Superiority (Sisterhood Challenge on ds-flashfiction)
Pairings: Thatcher/Frannie (for real); Thatcher/Fraser (in her dreams); Fraser/Kowalski (implied)
Rating: PG-13
Size: about 2600 words
Note: This started out as my first attempt to write hetfic. It turned out as my first femslash. If I ever get my hands on Frannie, she’s going to get spanks, that girl.
Superiority
He was hers. He was her second in command, her subordinate. He had to obey her orders and that he did. Professionally, it was established that he belonged to her.
Initially, she had thought this implied that it would be easy for her to also lay a claim on him in a romantic sense, that it meant she had a right to him in that respect as well.
She had been proven wrong. Most of the time, he seemed completely oblivious to her subtle displays of interest. Sometimes hope flared. Upon occasion she noticed that he was nervous around her in a good, hormone related way. Naturally, nervousness always was hormone related, but sometimes Meg thought that the right kind of hormones were involved in his being uneasy when they were standing close.
In general, the signals were mixed at best, however. He treated her with the utmost politeness and distant respect. As he should, obviously.
She wanted him to obey her orders and to pick up her dry cleaning. Which he always did- without a hint of protest. (Sometimes she wasn’t certain if she wouldn’t prefer him to resist). She also wanted him to take her in his arms, to sweep her off her feet, and to assure her that everything would be all right, that he would personally see to it. This too he would do without a hint of hesitation-if there were a life-threatening situation at hand.
In all other cases, he assumed she could take care of herself. And he was right, of course.
She was perfectly aware that her desire was illogical. She didn’t need articles on human mating to know that if she didn’t manage to change her romantic view on love her chances of ever finding a suitable life partner were slim.
It wasn’t that she would have to conceal her level of intelligence. Some men might feel intimidated by intelligent women, but Fraser wasn’t one of them. In fact, her intellect probably was the feature with which he felt the most comfortable.
What she should do was forgive him for not doing what she didn’t dare to do herself: taking the first step. She couldn’t. She just wanted to scream at him, “You’re a man, you’re supposed to take the lead in these matters.”
He didn’t. She knew he never would, and neither would she. Fear of rejection probably got the better of both of them, but Meg strongly felt that it was up to him to overcome his first.
She knew she took it out on him that he didn’t rise above his fear. She made him pay for her frustration by assigning him the most outrageous tasks, which he took upon him without even blinking.
She wasn’t easy on herself either. She didn’t shield from how weak she felt, knowing what she wanted-and wanting it badly-but being unable to muster the courage to step up for it.
To know that one’s assertiveness had such a feeble base was truly horrible. Sometimes, it even caused her to doubt her qualities as a superior officer.
The one shred of comfort preventing her from slipping into depression was the notion that a more forward approach didn’t have any impact on Fraser either. Observing Francesca Vecchio had taught her this.
The first time that she witnessed Frannie’s demeanour towards Fraser at the 27th district police station, Meg had been appalled. How could anyone force herself upon another person like that? Surely, it wouldn’t work on anybody.
It certainly didn’t work on Fraser, who seemed to try to get out of Frannie’s reach as fast and as politely as possible, to Meg’s tremendous relief.
Frannie’s conduct was cheap and immature, she assessed. It explained why she seldom was addressed with her full first name; it was far too mature for her. Only Fraser called her Francesca, probably intending it to be an appeal to behave her age.
Meg thanked God that she wasn’t Frannie. The notion restored her feeling of superiority a little. She might not be able to get what she wanted, but at least she managed to retain her dignity.
Visiting the precinct became sort of an addiction. At first, Meg only went there when duty related events required her to talk to Harding Welsh. With pride she noticed how Fraser affected the atmosphere in the bullpen. Conversations stopped when he passed, heads were turned, nods were given. People paid respect to her second in command. Her second in command.
The sight of Fraser amidst the Americans wasn’t the primary reason for her to frequent the station more often than strictly necessary, though. She went there mainly to confirm that it wasn’t her; that Fraser’s refusal to pay an overt romantic interest in her wasn’t personal.
He didn’t appear to be drawn to anybody, and while this didn’t shed a favourable light on Meg’s future love life, it was indeed a consolation to know that she wouldn’t lose him to somebody else, especially Frannie Vecchio.
It was a perverse pleasure to dislike Frannie, to be appalled at her conduct towards Fraser, to fear that he would yield eventually if Frannie persisted on the one hand-while being reassured that Frannie would not get what she so blatantly tried to attain on the other.
Once she saw Frannie pressing her breasts against Fraser’s shoulder when he was sitting at Kowalski’s desk, absorbed in case information. The mass of Fraser’s body altered their shape.
Suddenly, it had appeared to Meg that it was overly hot in the bullpen. She could feel the touch she witnessed…somewhere in her system. It was most uncomfortable.
Fraser exerted what Meg had come to recognize as his favourite coping strategy in distressful interpersonal situations; he pretended not to notice what Frannie was doing. Kowalski did react though. He scowled. Meg couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she thought she could see him enunciate “boobs” and “off”. Frannie scowled back at him, but she did stand straight.
Meg breathed more freely, feeling an unfamiliar gratitude towards Kowalski. In general, she didn’t like him any better than she did Frannie. He was too expressive, almost volatile. He called her “The Ice Queen” behind her back-which she wasn’t, she did have feelings-and he didn’t even have the decency to keep it a secret from her. But what she hated most was the effect he had on Fraser.
She hated the tone of Fraser’s “Hi, Ray”, and the facial expression with which it coincided when Kowalski came to collect his partner at the consulate. They reflected happiness. Nobody seemed to be able to make Fraser look and sound the way Kowalski did. It was extremely frustrating.
Kowalski didn’t keep Meg from visiting the precinct, though. Very often, he wasn’t even there-and neither was Fraser. To watch Frannie and to feel annoyed by the sight she provided could make Meg’s day. Frannie’s yelling at somebody through the bullpen, the rattling sounds her fingers made on her computer keyboard, the number of buttons undone on her blouse, they all caused a fierce irritability in Meg. She liked that feeling. It made her feel infinitely superior to Frannie.
“What are you doing, Meg? Trying to stare them out of my bra?”
She awoke with a start from her reverie. She had indeed been staring, amazed and annoyed that Harding Welsh allowed that much cleavage in his bullpen.
Meg averted her eyes, fervently searching for a change of subject, only to come up with the rather lame excuse of needing some information on the McDowell case.
“My boobs know nothing about that,” Frannie declared. “But maybe there’s something on the computer.” She smiled sweetly. “Come have a look.”
Meg approached the desk with utmost caution-and stopped at five feet distance.
“You must have amazing eyesight, honey,” Frannie assessed. Her keyboard rattled fiercely. “’Kay. The McDowell case. What do you want to know?”
“I…Does he work alone, or are others involved as well?”
“Really,” Frannie said. “You want to know if he has partners? Is that the hottest topic you can think of right now?”
“Yes.” Meg felt uncomfortable. The way Frannie phrased things was highly unnerving at times.
No rattling sounds ensued. Instead, Frannie turned her chair towards Meg, granting her a perfect view on her cleavage.
“I don’t believe you. You’re starting to run out of excuses for your visits to the 2-7, hon.”
“What…what do you mean?”
Frannie leaned a bit back in her chair. It changed the view Meg had on her breasts, but it didn’t render them less hypnotizing.
“I mean that I don’t think you come here to talk to Welsh. I don’t believe that you hope to feast your eyes on Fraser either. Not anymore. He isn’t even around most of the times you drop by.”
Frannie shifted and crossed her legs. Judging by the look in her eyes, it was a very deliberate gesture. Meg swallowed.
“What do you tell yourself, Meg?” Frannie’s tone and facial expression changed-into something resembling hers, Meg realized with horror. “‘Frannie is practically colorblind, so if I don’t wear red she won’t notice me watching her?’”
“No,” Meg replied, annoyingly weakly.
“I do notice you, Meg. In fact, I have noticed every glance you threw at me over the last couple of months. And I think it’s time we had a talk about it.”
Frannie rose. Taking Meg’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, she said, “Come with me.”
Meg was directed to the ladies room. And cornered against the tiles.
“So.” Frannie crossed her arms, causing her breasts to be pushed up a little.
They were…beautiful. Firm, but soft-looking-and golden.
Meg had never given breasts any particular thought. She once established that her own were satisfactory in size and shape, and that had been all there was to it. Now she found she couldn’t keep her eyes from Frannie’s.
“They fascinate you, don’t they?”
Meg looked up into Frannie’s dark eyes, unable to think of anything to say, knowing that even if she could think of something she wouldn’t have the ability to voice it.
“I don’t mind, Meg,” Frannie said with a small smile. “In fact, I kind of like it.”
Meg didn’t understand. Frannie was in love with Fraser. She kept him informed of her feelings with unqualified energy-in ways that didn’t leave any doubt about her intentions. Why was Frannie currently holding her captive in the ladies room, with a smile on her face that seemed to constitute a promise as well as an expectation? And of what, exactly?
“But Fraser…he…you are…” she tried.
Frannie smiled. “Oh, I’m not after Fraser anymore. I’ve already established that he is a nigh impregnable fortress.”
Meg momentarily forgot her distress, baffled by Frannie’s vocabulary.
Frannie winked at her. “Yeah, I can speak proper English too. Most of the time I just don’t see the fun in doing so.”
“Oh,” Meg said, still mystified. Her image of Frannie clearly required adjustment. If only she knew in what direction. She asked, “Why are you still acting the way you are with Fraser…if you no longer wish to pursue him?”
“Well, it’s hard to kick the habit. And I also keep pretending because it is expected of me,” Frannie explained. “I wouldn’t want to confuse anybody, least of all Fraser.”
“Oh,” Meg said again.
“Besides,” Frannie resumed, “if the Metcalf bitch hasn’t completely castrated him, and if he is ever going to remember that he has a dick that can be used for something other than peeing, it’s my new brother who is going to do the trick.”
Her new b…?
“Kowalski?”
“Yeah,” Frannie nodded.
“Do you mean to say that Fraser is homosexual?”
“Well, yeah, homosexual in the sense that he’s totally blind to all men beside Stanley Raymond. He is really very queer, our Benton,” Frannie said fondly.
“How do you know?”
“I notice things, Meg. I have noticed for instance that Ray wants to get into those Canadian jodhpurs so bad he’s about to burst. Chances are that one of these days we’re going to have an engagement party.”
Meg closed her eyes for a second, letting this new information sink in and realizing with surprise that it didn’t shatter her world. On the contrary, it made a fair amount of reassuring sense.
When she opened them again, Frannie was watching her. The look on her face was gentle-and knowing, somehow. “Let’s not talk about guys anymore,” she said. “Let’s talk about how I fascinate you.”
Meg tensed. She felt this was dangerous. She only had no idea why.
“Why does my cleavage invoke such a rapt fascination in you, Meg?” Frannie inquired softly.
Meg didn’t look down. She didn’t have to. She couldn’t even, because Frannie’s smouldering eyes were holding hers captive. She felt weak. God, she felt so weak. “Your c…it doesn’t… I don’t know,” she concluded meekly. It was no use trying to deny what she only now had come to know as the truth.
Frannie smiled. “You don’t? Let me enlighten you. Close your eyes.”
It was an order, put with gentle but unwavering authority. Meg obeyed.
She was kissed. Soft, warm lips were moving over her mouth. Frannie was kissing her, impossibly, shockingly seductively. When she stopped, Meg felt bereft.
She opened her eyes, finding Frannie looking at her.
“Yeah, I thought so.”
Meg swallowed, feeling more vulnerable than she recalled ever to have felt before. If Frannie had been playing games with her she was gloriously victorious. The idea of being superior to this woman seemed utterly ludicrous all of a sudden. Frannie was currently in charge of every nerve in Meg’s body.
Meg waited, incapable of doing or saying anything.
Frannie put her hands on Meg’s hips, pulling her close, kissing her again. Frannie’s tongue darted out, stroking her mouth. Meg parted her lips. She jolted at the feeling of Frannie’s tongue touching hers-it floored her completely. She melted against Frannie. It shouldn’t be a surprise perhaps that Frannie’s body was so much softer than the male bodies Meg had known, but it was. She could drown in Frannie. She wanted to.
“Francesca.”
“Margaret.” Frannie’s voice was an exact imitation of Meg’s, with an additional hint of amusement.
God, Frannie was mocking her. Maybe Meg was being played with after all.
But Frannie’s hands were still on her hips, and the smile on her face didn’t resemble a victorious grin. Frannie looked happy. She was leaving a trail of soft kisses on Meg’s neck.
“So, tell me, Meg,” she said. “What’s your opinion on hearts, and flowers, and candlelight dinners…and sex?”
“I…I believe it could be arranged,” Meg breathed.
“You’re not sure? You need…persuasion?”
Meg swallowed as Frannie cupped her breast and ran a thumb over her nipple-which instantly reacted to the touch.
“Frannie, please,” she whimpered.
Frannie chuckled. “Ooh, I like a begging Meg. I’d like to hear more of her.”
Hands were moving over Meg’s ribcage and stomach, downwards.
“Not…not here.”
“No, not here,” Frannie agreed. “Somewhere a little more private. Your place.”
“My place,” Meg said.
“Let’s go.”
Frannie took her hands, pulling her away from the wall. “It’s going to be good, honey.”
Meg believed her. To have Frannie in charge wasn’t a preposterous notion, to surrender and be weak not a frightening prospect anymore. Watching Frannie look at her with a warm smile that held an infinite amount of promise, Meg decided she no longer needed a shield of conceit to feel safe. Superiority was, after all, highly overrated.
END
Rating: PG-13
Size: about 2600 words
Note: This started out as my first attempt to write hetfic. It turned out as my first femslash. If I ever get my hands on Frannie, she’s going to get spanks, that girl.
Superiority
He was hers. He was her second in command, her subordinate. He had to obey her orders and that he did. Professionally, it was established that he belonged to her.
Initially, she had thought this implied that it would be easy for her to also lay a claim on him in a romantic sense, that it meant she had a right to him in that respect as well.
She had been proven wrong. Most of the time, he seemed completely oblivious to her subtle displays of interest. Sometimes hope flared. Upon occasion she noticed that he was nervous around her in a good, hormone related way. Naturally, nervousness always was hormone related, but sometimes Meg thought that the right kind of hormones were involved in his being uneasy when they were standing close.
In general, the signals were mixed at best, however. He treated her with the utmost politeness and distant respect. As he should, obviously.
She wanted him to obey her orders and to pick up her dry cleaning. Which he always did- without a hint of protest. (Sometimes she wasn’t certain if she wouldn’t prefer him to resist). She also wanted him to take her in his arms, to sweep her off her feet, and to assure her that everything would be all right, that he would personally see to it. This too he would do without a hint of hesitation-if there were a life-threatening situation at hand.
In all other cases, he assumed she could take care of herself. And he was right, of course.
She was perfectly aware that her desire was illogical. She didn’t need articles on human mating to know that if she didn’t manage to change her romantic view on love her chances of ever finding a suitable life partner were slim.
It wasn’t that she would have to conceal her level of intelligence. Some men might feel intimidated by intelligent women, but Fraser wasn’t one of them. In fact, her intellect probably was the feature with which he felt the most comfortable.
What she should do was forgive him for not doing what she didn’t dare to do herself: taking the first step. She couldn’t. She just wanted to scream at him, “You’re a man, you’re supposed to take the lead in these matters.”
He didn’t. She knew he never would, and neither would she. Fear of rejection probably got the better of both of them, but Meg strongly felt that it was up to him to overcome his first.
She knew she took it out on him that he didn’t rise above his fear. She made him pay for her frustration by assigning him the most outrageous tasks, which he took upon him without even blinking.
She wasn’t easy on herself either. She didn’t shield from how weak she felt, knowing what she wanted-and wanting it badly-but being unable to muster the courage to step up for it.
To know that one’s assertiveness had such a feeble base was truly horrible. Sometimes, it even caused her to doubt her qualities as a superior officer.
The one shred of comfort preventing her from slipping into depression was the notion that a more forward approach didn’t have any impact on Fraser either. Observing Francesca Vecchio had taught her this.
The first time that she witnessed Frannie’s demeanour towards Fraser at the 27th district police station, Meg had been appalled. How could anyone force herself upon another person like that? Surely, it wouldn’t work on anybody.
It certainly didn’t work on Fraser, who seemed to try to get out of Frannie’s reach as fast and as politely as possible, to Meg’s tremendous relief.
Frannie’s conduct was cheap and immature, she assessed. It explained why she seldom was addressed with her full first name; it was far too mature for her. Only Fraser called her Francesca, probably intending it to be an appeal to behave her age.
Meg thanked God that she wasn’t Frannie. The notion restored her feeling of superiority a little. She might not be able to get what she wanted, but at least she managed to retain her dignity.
Visiting the precinct became sort of an addiction. At first, Meg only went there when duty related events required her to talk to Harding Welsh. With pride she noticed how Fraser affected the atmosphere in the bullpen. Conversations stopped when he passed, heads were turned, nods were given. People paid respect to her second in command. Her second in command.
The sight of Fraser amidst the Americans wasn’t the primary reason for her to frequent the station more often than strictly necessary, though. She went there mainly to confirm that it wasn’t her; that Fraser’s refusal to pay an overt romantic interest in her wasn’t personal.
He didn’t appear to be drawn to anybody, and while this didn’t shed a favourable light on Meg’s future love life, it was indeed a consolation to know that she wouldn’t lose him to somebody else, especially Frannie Vecchio.
It was a perverse pleasure to dislike Frannie, to be appalled at her conduct towards Fraser, to fear that he would yield eventually if Frannie persisted on the one hand-while being reassured that Frannie would not get what she so blatantly tried to attain on the other.
Once she saw Frannie pressing her breasts against Fraser’s shoulder when he was sitting at Kowalski’s desk, absorbed in case information. The mass of Fraser’s body altered their shape.
Suddenly, it had appeared to Meg that it was overly hot in the bullpen. She could feel the touch she witnessed…somewhere in her system. It was most uncomfortable.
Fraser exerted what Meg had come to recognize as his favourite coping strategy in distressful interpersonal situations; he pretended not to notice what Frannie was doing. Kowalski did react though. He scowled. Meg couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she thought she could see him enunciate “boobs” and “off”. Frannie scowled back at him, but she did stand straight.
Meg breathed more freely, feeling an unfamiliar gratitude towards Kowalski. In general, she didn’t like him any better than she did Frannie. He was too expressive, almost volatile. He called her “The Ice Queen” behind her back-which she wasn’t, she did have feelings-and he didn’t even have the decency to keep it a secret from her. But what she hated most was the effect he had on Fraser.
She hated the tone of Fraser’s “Hi, Ray”, and the facial expression with which it coincided when Kowalski came to collect his partner at the consulate. They reflected happiness. Nobody seemed to be able to make Fraser look and sound the way Kowalski did. It was extremely frustrating.
Kowalski didn’t keep Meg from visiting the precinct, though. Very often, he wasn’t even there-and neither was Fraser. To watch Frannie and to feel annoyed by the sight she provided could make Meg’s day. Frannie’s yelling at somebody through the bullpen, the rattling sounds her fingers made on her computer keyboard, the number of buttons undone on her blouse, they all caused a fierce irritability in Meg. She liked that feeling. It made her feel infinitely superior to Frannie.
“What are you doing, Meg? Trying to stare them out of my bra?”
She awoke with a start from her reverie. She had indeed been staring, amazed and annoyed that Harding Welsh allowed that much cleavage in his bullpen.
Meg averted her eyes, fervently searching for a change of subject, only to come up with the rather lame excuse of needing some information on the McDowell case.
“My boobs know nothing about that,” Frannie declared. “But maybe there’s something on the computer.” She smiled sweetly. “Come have a look.”
Meg approached the desk with utmost caution-and stopped at five feet distance.
“You must have amazing eyesight, honey,” Frannie assessed. Her keyboard rattled fiercely. “’Kay. The McDowell case. What do you want to know?”
“I…Does he work alone, or are others involved as well?”
“Really,” Frannie said. “You want to know if he has partners? Is that the hottest topic you can think of right now?”
“Yes.” Meg felt uncomfortable. The way Frannie phrased things was highly unnerving at times.
No rattling sounds ensued. Instead, Frannie turned her chair towards Meg, granting her a perfect view on her cleavage.
“I don’t believe you. You’re starting to run out of excuses for your visits to the 2-7, hon.”
“What…what do you mean?”
Frannie leaned a bit back in her chair. It changed the view Meg had on her breasts, but it didn’t render them less hypnotizing.
“I mean that I don’t think you come here to talk to Welsh. I don’t believe that you hope to feast your eyes on Fraser either. Not anymore. He isn’t even around most of the times you drop by.”
Frannie shifted and crossed her legs. Judging by the look in her eyes, it was a very deliberate gesture. Meg swallowed.
“What do you tell yourself, Meg?” Frannie’s tone and facial expression changed-into something resembling hers, Meg realized with horror. “‘Frannie is practically colorblind, so if I don’t wear red she won’t notice me watching her?’”
“No,” Meg replied, annoyingly weakly.
“I do notice you, Meg. In fact, I have noticed every glance you threw at me over the last couple of months. And I think it’s time we had a talk about it.”
Frannie rose. Taking Meg’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, she said, “Come with me.”
Meg was directed to the ladies room. And cornered against the tiles.
“So.” Frannie crossed her arms, causing her breasts to be pushed up a little.
They were…beautiful. Firm, but soft-looking-and golden.
Meg had never given breasts any particular thought. She once established that her own were satisfactory in size and shape, and that had been all there was to it. Now she found she couldn’t keep her eyes from Frannie’s.
“They fascinate you, don’t they?”
Meg looked up into Frannie’s dark eyes, unable to think of anything to say, knowing that even if she could think of something she wouldn’t have the ability to voice it.
“I don’t mind, Meg,” Frannie said with a small smile. “In fact, I kind of like it.”
Meg didn’t understand. Frannie was in love with Fraser. She kept him informed of her feelings with unqualified energy-in ways that didn’t leave any doubt about her intentions. Why was Frannie currently holding her captive in the ladies room, with a smile on her face that seemed to constitute a promise as well as an expectation? And of what, exactly?
“But Fraser…he…you are…” she tried.
Frannie smiled. “Oh, I’m not after Fraser anymore. I’ve already established that he is a nigh impregnable fortress.”
Meg momentarily forgot her distress, baffled by Frannie’s vocabulary.
Frannie winked at her. “Yeah, I can speak proper English too. Most of the time I just don’t see the fun in doing so.”
“Oh,” Meg said, still mystified. Her image of Frannie clearly required adjustment. If only she knew in what direction. She asked, “Why are you still acting the way you are with Fraser…if you no longer wish to pursue him?”
“Well, it’s hard to kick the habit. And I also keep pretending because it is expected of me,” Frannie explained. “I wouldn’t want to confuse anybody, least of all Fraser.”
“Oh,” Meg said again.
“Besides,” Frannie resumed, “if the Metcalf bitch hasn’t completely castrated him, and if he is ever going to remember that he has a dick that can be used for something other than peeing, it’s my new brother who is going to do the trick.”
Her new b…?
“Kowalski?”
“Yeah,” Frannie nodded.
“Do you mean to say that Fraser is homosexual?”
“Well, yeah, homosexual in the sense that he’s totally blind to all men beside Stanley Raymond. He is really very queer, our Benton,” Frannie said fondly.
“How do you know?”
“I notice things, Meg. I have noticed for instance that Ray wants to get into those Canadian jodhpurs so bad he’s about to burst. Chances are that one of these days we’re going to have an engagement party.”
Meg closed her eyes for a second, letting this new information sink in and realizing with surprise that it didn’t shatter her world. On the contrary, it made a fair amount of reassuring sense.
When she opened them again, Frannie was watching her. The look on her face was gentle-and knowing, somehow. “Let’s not talk about guys anymore,” she said. “Let’s talk about how I fascinate you.”
Meg tensed. She felt this was dangerous. She only had no idea why.
“Why does my cleavage invoke such a rapt fascination in you, Meg?” Frannie inquired softly.
Meg didn’t look down. She didn’t have to. She couldn’t even, because Frannie’s smouldering eyes were holding hers captive. She felt weak. God, she felt so weak. “Your c…it doesn’t… I don’t know,” she concluded meekly. It was no use trying to deny what she only now had come to know as the truth.
Frannie smiled. “You don’t? Let me enlighten you. Close your eyes.”
It was an order, put with gentle but unwavering authority. Meg obeyed.
She was kissed. Soft, warm lips were moving over her mouth. Frannie was kissing her, impossibly, shockingly seductively. When she stopped, Meg felt bereft.
She opened her eyes, finding Frannie looking at her.
“Yeah, I thought so.”
Meg swallowed, feeling more vulnerable than she recalled ever to have felt before. If Frannie had been playing games with her she was gloriously victorious. The idea of being superior to this woman seemed utterly ludicrous all of a sudden. Frannie was currently in charge of every nerve in Meg’s body.
Meg waited, incapable of doing or saying anything.
Frannie put her hands on Meg’s hips, pulling her close, kissing her again. Frannie’s tongue darted out, stroking her mouth. Meg parted her lips. She jolted at the feeling of Frannie’s tongue touching hers-it floored her completely. She melted against Frannie. It shouldn’t be a surprise perhaps that Frannie’s body was so much softer than the male bodies Meg had known, but it was. She could drown in Frannie. She wanted to.
“Francesca.”
“Margaret.” Frannie’s voice was an exact imitation of Meg’s, with an additional hint of amusement.
God, Frannie was mocking her. Maybe Meg was being played with after all.
But Frannie’s hands were still on her hips, and the smile on her face didn’t resemble a victorious grin. Frannie looked happy. She was leaving a trail of soft kisses on Meg’s neck.
“So, tell me, Meg,” she said. “What’s your opinion on hearts, and flowers, and candlelight dinners…and sex?”
“I…I believe it could be arranged,” Meg breathed.
“You’re not sure? You need…persuasion?”
Meg swallowed as Frannie cupped her breast and ran a thumb over her nipple-which instantly reacted to the touch.
“Frannie, please,” she whimpered.
Frannie chuckled. “Ooh, I like a begging Meg. I’d like to hear more of her.”
Hands were moving over Meg’s ribcage and stomach, downwards.
“Not…not here.”
“No, not here,” Frannie agreed. “Somewhere a little more private. Your place.”
“My place,” Meg said.
“Let’s go.”
Frannie took her hands, pulling her away from the wall. “It’s going to be good, honey.”
Meg believed her. To have Frannie in charge wasn’t a preposterous notion, to surrender and be weak not a frightening prospect anymore. Watching Frannie look at her with a warm smile that held an infinite amount of promise, Meg decided she no longer needed a shield of conceit to feel safe. Superiority was, after all, highly overrated.
END