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The Sexual Harassment Suit Will Not Be Filed finale
🕑 Added 2016-07-09 17:02:55 +0000 UTC Emma ignored the fancy fixtures of Regina’s building. The dry art pierces on the wall, the potted plants at every turn in trendy eco-friendliness, the wallpaper that was overbearing enough to insert itself into the prints they bothered to frame. It was a little tacky, actually. Thankfully, Regina’s own apartment was much more tasteful. She knocked at the door.“Ready to go?”
“Just one moment…” Regina said through the door, and Emma wondered if this was what she got for dating a woman who’d been with a guy for fifteen years. Then the door opened and Emma realized oh, yeah, there was a reason people cared about their appearance besides not wanting to be arrested for suspected vagrancy.
Regina wore a simple, sleek blue minidress that left her long legs bare to strappy high heels. There were a few modestly placed transparent panels about her waist, and the short sleeves were mesh as well, adding to the lightness of the dress—like it was caressing her body, and particularly teasingly in a few places. Her hair was down, in a neat little part that tucked behind her ears and stopped in a bob at the nape of her neck, and she wore her contacts instead of the glasses.
It was kinda a shock. Regina looked beautiful, she always looked beautiful, but this was an entirely different kind of beautiful from Power Dyke Secret Kinky Librarian Regina Mills. It was High-Class Escort Regina Mills. Rich Widow Whose Husband Died Under Mysterious Circumstances Regina Mills. Spy Undercover At A Caviar Tasting Party Regina Mills.
Emma decided to go with that last one if Regina asked how she looked.
“How do I look?” Regina asked.
“Like a spy undercover at a caviar-tasting party.”
Regina smiled, too pleased to admonish except for a little bit. “I don’t know where you get this stuff. But it’s very flattering. What about you? Are you changing? I don’t see a garment bag…”
“Not sure I own a garment bag. Sounds like something I’d have if I were a Hobbit. C’mon, we’ll miss the last-week’s-episode preshow.”
Regina tapped two fingers on Emma’s shoulder as she turned to go, stopping her. “I thought we were going to a party. You go to parties dressed like Wolverine, the rugged individualist with a secret code of honor and a heart of gold?”
“Good one.”
“Thanks. I’ve been reading TV Tropes.”
Emma picked at her T-shirt. “It’s a viewing party, Mills. Just a bunch of friends sitting around on the couch, or lying on the floor, watching Game of Thrones. There’ll be chips. There’ll be dip. No caviar.”
Regina blinked. “There’ll be people lying on the floor?”
“Yes.”
“The refreshments will be tortilla chips and salsa?”
“Maybe guacamole, I don’t know.”
Regina looked down at herself. “I’m overdressed.”
“Babe, it’s fine, people wear whatever to these things.”
“Yes, and I’m not wearing ‘whatever,’ I’m wearing Alexis!”
“You name your dresses?”
“I’m changing,” Regina announced, swooping around on her heel.
With a sigh, Emma followed her into the apartment, closing the door behind her. Regina disappeared into her changing room—she had a changing room—and began struggling out of what had no doubt also been a struggle to get into.
“I suppose it would be fun to figure out just how much time Regina takes to throw on a casual look,” Emma mused to herself, glancing at her watch. Then: “Does she have a casual look?”
“Emma?” Regina interrupted her thoughts with a slightly plaintive rendition of her name. Emma looked over to the cracked-open door.
“Yeah, hun?”
“I may be stuck.”
Emma felt the urge to be noble and also thought not now, nobility. “Well, are you stuck or aren’t you stuck? Because if you aren’t, I don’t see how you need my help.”
Regina seethed most pleasingly. Emma could feel it right through the door. “Just get in here.”
Emma went into the dressing room, and any further dad jokes left her mind as she beheld Regina Mills, the subtle flaxen tan of her kind complemented by cream-colored bra and panties that encircled the most interesting areas of a particularly interesting body in patterns of Mills. And then there was a dress over her head.
“This is not funny,” she said, foremost.
Emma glanced at a nearby table, happy to see that Regina ‘dressing down’ included designer label jeans, a gray wool crewneck, and a scarf. Then she resumed glancing at Regina. What was it called when you repeatedly glanced at someone without looking away? Or blinking? And they were sorta naked?
“Emma—“ Regina said seriously, and given everything she said was serious, this was an accomplishment. “If you are taking a picture—“
“Oh no,” Emma interrupted, drawing close. “This is all mine.” She could see Regina’s face through the thin fabric of the dress, inverted around her neck, and just about make out her sourpuss expression. Darting forward, Emma kissed her.
The time they’d kissed in the office had been overwhelming, intoxicating, a roller-coaster climbing up a hill and coming down it all at once. This was much more… controlled. Not all the sight of Regina, not all the taste of her, just her warmth. Her scent. Emma felt tremors through her where there had been volcanos, and it was pleasantly teasing.
“Em-ma…”
She loved that name.
Emma got down on her knees—easy, when you were wearing jeans—and brushed her fingertips scantly over Regina’s ribs, her hips, her thighs. She didn’t think she could speak, but she still wanted to ask permission, and when Regina spread her thighs a little, canted her hips forward, it was all the answer she needed. She took hold of Regina’s panties and peeled them down her thighs, but not over her knees.
She didn’t want Regina naked, not quite, she wanted her to feel her panties down around her thighs and constantly know that they weren’t on her hips, that she was exposed, that she was seen. And Regina quivered for her—knowing it.
And there was her pussy. The soft fleece of her hair, the gentle parting of the lips—an invitation Emma couldn’t refuse. She leaned in, already knowing she would love this part. Licking lightly at Regina’s folds, kissing along the contours of her groin, the sensitive space between her legs but outside her sex where a woman was so rarely touched. Emma loved this almost more than the penetration, the taste—before that, the sweat.
Past teasing, going into foreplay, the little space for just the two of them where she could shower Regina with affection. Not fucking her, not quite, not yet, just pleasing her. Showing her how she was loved. And when her tongue slipped further and further from her control, when it started to explore the moist part in Regina’s labia, felt the beginnings of the pressure inside her… God, she tasted so good…
Regina started to shuffle, shift her weight from foot to foot, try to take the dress all the way off. Either not liking how the dress trapped her arms, blinded her eyes, or ill at ease with how much she did like it. Emma thought it was the second one. Regina had been wet before she’d even started.
She clamped her hands on Regina’s hips, stilling her. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
Emma could’ve sworn she felt Regina clench from six inches away. She went a little harder, just a little harder—long, slow kisses on her core, crushing her lips to it, letting her tongue push just a little more insistently inside. And Regina welcomed her, hot and tight and wet and ready.
Emma brought one hand away from Regina’s hip, keeping the other on her waist as a reminder to hold still, and she took her fingers to Regina’s sex and she petted it, gently, softly, letting it learn the feel of her fingertips on every curve, every fold, every glorious inch. She only touched, she didn’t press.
She loved the part before, the luxuriating in Regina Mills, but how could she decide between that part and this? Between wanting her and having her? Both ached sumptuously—wanting her meant she didn’t have her, but having her meant an end to that delectable tension, the clarity of her lust.
No, she loved all of it, from joking with Regina at the door to this. And she loved just the feel of Regina as she pushed her fingers inside; as her tongue settled in a lazy curl on Regina’s clit, so hard, so needy; as her fingers climbed the inside of her, all tense, all taut, and found that secret little places where Regina’s pleasure lived.
“There you are,” Emma whispered into her cunt, and felt her, and felt her, and felt her.
Whatever resolve Regina had, and it was considerable, it broke in the face of this final, undeniable summit. What had mounted inside her had grown too large to deny and she let out a cry of sheer, shocked, satisfied surprise. Regina went all liquid around Emma, and Emma loved it, and caught her even before her knees started to buckle.
She helped Regina out of the dress. She laid her down on the floor, to pant and open her eyes and realize where she was. And once Regina’s eyes were open, once the ecstasy had faded enough for her mind to come back, Emma kissed her.
She loved it with the dress in the way. But she loved it a little more when it was just Regina—undeniable, indescribable, overpowering Regina.
“That’s how sweet you taste,” she said as she pulled away—and watched Regina lick her lips.
Regina took a deep breath, pleased, girlishly light, and put her hand on Emma’s cheek and mouthed three words quickly, quietly. Then kissed them into Emma’s lips.
And then, in a fit of motion, Regina was back on her feet, pulling her panties up, throwing on the casual clothes she’d laid out. “Now we are going to be late.”
Emma looked around, not quite wanting to watch Game of Thrones with her fingers smelling like—there was hand sanitizer on Regina’s vanity. Of course there was. “I don’t think so,” she replied. “I mean, not only are we both women, but we were only at third base.”
Regina tied her scarf into something intricately simple. “You’d better drive. If you make me laugh too hard, I could crash.”
Emma scooped up Regina’s keys, handed her her purse. “Okay then. Tally ho.”
And just as she started for the door, she felt Regina’s hand in her hair, jerking her head back just roughly enough, sharp teeth at her ear—“Next time you pull a stunt like that, you’d better have a few hours to spare for you to finish the job. Just so you know.”
“Absolutely, boss.”
“Good,” Regina husked, and released her, hand dropping down to slap Emma’s ass. “Now please hurry,” she concluded, all business once more. All crazy-hot business. “Punctuality is a sign of respect, you know.”
Emma hurried before her. She didn’t know if she loved Power Dyke Secret Kinky Librarian Regina Mills more than Spy Undercover At A Caviar Tasting Party Regina Mills, or taking a little sip of a kiss from Regina versus the overpowering truth of really kissing her. But she definitely liked being topped by Regina just a little more than doing the topping.
After all, she’d already done that tonight. Wouldn’t want it to get old.
