Radclyffe - The_Color_of_Love_-_Radclyffe

“My, my,” the redhead said in a low voice that vibrated with a hint of French and teasing promise, “Michigan certainly is hiring attractive bartenders these days.”

“What would you like,” Derian said, not bothering to correct her.

“To drink? Or…”

“Or?” Derian smiled. Everything in life was a game, and none she liked better than the first few moments of establishing the playing field with a new woman. “Is there something else I might be able to do for you?”

The redhead chuckled and wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “Darling, there are so many things you could do for me. What time do you finish here tonight?”

Instead of answering, Derian poured a glass of cabernet from a bottle of PlumpJack reserve someone had opened and left standing on the bar. Shame to waste a great wine on philistines, but she hadn’t invited most of the people crowding her rooms. The guest list had been Michigan Tire’s call. She handed the glass to the redhead. “You look like red wine—full flavored and unforgettable. This one is savory and mysterious, it lingers on your tongue as only the finest tastes can do. I think you’ll like it.”

Color flared in the redhead’s throat and she kept her eyes locked to Derian’s as she closed her fingers around the stem of the glass. Brushing her thumb across Derian’s knuckles, she lifted the wine slowly to her mouth. Her lips parted, caressed the rim of the glass, and she tilted the liquid into her mouth. She ever so slowly swallowed and made a low purring sound in her throat. “Very nice indeed.”

“I’m delighted you like it.”

The redhead cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not the bartender, are you?”

“I can be, if you’d enjoy that.”

“I already am. Who are you?”

“Derian Winfield.”

“Ah,” the redhead said, not missing a beat. “Then I have you to thank for this wonderful soirée.”

“Me and Michigan Tire,” Derian said.

“Yes, you’re one of the sponsors of their team, aren’t you?”

Derian found her scotch, took another sip. “That’s right.”

“I’m surprised you’re not driving one of the cars.”

Derian grinned wryly. “I thought I would, once upon a time. But it’s very hard work and I have an aversion to that.”

Laughing, the redhead held out her hand. “I’m Françoise Delacorte. Delighted to meet you—Derian.”

Derian lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. “Françoise. My pleasure.”

“So is it Dare as in daring?” Françoise held on to Derian’s hand, her lips pursing as her gaze slid down Derian’s body. “It suits you very much.”

“No.” Derian extracted her fingers gently. “It’s pronounced the same, but it’s D-e-r-e .”

“Are you then, just the same? Daring?”

“Some people think so.”

“Do you only gamble on cars and cards?”

Derian glanced out over the room at the sea of faces, some of whom she recognized, most she didn’t. She always sponsored a big party for donors, sponsors, and VIP friends of the team at each stop on the circuit. MT handled the invites, and she paid. She didn’t see anyone she wanted to talk to. The malaise settled in her chest again, the weariness of repetition growing harder to ignore. She set down her glass. “I like a challenge—at the tables, on the course…in the bedroom.”

“Mmm. So do I.” Françoise took another swallow of wine and set the glass aside. “We are well-matched, you and I.”

“I think you’re right,” Derian said, sliding around the bar, “and I’d very much like showing you.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“Will you be missed for a time?”

“Not right away.”

“Good.” Derian took Françoise’s elbow. “This way.”

She guided Françoise to the far side of the room and unlocked the door to her private rooms. The bedroom occupied a corner of the suite with the king-sized bed positioned to give its occupants a view into the square. When she closed the door, the sounds of the revelry faded. Turning Françoise to face her, she kissed her, sliding one arm around her waist, and took her time exploring the soft surface of her moist lips, tasting the earthy aftermath of the wine on her tongue. Françoise was an experienced kisser, and she melted into Derian’s body, one hand stroking up the back of Derian’s neck and into her hair. What Derian liked best about kissing a woman, about taking her to bed, was the way her mind shut off and her body took control. When she was focused on giving pleasure, she no longer recognized the distant pall of emptiness that lingered on the edges of her consciousness.

Françoise was a beautiful and seductive woman, but Derian was having a hard time losing herself in the taste of her mouth and the press of her breasts against her chest. She could see herself as if she stood a few paces away, watching the familiar scene play out, the familiar ending unreel. The challenge, the victory, the cries of passion, and, inevitably, the parting played through her mind as predictably as the endless cycle of parties, races, and risk that defined her life. The long, empty hours until the scene played out again stared back her, as accusing as her own eyes in the mirror. What was she doing, where was she going, and when would she stop running?

Questions she did not want to ask, or answer.

Derian kissed her way down Françoise’s throat, slowly cupping her breast and squeezing gently. Françoise arched against her, a small sob escaping as her fingers tightened in Derian’s hair.

“Yes,” Françoise murmured. “So very good.”

“Come, let me show you how much better,” Derian said, taking her hand and tugging her toward the bed. Once beside it, she unbuttoned Françoise’s shirt and slipped her hand inside to rub her thumb over the peak of the nipple pressing upward through the thin silk of Françoise’s bra.

“Your hands are wonderful.” Françoise tilted her head back, eyes closed, lips parted on a long shuddering sigh. Her fingers raked through Derian’s hair and tightened on her neck. “Please, I want them everywhere.”

Obediently, Derian opened the remaining buttons and gentled the silk off Françoise’s shoulders, pushed the sleeves down her arms, and let it fall away. This was a dance she knew, choreographed for pleasure and predictably assured. At last the heat of Françoise’s skin, the smooth satiny sensation of flesh yielding to her touch, consumed her. Immersed in the command of Françoise’s quivering body, still fully clothed, Derian eased Françoise down onto the creamy sheets, opened her silk pants, and bent over her to kiss the center of her abdomen. When she rubbed her cheek against the downy skin and licked lightly at the juncture of Françoise’s thighs, Francoise cried out and arched upward, presenting herself to be taken.

“Soon,” Derian whispered.

“I cannot wait.” Françoise’s voice broke on a husky sigh. “I am too ready.”

“You are too beautiful to hurry.” Derian kissed once between her thighs and Françoise sobbed. “And I want to savor you.”

Derian undressed her completely and, when she was naked, straddled her with her legs framing Françoise’s hips. She braced her body on an arm and stroked Françoise’s throat, trailing her fingers down to her breast. “Look at me.”

Françoise’s eyes were hazy with need, her breath short, body vibrating. “Yes, please. I want to watch you take me over.”

Derian took her time, relaxed and certain of her skill, her caresses practiced, her kisses perfected. She knew how to please a woman, enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as she enjoyed the respite from thought. When she stroked between Françoise’s thighs, when she played her fingers gently over the delicate valley, when she slid inside, every movement was timed, intentional, designed for the pinnacle of pleasure. When Françoise’s gaze clouded over and her lips parted on a silent scream, Derian registered a sense of satisfaction and success.