rest of it Therese breaks away again—but this time, she’s on a mission.
She shoves the dishware further up the table.
“Come here,” she says. “Come here—”
And climbs out of her lap again, coaxing Carol to her feet and unzipping her skirt, shoving it down over Carol’s hips. Carol is just about to lift her and set her on the table’s edge, when suddenly— Therese turns them around. Carol finds herself coaxed, to sit on the table, Therese slipping between her spread legs. Carol groans. Carol wraps her long legs around her lover’s hips, delighted by the sensation of Therese gripping her thighs.
“Wanna feel you,” Therese says, sliding a hand down between her legs. Carol quakes at the first touch, sobs when Therese’s fingers slip inside her. Therese groans into her open mouth. “God, you feel amazing. You always feel so amazing.” Carol drives her hips forward. She hears the grin in Therese’s voice. “Yes, yes, like that—does that feel good?”
“Yes—fuck—fuck!”
“Love how you feel,” Therese tells her, sounding breathless, sounding almost drunk as she starts thrusting, in and out, “Love how you feel inside.”
Overcome, Carol unwraps her thighs from Therese’s body, giving herself the room to move her own hand down, to touch Therese’s weeping sex, to push her own fingers inside. Therese lurches toward her, widening her stance and pushing her face into Carol’s shoulder.
“Oh,” she whimpers. “Oh, Carol, yes…”
They start to move together. When Therese adds a third finger, Carol copies her, glorying in the muscular tightness of Therese’s cunt, in its silkiness and strength, in the heat of her body. She pushes the heel of her hand against her, giving Therese a constant, grinding pressure to her clit. Therese does the same for her, and something starts to shimmer and pulse, not just in Carol’s sex but in her skin and her breasts and her throat. Her heart beats a wild tattoo, and the sweat on Therese’s body slides against the sweat on her own.
Desperately, Carol asks her, “Are you close?”
Therese’s eyes flash wickedly. She shifts her hips away from the pressure of Carol’s hand on her clit—and simultaneously starts driving into her, faster, harder.
“You first,” Therese tells her. “I want to watch you.”
Therese reaches for Carol’s wrist, pulling it out from between her legs. Carol’s hands land flat on the table, her body arching back. Therese presses as close as she can, fingers rubbing inside her in the focused way that she learned—God—so quickly.
“Look at me,” Therese says, and Carol does, her breaths coming sharp and urgent. Therese gazes into her eyes, and though there’s heat in it, there’s also an incredible warmth and tenderness. Therese’s smile is enchanted, as if in Carol she sees the answer to a question that has dominated her entire life. Carol, in the face of that awe, hardly knows what to do. “Carol?” Therese asks.
Carol whimpers, twitching her hips forward, chasing the pressure inside and trying to keep her eyes open. “Y-yes—?”
Therese’s smile turns impish. “Will you be my Valentine?”
Carol can’t help it—she bursts with laughter. Therese starts laughing, too, and then they are both laughing, and kissing, and moving together, until Carol’s orgasm roars toward her like a wind on the cliffs. She slings her arms around Therese’s shoulders and her legs around her hips and holds on to her for all she’s worth, trembling in a violence of pleasure that is somehow still deep, and intimate. But the release she feels is more than pleasure, more than physical; it travels down to the base layers of her soul; it rewrites her DNA, editing out the hurt of all those tepid, meaningless holidays with Harge, and replacing them with this. This love, this closeness, this laughter and this promise.
“My angel,” she moans. “My angel…”
Even coming down from her high, she feels lit up with sensation. Therese pulls her fingers carefully away, laying them against Carol’s thigh, wet and sticky and hot. Carol, body shivering with aftershocks, pulls back to look into Therese’s eyes, to cradle her perfect face and kiss her lips. When they part, Therese’s eyes are shining.
“So,” she asks, “will you be mine?”
Carol grins at her, kisses her again, nods against her and whispers, “Yes, my love. Always.”