“She’s the one,” Tina thought, after the first long, uninterrupted kiss. The one invited, suggested, secured by snow. By inclement weather. By the need to leave home. By the foreclosed possibility of return.

Oh the ache.

The ache was tangible. As tangible as the long, dark, coarse hair in which Tina buried and tangled her hands, her lips moving effortlessly against this woman she barely knew and thought nothing of kissing. She felt, like truth, how desire had its own thoughts, its own bent, which was to manifest, repeatedly. She felt, like a shot, how her heart was on its knees, begging her to sit, perhaps to lie, in either case to give over, completely.

She reached behind her to place the chair before dragging Bette down with her, sinking against the back, to be straddled immediately. She wanted to laugh in amusement at Bette’s aggressiveness, her seemingly dire need, but her mouth was covered in an instant and in another the grinding began. She felt the hard seam of Bette’s jeans press sensuously against her lap before Bette rose and thrust once, just as hard, against her stomach. Tina moaned, her face turned upwards, Bette’s hands at her throat, steadying her, stilling her face just enough to receive the tongue that dipped and swirled, reaching deeper and deeper, as if searching for something inside Tina that would end all searching. A door that would open and receive her, as one always expected, and then shut just as expectedly, keeping her there. A delectable inversion of hunger, with the outside feeding from within. Till sated.

The white shirt had loosened from its buttons, from the bottom now, as Bette reached to bare Tina’s skin, pressing her hips still harder into her abdomen. She was fully clothed, and couldn’t feel Tina against her, but she could feel Tina. And more, she wanted Tina to feel her. To feel the force of what she couldn’t see as it moved over her, rocked back and forth, promised need and desire and impending release. Tina’s mouth opened wider as her hands slid to Bette’s hips, which she grasped and pulled tighter, loosening the last button while pushing Bette’s t-shirt up so that skin could finally meet skin. She felt Bette’s stomach against her *****, which drew to hard points inside her silver bra, lacy and rough, though not as rough as Bette’s movements against her. Which halted, briefly, as Bette opened her eyes to the feeling of Tina’s nipples, extended, creasing her exposed stomach, tattooing bare flesh with an impression of beauty so intense that Bette could only kiss harder, grind deeper, not caring if it was too hard, if it scratched and bruised, if it hurt. Because it was hard and it did hurt. And Bette couldn’t stop it.