12. Miquela #2
Miquela kissed her. She couldn’t help it.
How could she, when the wonderful woman she adored was trying so hard to confess the same adoration to her?
Any thoughts of other women disappeared between them.
As long as June was with her right here and right now…
she didn’t care who else was there, or who might have her heart.
The thing about June was that she had a big everything, including heart. Plenty to go around.
Her arms wrapped around her. Her tongue darted into her mouth. Her back pressed against the wall, inviting her to hold her there.
Miquela had no idea if anyone could catch them there. Quite frankly, she didn’t care.
“Miq…” Her sweet voice melted Miquela every time she heard it during lovemaking. “We can’t. Not here.”
“Like you couldn’t with her when you were on a date with me?”
It should never be said that June was an angel. Like she had fallen into Sette’s arms the week before, she was falling into Miquela’s now, who welcomed her with the full force of her hips and the power in her hands as they grabbed, squeezed, and pushed June against the wall.
They had to be quick. Not just harried and desperate, but quick. In June’s head, it was probably called a Wham-Bam Thank-You Ma’am . In Miquela’s, it was a chance to sate her lust and show June the number of things she did to her.
To be fair, though, Miquela did an awful lot of things to her right now!
“Don’t stop,” June begged, as Miquela slammed two fingers into her and sucked her throat without a care for love bites.
All Miquela could think about was marking June as hers; letting the world see the real June Kingsley as taken by Miquela Bolivar.
They didn’t know shit from those pictures – or even those paintings – like they would know her as soon as she was done releasing all her pent-up emotion inside of June. Again. “Oh, my God…”
It had to be a record of some kind. Then again, this was June. If anyone was a master at coming on command, let alone a full thirty seconds into sex, then it was her.
Her body said warm wet tight yes yes yes and her heart said warm love right yes yes yes.
The moment June began to come, her whole body squeezed around Miquela.
Arms. Legs. The depths of her inner walls as they stroked Miquela’s aching fingers and begged her to make her feel as if they were truly one.
She threw her head back against the wall, containing the sound of her scream but unable to keep her mouth closed or her hands curled into fists. Miquela didn’t know what planet she went to so quickly, but she wanted to join her.
Now.
She could feel her wetness, June’s wetness, their wetness touching her skin and her flesh. June’s eyes rolled back in her head, nipples hardening through her dress. I never even saw her breasts tonight. Whatever. Miquela knew what they looked like. She was happy to have her this much.
“Holy shit, you feel so good.” June’s left hand gingerly wrapped around Miquela’s neck before descending down her back. “Don’t move. Please.”
“I don’t want to anyway.” Nose grazed hers, lips tasting the salt on her cheek. “I want to always be like this with mi amour.”
Her other hand moved through her hair. “I love you, Miquela.”
“And I love you, June.”
They shared this moment a bit longer before they both simultaneously came to their senses. Miquela helped her stand on her own feet again, hair mussed but sweater dress unscathed.
“I have to get back to the party…” June struggled to get her eyes to focus. Damn, was I that good that quickly? “You should probably go… I’ll see you in a few days…”
Miquela fixed the hem of June’s dress. “You might want to stop by the restroom first, mi amour. You’re not supposed to embody those paintings, I think. Not quite that much.”
She strained to laugh. “Yes, you’re right.” Her hand coaxed Miquela’s head down for one last kiss. “Thanks for coming by.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go to your client. I’m sure she’s paying handsomely for you.”
Now June’s laughter erupted. “Not as much as I’m going to pay for this later.”
Miquela watched her head back to the party, regaining her composure and confidence.
That woman loves me. She didn’t care how many of those other people looked at her with the same gaze of awe that she had.
They should. Everyone should see what she saw when June walked away, whether it was in a designer skin-tight sweater dress, lingerie, or jeans and a T-shirt.
They should see the same golden goddess that Miquela saw, radiant and regal.
After gussying up in the women’s room, Miquela slipped into the back of the party. Far away was June, drinking another glass of Champagne with her arm wrapped around Sette’s torso. Cameras flashed. People swooned over their casual glamour.
Miquela didn’t venture farther. She needed to get back. Catch a plane south so she could go home… she wasn’t going to stay in New York.
When she turned around, she faced a particular painting.
It was June, of course. Miquela wasn’t too stupid to be surprised by that, but unlike the other paintings, this one showed her in a particularly vulnerable state.
She lay on her bed, so languid and relaxed that Miquela didn’t doubt that she had recently been with a client, let alone enjoyed herself.
Then Miquela looked closer. There was something familiar about the clothes strewn across her bed and the way her hair fell that way.
Fuck me, that was the day I barged in there. The client she said she had to get ready for… that must have been Sette.
She painted it?
The look on June’s face exposed the truth.
“The Courtesan Caught,” the placard said.
Miquela didn’t need to read the brief description.
She saw the confusion, the pain, the light of love in June’s face.
She swung between two worlds, each dominated by a different woman.
Any desire she felt or decisions she made would be a direct result of that day.
Yet the way it was painted, with such careful and loving attention to detail, crafted June’s boudoir world and brought it to life.
Miquela had seen a million paintings in her life.
Galleries, classes, her mother’s private collection, which had accumulated while she grew into the woman she was now…
they all showed certain levels of skill and passion.
Miquela may not have known much about Sette, let alone have ever heard her name in the art circuit, but she could tell from studying this painting that she felt nothing less than an earthshattering love for her muse.
Miquela did not doubt that the other paintings told a similar story, but it was this one, indirectly involving Miquela, that made her have an incredible realization.
There was only one way to settle this whole dispute. Miquela and Sette had won their separate battles, but in the War for June, something drastic had to be done.
Miquela sent her assistant Aimee a curt text and left the gallery.
Four days later, Miquela sat at a bar known for its masterful chardonnay selection and German beers.
She couldn’t say if they truly were masterful, since her mind was so full of what she intended to do, but they settled her nerves and allowed her to become the smooth and suave businesswoman her family had trained her to be.
“Would you like another, ma’am?” the bartender asked, holding up a German beer bottle.
“Make the next an ice water, and we’ll see.”
“Certainly.”
An exasperated sigh sounded behind her.
“Should’ve known it was you.”
Sette stood in jeans, a collared shirt, and a dinner jacket. All designer, of course, but far more casual than the tailored Italian suit fastened to Miquela’s body. Doctors. Artists. They’re the same in that regard. Both can only think of casual comfort . Not that Miquela could blame them.
“You probably should’ve known a lot of things before we came to this,” Miquela said. She motioned to the empty stool beside her at the bar. “Have a seat. First one’s on me.”
“Dare I?”
“I won’t take a swing at you if you promise to keep your fists to yourself as well.”
Sette absentmindedly rubbed her smooth jaw. “Still feels like a trap. Smart thing to do would be to keep a wide berth between us.”
“I’ve got a few things to talk about with you.”
“Spare your damn breath.” Sette moved the leather bag strapped across her chest so it rested on her hip instead of in front of her. “I’ve got work to do. Unless you’re…”
“Yes, yes, paintings. Sit your ass down.”
Monday morning, Miquela had her sit-down meeting with Aimee to go over the week’s plans.
Since it was a national holiday, they had no other meetings to tend to, except for Aimee’s agreement to go out with the new friends she had made since moving to America.
Which meant she wasn’t too happy when Miquela asked her to make a few phone calls – including to Joy Cheung.
“Tell her I want to set up a meeting with her client about commissioning some work. No, if you tell her I want to buy a painting she already has, she’ll insist on handling it herself.”
This meeting had been finalized the night before. Miquela had given a fake name to make sure Sette showed up. Naturally, she looked like she wanted to leave as soon as possible.
However, she sat. Perched was actually more like it.
A tentative pose to let her get up and march out of there as soon as it was most convenient.
Not even the bottle of beer landing on the counter behind her got her attention – she would only stare at Miquela, something burning behind her brown eyes.
“Suppose I should thank you for coming to my show,” Sette grunted. Artists sure could be derisive. “I’m not a fool, though. I know what you and June did. Getting back at me. Fine. We’re even.”
“Did she tell you?” Miquela asked. That other bottle of beer was sounding good, water or no water first. “Or had I left her so satisfied that she turned down your business that night?”
“Why, I should…”
“Calm down. I’m here to offer a truce.”
“What?” Sette grabbed the beer and spun around on her stool. Good. Miquela had her attention.
“Look, we both clearly love the same woman. She tells me that she loves us both equally, and why should I disbelieve her? Come on. You don’t think she’s a one-lover woman, do you?”
“Do I look dumb?”
Does she really want me to answer that?
“Hear me out, all right? If you agree to my little scheme I’ve cooked up, we could both become happy women. Maybe she’ll be a happy woman, emotionally and financially.”
Sette gripped her bottle with a tense hand. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
Miquela only needed five.