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Dammit!
* * *
As she andWilloughby entered the Mess Hall, however, all possibility of foregoing thinking about the one who’d had her heart and other parts of her anatomy enraptured for months now evaporated. There she was, tall, lanky, in her ratty jeans, even rattier Chucks, and that flannel shirt that Magdalene wanted to burn, because nobody should make a garment that old and that cliché look this sexy.
And Sam managed to make the entire ensemble debonair and effortless instead of sloppy. It looked chic and put together. And Sam… God, Sam looked good enough to eat. Those long-fingered hands held on to a coffee mug, the eyes half closed, inhaling the life-giving aroma, and those lips… Damp from the hot liquid, plump, so kissable… Magdalene wanted to run up and lick them, taste the drops lingering on them, bite the lower one, draw blood, leave a mark.
Well, that had escalated quickly.
She rubbed her palm over her racing heart, then once again snapped her fingers at Willoughby, who was sitting near her on his haunches, waiting patiently for his mistress to decide what to do.
Orla and Joanne were huddled at one end of the faculty table, but Magdalene would be damned if she’d give them the satisfaction of leaving now that she was halfway into the Mess Hall, halfway to hungry, and all the way wet.
Willoughby, who’d perked up at her finger snap, followed her line of sight and slowly trotted towards the pillow on the sunny windowsill. They’d be staying.
Sam met her eyes for a moment, promptly turned pink, and after a mumbled something resembling “good morning”, sat down towards the center of the long table.
Well, at least Sam was still clear-minded enough to understand the subtleties of subterfuge. She couldn’t sit with Orla and Joanne, because Magdalene would not be able to follow her there. On the other hand, she also couldn’t occupy the opposite end, since it would be too sharp a message that she was separating herself from the others. The middle was neutral ground, and Magdalene herself often occupied it.
Like she did today, after first carefully doctoring her own coffee—no more milk, thank you very much—and grabbing a piece of toast and some butter from the ice-tub on the breakfast bar. Upon second glance, a new jam selection was spread out for the faculty to determine the supply for next year. And it gave Magdalene a possibly impossibly dirty idea. Dirty, but oh-so hot…
As she sat down between the two groups of Mess Hall occupants, she caught the tail end of the conversation between Joanne and Sam, singing praises to the blackberry jam. Both women had enjoyed the dark gooey delicacy, and just as Joanne opened her mouth after she’d been chewing her lip for some time, Magdalene interrupted the silent sipping of her coffee with an opening salvo of, “I wasn’t expecting the taste, it starts just a little tangy with this lingering sweet undertone. The sweetness stays with you.”
Sam promptly choked on her toast, covered in that very blackberry jam. Magdalene hid her smirk behind her coffee mug, and Joanne and Orla were left staring uncomprehendingly between the two of them.
Well then, mission accomplished. Magdalene spread some more jam on her toast and stole a sideways glance at Sam, now entirely crimson, struggling to draw breath, holding on to her coffee mug for dear life.
She tried not to grin, failed, allowed it to bloom on her face, and made sure Sam saw it before schooling her features. How could Samnotchoke when Magdalene's comment had clearly landed precisely the way she had intended—with Sam's profuse blush, certain to be remembering the same thing she was. How they'd both been naked and relaxed on the debauched bed-and-breakfast bed, as Magdalene ran the tips of her fingers up and down the length of Sam’s slit while she lay there in complete post-orgasmic bliss, only to be roused by the sound of her lover licking and sucking each and every finger?
Magdalene remembered how the color had risen in Sam’s cheek then, too, and how she’d tried to hide her face in the pillow, but Magdalene hadn’t allowed her. Instead, she’d kissed her deeply, letting Sam taste herself, and it made Sam blush an even deeper shade of crimson.
“You can be such an adorable prude, Sam.” Magdalene lowered her voice further, enjoying the effect it had on the already flustered Sam, tugging at the corners of her mouth as well as eliciting a flutter in her stomach. “I noticed this about you the first time we were together. You don’t relax entirely when I go down on you. You love it, but there is that initial reluctance, as if you think I might not like what I find. It takes you a bit to overcome that mental barrier. I don’t think you came by my mouth in Manhattan, and I certainly had to take you by surprise earlier tonight to make you let go under my lips.”
Sam whispered something incoherent and burrowed into Magdalene’s embrace. But Magdalene was not to be deterred. Instead, she demonstratively licked her lips and continued.
“Let me tell you what you taste like, darling.” She slipped her fingers between Sam’s legs, making her gasp, but Sam kept her eyes open, watching Magdalene watch her.
“I was looking for a word earlier, to describe to you the flavor that is uniquely you. I couldn’t come up with anything that was even remotely adequate, because you are delectable, and the taste is just so complex. It’s very subtle, and it starts just a little tangy with this lingering sweet undertone. The sweetness stays with you.” Magdalene played with her at a leisurely pace, then descended to Sam’s opening, thrusting once, twice, with eerie precision. When the thumb entered into play, making slow purposeful circles around that clit, Sam had finally closed her eyes, and Magdalene no longer hid her smug smile. She relished the duality of this woman. The way she took Magdalene apart with confidence and dominance in a manner that absolutely nobody else even dared dream about, and the way she surrendered so entirely, so completely, submitting to Magdalene’s every desire.
In the brightness of the late-morning Mess Hall, Magdalene delighted in the way the light and blush played on Sam’s sharp cheekbones and how those eyes looked at her with a slow burning gaze, positive that the gears were turning in Sam’s mind about the retribution Magdalene would have to endure. Oh, and endure it she would, with utmost dedication to the task at hand. Or at mouth… Magdalene squirmed and rubbed her foot along her own calf.
She watched Willoughby stretch and bask in the sun and wanted to follow suit. A sense of peace she had been missing her entire life washed over her. No, she wasn’t safe. Not with whomever was hunting her still out there. And no, she had not yet accomplished her task, because the school was just as imperiled as before, and the beginning of the new semester fast approaching.
But the warmth in her heart was spreading throughout her veins, mending hurts, stitching together muscle and bone, and giving her something she had not felt in years, perhaps since she’d been that scrawny, ginger outcast.Hope.
Sam was giving her hope, and wasn’t it a wonder?
21
OF HORNETS’ NESTS & UNEXPECTED REVELATIONS
The trouble with poking hornets’ nests is that, fun as it may be, then one actually had to deal with the angry hornets.
Magdalene watched the crowd in front of her from the specially installed podium at one end of the quad and marveled at how pretty much everyone in this sea of humanity hated her. With the notable exception of Sam, who stood nervously next to Joanne, shoulders thrown back and biting her lip, the rest of this mass of humans exuded a decidedly negative energy. She scoffed. By the end of the day, some would hate her even more, and wasn’t that a delightful surprise? Life did not have nearly enough of those, she mused as she cast another narrow-eyed glance around.
Yet the day had begun with a few. Magdalene was savoring the post-morning-yoga burn in her relaxed muscles, daydreaming about the cup of coffee she’d soon inhale, when the first of those surprises materialized in the form of a phone call. Her mother, of all people.
And while Magdalene would never consider Candace delightful, her call, no less, was a surprise that turned into a memorable conversation. Not a passive-aggressive talk about Magdalene doing something or other for her. No rambling about parties and men. In fact, her mother’s voice had been devoid of much emotion, except one.
