Three Words: wine, attack, chair

Rachel tiptoed through the room, gathering bits of her pride as she went. Nylons: behind the couch, one toe clinging to the rounded back. Clingy black skirt that Lucy promised would get her fucked: crumpled on the bookshelf obscuring Faust's seven levels of hell. Strappy sandals with heels too tall to walk on: one under the chair, the other being chewed on by the long eared hound growling from the corner. Let him keep it. Panties: Clutched in Jasmin's hand, her long, sculpted fingers wrapped around the tiny bit of lace and stringy fabric like it was her safety blanket after a bad dream. Let her keep them? Hell, no. Their all-too-long affair ended appropriately six months ago. No way was Rachel leaving her a souvenir of their ill-advised reunion. 

They would, of course, blame the wine, Rachel reasoned as she tugged her thong from Jasmin's grasp. It was never a good idea for her to drink wine. Especially not that classic Rosso. Especially not the better share of three bottles. Especially not with Jasmin.

Jasmin's fingers wrapped around her wrist just as she extracted the last bit of fabric. "Hmmm. Where you going?" The sleep-tousled inquiry rumbled up from her chest, full of afterglow and tannins.

Great, now they were both awake and sober. It was never as much fun with Jasmin the morning after.

"Home. It's morning." 

Jasmin peeled one eye open and smiled. "Stay. I'll fix breakfast."

"That's not a good idea." Rachel tried to break free of Jasmin's hold.

"I have sausage. The kind from Mercer's that you like so much." Jasmin released Rachel and stretched like a cat. No sign in her movements that she'd spent the night on the floor passed out next to empty wine bottles and her ex-girlfriend. She sat up and leaned against the couch, her legs stretched out before her, one straight, the other bent at the knee. The light throw they'd used as a makeshift blanket slid down her torso and crumpled around her waist. Perfect, gravity defying tits on display, she recaptured Rachel's, this time twining their fingers together, and tugged gently. "Come on. It'll be nice. Like old times." 

Rachel, still naked with last night's panties slipping from her fingers,  felt her skin prickle under Jasmin's hot scrutiny. "Old times, huh?" 

That was not a promising invitation. Old times invariably followed the same path: Too hot sex--the kind that romance writers spent years trying to capture in a book, with multiple, simultaneous, screaming, mind-searing orgasm after orgasm. Followed by guilt. Sex with Jasmin, while life altering, always came with a price. She was the kind of woman who had to deconstruct her transgressions--typically with her priest--and make amends for them, one Hail Mary at a time. That Rachel was not Catholic was of little consequence. Jasmin's guilt was large enough to envelop entire cities and easily she settled it around Rachel like an old, unwanted cloak. The hand-holding promise to be strong, to help Jasmin fight the demons that pushed her to be bad, ultimately drove Rachel away. Unlike Jasmin, she didn't see her lesbianism as a sin. The attack on her morality, to elevate her standard, and change her wicked ways became too much burden for Rachel to carry. Even if the sex was Olympic gold medal good.

Jasmin hugged Rachel's thighs, her fingers digging into the meaty part of her ass. She nuzzled the trimmed thatch of hair and snaked out her tongue, barely catching Rachel's clit with the invading swipe. "Stay."