“…so sexy,” Tina breathed, finishing her own thought.

“Exactly,” Bette murmured, as she slipped a finger into Tina, bracing her as she arched her back, beginning to rock into and away from Bette.   Bette leaned forward and closed her searching mouth over a breast.  The blonde moaned aloud….

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that week

Bette slipped her oversized sunglasses off as she walked hurriedly to a corner table by the window that had a priceless view of Brooklyn Bridge, the sparkling East River, and the west side of Manhattan, in one fell swoop.  She was having lunch in the River Café, the anchor restaurant of the Brooklyn Promenade that had helped to spark decades of development in the area while launching the careers of a battalion of star chefs who had gone on from their turns on the culinary platform the notable restaurant provided to push the frontiers of American cuisine in their own restaurants.

Her lunch companion was already seated.

Bette had just come from another thought-provoking meeting with Peter, and she was still thinking about it.

She struggled to refocus as she bent to kiss Brooke Halloran on each cheek, who’d patted Bette fondly on her shoulder as she did so.  “I’m sorry to be so late, Brooke,” Bette started.

“That’s alright, Bette.  I’ve been enjoying the view while I waited.  Lovely day.”

Bette smiled and gazed out the window also, “I agree.  This is the most spectacular view of Manhattan, by far.”

“You should have seen it during the fourth of July fireworks,” Brooke said, and then looked closely at Bette, “I thought you, Tina, and Angie would have enjoyed it.”

Bette gave her a tense smile back.  “Yes.  I’m sorry that we couldn’t make it, Brooke.  But I was really grateful that you thought of us for the party, anyway.  I’m sure it was amazing.”

The waiter came by, bringing two flutes of champagne, and an amuse bouche.

“We’re having the caviar service for appetizers please,” Brooke responded to the waiter’s query about what they had decided on for lunch, after looking over at Bette, who’d nodded.

“Very good madame,” the waiter said.  “Which …”

“The Tsar Imperial Ossetra,” Brooke answered, anticipating his question.

“Sante,’” Bette toasted after he poured them some sparkling water and murmured that their first course would be out shortly.  Bette and Brooke clinked glasses.