Curious Wine by Katherine V. Forrest

Author:Katherine V. Forrest [Forrest, Katherine V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Lesbian
ISBN: 9781594932557
Google: -IJkzgAACAAJ
Amazon: 1594932557
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 1989-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

She called Chick Benson from the lobby of the Sahara.

“Joyce? It’s really you?”

“I told you I’d call,” she said.

“I was betting you wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I just thought you wouldn’t. Will you come up?”

He was drinking vodka with Seven-up. “That okay with you or should I call room service?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He mixed her drink and handed it to her and then took her into his arms, kissed her lightly. “Just to show you I’m a good guy,” he said, releasing her.

She sipped her drink, wincing at the sweetness and the strong vodka content, and looked out the window at dark pines against the glowing mountains. “I thought you were a good guy before,” she said.

“Good.” He kissed her again, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She pulled away, annoyed.

“How about some music?” He switched off the television set and turned on the radio near the bed, adjusting the knobs. “That’s better. You a feminist?”

She was startled by the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I like to know how women feel about it.”

“Well, I suppose I am. I’m for women’s rights. Why?” she asked again, still puzzled by his question. “Are you?”

“Sure,” he said, striding over to her, taking her into his arms again. She clasped his arms, her hands following the seams of his shirt over the breadth of his shoulders.

He kissed her, his tongue scouring inside her mouth, his hands roughly pressing her hips into him. Repelled, she broke away, and decided to leave.

He caught her in his arms again. “You’re one of those soft pretty women,” he told her. “I didn’t think you were one of those feminists but you can never tell anymore. They come to my room—but they think they know better than I do how I should use my balls. I think most of them are really a bunch of lesbos.”

He undressed her slowly, gentle with her. Hands on his shoulders, his chest, she tried to feel his hands and mouth with pleasure. He carried her to the bed and undressed himself.

His hands explored her body. “You’re really lush. Pretty.”

She moved under his mouth in a discomfort that was apparently interpreted as pleasure; he quickly pushed himself between her legs, rubbing against her without entering her.

“No,” she gasped, horrified, struggling, beating her hands on his shoulders.

“You mean yes.” He seized her hands and thrust into her, his mouth covering hers.

She jerked her mouth away and lay whimpering as he battered into her, his face against her neck, his hot breath burning her. As his movements abruptly quickened, she said desperately, swept by rising nausea, “I have no protection.”

“You what,” he gasped. “Jesus Christ, Christ you stupid—” His body shuddered and he wrenched himself out of her. A moment later his hot panting body collapsed across her.

He finally rolled off her. “Jesus,” he said. “You could’ve told me, Joyce. Before. Why didn’t you—what are you, Catholic?”

“Catholic,” she whispered, her eyes closed, her stomach wet with him.

“We could’ve done something if you’d told me. Well, we made it anyway. Now you can tell your friends you made it with an all-American football player.

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