Jo reached up, pulling Bette’s mouth to hers, kissing her deeply again, their lips locked in a sweet blissful dance as Bette pushed two fingers into Jo.  Her back arching, Bette didn’t stop kissing her, her mouth like her life line to feeling alive, her palm brushing Jo’s clit as she pleased her with eager hands. 

            Bette moved and draped a leg over Jo’s, kissing her harder, and she gasped when she felt Jo’s hand pushing into her own pants.  Stomach filled with butterflies of arousal, Jo’s fingers pressed against her clit, rubbing in hard, rough, arousing circles and Bette moaned into their kiss.  Rubbing against one another, Bette felt her breath quickening, growing sharper, breaking the kiss, pressing her cheek to Jo’s, her body shuddered as she started to cum, begging for the sweet release that would remind her that life was worth living. 

            “Fuck,” moaned Bette as Jo’s body clenched around her pounding fingers, gripping her close, oblivious to the fact that her body was tired and in dull pain.  Bette collapsed against Jo, unable to move just yet.  Kissing Jo’s cheek, feeling Jo smile.

            “I think you came,” chucked the woman under her. 

            “I’m fairly sure that you did too,” laughed Bette, feeling better already, just for being in the company of this woman.  “Don’t ever leave me again.”

            “Ah’ll do mah best, ma’am,” said Jo in her quick to retort southern accent.

            “It’s uncanny how you do that,” said Bette, throwing herself back, watching as Jo moved up in the bed, crawling under the many layers of blankets. 

            “Uncanny how I do what?  The accent?  Under the covers work, baby,” quipped Jo.  Bette was relieved that Jo hadn’t lost her sense of humor.  “Now, get under the covers woman, I’m tired, beat, and this thing is aching like a rotting tooth.  I need sleep now, I’m an old woman.”

            “You, old?  I’m older….,” said Bette.  She moved and stood at the side of the bed, stripping to her bra and panties, a pair of white thongs, Jo patted the bed.

            “You might be older, but I’ve lived a number more lifetimes than you,” said Jo.  Counting dramatically on her fingers, and then looking up at the ceiling as if counting and figuring something out.  “I’m 34 here…,” began the woman.  Making Bette scrunch her nose at her thought process, “I was 22 in reality two when I got pregnant with Spence, and then there was the five years I spent getting Shelby back to this reality… so….”

            “Five years?” asked Bette.

            “Yeah, but it was like five minutes here, damn it, I lost count,” grumbled Jo.

            “Sixty one…,” whispered Bette.  “That’s astonishing…but…  How?”

            “I’ll explain it over breakfast, it’s very confusing, but that is for another time, come here,” said Jo pulling up the covers to envelope them, hiding them from the world, for at least a few more hours.  Settling into Jo’s arms, the day finally melting away, her slate clean, Bette fell into a restful and dreamless sleep.