2. Sette
Sette
S he was in an illusory haze as she rode in the passenger seat of Miquela’s car, a sleek, sporty thing that Sette could not name to save her life.
I know Audis. This is not an Audi. She also knew Porsche, because that was one of her father’s few spoils for himself.
That and the house in the Hamptons, which Sette hadn’t visited in over two years.
To think, that was where I truly got started with my scenic painting…
Nobody had wanted a picture of an early Hamptons sunrise. They wanted June, nude.
Shit.
“Everything okay?” Miquela turned onto another street after glancing in Sette’s direction.
“No.” Sette brought herself back to the present, where she was simply doing what her (perceived) girlfriend told her to do. “Just thinking.”
“Hopefully about nice things.”
“Was thinking about this car.”
“Well, that’s a very nice thing, isn’t it?”
They parked in an underground garage beneath one of the newly renovated residential condominiums by the river.
It reminded Sette of Zara’s place, which was only a couple of blocks away.
I’ve never lived in a high-rise. A homebody like her wanted no close-in neighbors.
The townhouse didn’t count. This would definitely count.
Yet in the garage, where Miquela parked in a spot marked for her, Sette pretended they were beneath the movie theater or a shopping center.
“What is it?” Miquela asked after shutting off her engine. She left her hand on the center console, gesturing for Sette to say what was on her mind.
She said the first thing to come to her tipsy brain. “I should warn you. I’m not very docile once things get heated.”
“Oh?”
“No. I’m… okay, so I’m used to being in charge, actually.”
Miquela’s brows danced up her forehead. “Hm.”
“That’s it? Hm? ”
“You do have this rigid side to you. I can work with that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s pretty obvious you like to be on top…”
“Let me share something with you that I usually don’t tell girls until they’re actually all the way in my room…” Miquela removed her seatbelt and leaned in toward Sette. The driver-side door clicked open. “I like whatever position I find myself in with the right woman.”
Sette knew she was blushing, but she didn’t have much time to unbuckle her own seatbelt and get out. And once she was in a grungy parking garage, she couldn’t think of anything but getting into the elevator. With Miquela, of course.
Once the doors closed and it was clear they had a couple of minutes until they reached the top floors, Miquela pulled Sette close and kissed her against the elevator wall.
I said what I said.
The moment was cut short when Sette’s metal hair clasp clanked against the wall. After her teeth were done rattling and Miquela finished apologizing, the doors opened, and the one followed the other down a long hallway.
The lights were left off as they stepped inside, Sette’s heels clicking against hardwood as her clutch brushed against a credenza in the entryway.
Miquela removed her shoes, prompting Sette to do the same.
When Miquela also took off her jacket and hung it in a concealed closet, Sette was compelled to leave her clutch on the credenza and remove her jacket as well.
Miquela hung it on the back of the front door. She then turned around and wrapped her arms around Sette from behind, mouth heavy on the back of the neck.
Well, here we go, I guess.
Even if she were absolutely, without a doubt single, Sette would still have a logical approach to this encounter.
She wasn’t here because she thought Miquela was the kind of drop-dead-gorgeous that required ripping off one’s undies and screaming, “Fuck me!” into the abyss.
Nor was she the type that Sette fantasized about climbing on top of and making feel like a goddess being born from the foam.
She was good-looking. Probably talented in bed.
Sette didn’t doubt that she would walk away sexually satisfied and carrying nary a regret.
But she knew they were a mismatch beyond that night. She knew it before that date, but when she arrived, Miquela had presumptuously ordered for her? She underestimates me. Miquela also liked to dote on her girlfriends. Spoil them, both inside and outside the bedroom.
At least one of those things was supposed to be Sette’s prerogative.
Butches. For fucking real.
Yet, for now, she would let Miquela be in charge. It was her house, after all.
Miquela’s breath was hot against Sette’s nape.
A shiver traced its way down her spine. Hands, firm and sure, slid from Sette’s waist to her hips, pulling her back flush against Miquela’s body.
The fabric of Sette’s dress tightened. Miquela’s fingers splayed wide, thumbs pressing into the hollows of Sette’s back.
“You probably have no idea,” Miquela murmured with her imperceptible accent, her lips grazing the shell of Sette’s ear, “how much I’ve wanted to touch you like this all night.”
Sette didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The logical part of her brain, the part that filed away information and drew conclusions, was short-circuiting.
All that remained was sensation. The steady pressure of Miquela’s chest against her back.
The scent of her skin. The slow, deliberate slide of a single hand up her ribcage.
Miquela paused, her palm cupping the underside of Sette’s breast. She didn’t squeeze. She simply held it there, testing boundaries. Sette held her breath. Her own hands, hanging at her sides, curled into fists. She wanted to shove Miquela away. She wanted to lean into her hold.
She did neither.
Then Miquela’s other hand moved. Down. Over the curve of Sette’s hip, finding the hem of her skirt.
A fingernail scraped lightly against the fabric before dipping beneath it.
The rough surface of Miquela’s fingertips against the smooth skin of Sette’s inner thigh made her gasp.
Higher. Inexorable . Until Miquela’s knuckles brushed against Sette’s underwear.
Sette’s head fell back against Miquela’s shoulder. Sure. Why the fuck not.
Miquela’s fingers pressed more firmly, the fabric giving way and letting her access the heat beneath. “Tell me,” she whispered, that voice a low rumble that vibrated through Sette’s entire body. “What do you like?”
A frustrated sound escaped Sette’s throat. Don’t think. Don’t analyze. Just go with it. Her hips pushed back in a small, involuntary motion.
“I don’t want to have to think,” Sette spat out. “Just fuck.”
Miquela chuckled. “I like the way you say that word. It’s unexpected.”
“You serious?” Sette squeaked, still being felt up as they awkwardly stood there. “Women say ‘fuck’ all the time.”
“Even the ones as pretty as you?”
“Seriously. You need to sleep around America a little more. We love ‘fuck.’”
Miquela’s fingers pressed between Sette’s legs. “Say it again.”
Just for that, Sette kept her lips zipped shut.
Miquela's lips found the sensitive skin behind Sette's ear. She shuddered. She couldn't help it. That was all the permission Miquela needed.
She kissed Sette’s neck. Her teeth grazed with a sharp threat that made Sette catch her breath.
Another kiss to the shoulder, with Miquela’s tongue tracing the line of Sette's collarbone.
All while her fingers moved. God damnit, this is hot.
The friction against her slit was both infuriating and intoxicating.
Sette arched her back in surrender. The logical part of her brain, the analyst, the artist who deconstructed scenes…
it was all a distant scream, drowned out by the rhythmic slide of Miquela’s touch.
Her hips began to move, rocking against Miquela's hand.
Small movements at first, then more demanding.
If I chase the pressure, I get what I want faster.
What did Sette want? Sex? Pleasure? Or to get to the part where she was in control?
“Much better,” Miquela whispered against her skin.
She reached up, her other hand finding the cold metal clasp at the nape of Sette’s neck.
With a deft flick, it was open. Miquela pulled it free.
A sharp clatter sounded against the credenza.
Sette’s hair, dark and heavy, tumbled down, a curtain shielding her face.
Miquela brushed it aside, her lips finding the newly exposed skin.
Sette gasped, her body going rigid for a second before melting back against Miquela.
The control was gone. All that was left was the building, aching need.
Forgive me, June. There was that little bit of guilt inside her. Just like Miquela was on the hunt to get inside her. She knows what she’s doing. Just like you.
Sette’s knees were weak. She wanted to be in a bed. Or a floor. Anywhere but standing there, at the mercy of this woman.
“Let’s go to bed,” Miquela said. “I have plans for you.”
She still had one arm around Sette when she stepped forward. Sette did not move.
“What is it?” There went the Call Me Mistress air around the woman Sette found herself with that night. “No? Ah, I went too far, didn’t I? Usually, women like that.”
Sette absentmindedly rubbed the place where Miquela’s mouth had been. She did not shrug that arm off her. If anything, she liked another person’s touch so close to her. “I admit, it was pretty hot,” she said.
“So…?”
Sette’s fingers were caught in a tiny tangle in her hair. “I’m not usually into it, though.”
“Yes, I recall. And I’m not usually your type, either.”
“Suppose not.”
Miquela withdrew her arm. Did that mean she also withdrew her invitation? “Then what is it that you want? Why did you come to my place, knowing this?”
It was curiosity, not an accusation. I bet I’m everything she likes.
Sette was femme and aloof. She was practically butch bait in the right situation, much to her romantic chagrin.
But Miquela was all straight lines, short hair, and somehow, I always end up on top.
Sette craved curves, luscious long hair, and…