Two very personal, very hot short stories in one volume! These sexy, loving lesbians are getting it on...When Kylie heads to the local bookstore to see her favorite swoonworthy author in person, she gets way more than she bargained for as she squirms on the very hard edge of her seat while... show more
Two very personal, very hot short stories in one volume! These sexy, loving lesbians are getting it on...When Kylie heads to the local bookstore to see her favorite swoonworthy author in person, she gets way more than she bargained for as she squirms on the very hard edge of her seat while listening to "The Reading."Having a body that isn't perfect doesn't mean that it can't feel every touch with exquisite passion, as our heroine finds out to her luscious satisfaction in "Scars."*warning: these stories may cause wet panties, heavy breathing, and some unexpected gasping. They contain explicitly detailed sexual situations meant for readers 18 and over only*excerpt: Show me your back. Why? Just do it. Her voice is still soft, as always. It reminds me of a butterfly tickling against my skin, or a ladybug gently exploring the valleys and peaks of my hand, my small fingers. There is no demand in her words, no command, no hurry. Yet something in that soft tone has me turning around, a bolt of sheer lightning zipping down my spine to nestle directly between my legs. My naked skin twitches and ripples as if a real butterfly is crossing it, rather than the innocuous, intangible flow of words from my sweet lover. Mm. That little sound, less a word than a sigh, comes right from her core. It wraps around me, lazy, gentle, tiptoeing as if to avoid startling me. There is a rush of moisture inmy own core, an abrupt dryness in my mouth. Your back... I interrupt her before the end of that sentence can shatter the moment. It doesn't hurt. It never hurts. It just looks--wounded. My voice is bright. It was wounded, once upon a time. Her voice is still soft, yet also clinical, detached in a nonjudgmental way. I relax. A little. May I look at it? A tiny silence cocoons us. My back feels so exposed, so--beyond naked. Vulnerable. I let my head drift down toward my chest, my eyes closing. Dark hair, loosened from its clasps, slips around my face. The excitement is still with me, dancing around my thighs, caressing my breasts. So is the fear.I breathe deeply in, out, in. My yoga teacher has us practice breathing every session, tells us to do it at home too. He says it will calm me when I am stressed, or tired, or sore, or even a bit panicked. Does this moment count as panic? Breathe, she says, and I realize that I released all the air in my lungs and forgot to take more in. I gulp in a huge burst of air. And as I do, I feel her hand on my back, lightly touching me, tracing the scars, feeling the map of me on my skin. Do you believe me? Believe you what? When I touch you. My skin ripples at her words. Her light fingers outline my back.Do you believe me when I touch you? Do you believe that I want to touch you? That you do not scare me? I cannot answer her. Then I will just have to keep proving myself to you.