Rising, Dylan put a tender hand on Cat’s shaking shoulder and gathered her into an embrace. Cat struggled for a moment, her anger overwhelming, but
Dylan’s hold didn’t loosen, and after a moment, she gave into the inevitable, finally resting her hot face against the silken skin of her lover’s chest.
“Sweetheart,” Dylan murmured in a low, soothing voice, “when I said it was alright, I meant it. This…whoring…isn’t anything new for me. It’s all part of the
game I’ve been playing since High School. It was just a lot more discrete back then. Do you think anyone was paying me to be seen at oh-so public events
with Thad Hunter or any one of the legion of men I’ve been seen with over the years?” When Cat didn’t answer, she continued. “If he couldn’t use you as
an excuse, he would have come up with another one, or even none at all. It’s part of the game, and I accept that.”
“It’s not fair,” Cat mumbled, her anger slowly leaking away in the strength of Dylan’s embrace.
“No, it isn’t. But if it keeps him off my back, and lets me have some peace in my life, it’s worth it. I have no regrets.”
Cat slowly lifted her head, eyes shining with tears not-quite dried. “None?”
“None.” And with that, Dylan lowered her head and gave Cat a kiss that erased every single doubt—and every single thought—from Cat’s head.
An hour later, they were back in their same positions on the floor, sipping the promised plum wine as their heated bodies slowly cooled. With an idle hand,
Cat flipped open the folder that Dylan had dropped on their nest when she came back with the wine. What she saw caused her to choke on that wine, and
she sat up, eyes glued to the glossy print in front of her. “Jesus Christ!!”
“What?” Dylan asked, startled out of her pleasant daze. “What is it?”
“This!” Cat shouted, thrusting the paper into her partner’s face.
Taking the glossy, Dylan examined it, impressed with the attention to detail. It was an incredibly lifelike drawing of two figures—herself and Marquis
Jackson, the reigning king of the NBA—pressed chest to chest, belly to belly, melded together all along their lengths. Sweat beaded brightly against their
naked skin; his a deep ebony, hers a beautifully contrasting ivory. Both were naked save for their feet. Marquis was clad in white Nikes with a black
swoosh, and Dylan in the opposite. Artistically, it was breathtaking, and she understood fully why Johnson was salivating over it. If it looked this good as a
simple drawing, Dylan could only imagine what it would look like with live bodies and expert photography.
“You’re not saying anything,” Cat commented in a dangerously low voice. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
Dylan lowered the mock-up and found herself bathed in pure green fire. She fancied she could feel her insides roasting under the heat of Cat’s glare and
was, quite uncharacteristically, at a complete loss for words.
Cat’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t tell me you don’t see anything wrong with this…this….this…travesty!”
So, this is what being caught between Scylla and Charibdes feels like. Shit.
Cat’s eyes gradually widened at Dylan’s continuing silence, and she peered down at her lover, examining her like some particularly atrocious species of
bug she’d just discovered stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “You don’t see anything wrong with this, do you.” Her voice was deceptively soft, but carried the
thunder of a summer storm in its undertones. “I don’t believe this.”
Coming to her feet, she grabbed for her clothes in a series of jerky motions so unlike her usual smooth grace that Dylan could only stare in stunned
disbelief. Finally, she found her voice and coaxed it out of hiding. “Cat?”
Pulling on her t-shirt, and not realizing it was inside out, Cat pinned her lover with another glare. “No. You just…do whatever it is you feel you have to do. I
know where the door is. I’ll let myself out.”
“But….”
“Goodnight, Coach. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
Everything in Dylan wanted to jump up and prevent Cat from following through on her actions, but her more rational mind told her it would be one of the
larger mistakes in her life to go after Cat now, when she was this angry. At her.
She was totally unaware of crumbling the glossy mock-up in one clenching fist as she watched, helplessly, as Cat stalked from the house, slamming the
door behind her.
Dylan collapsed against the pillows, running her free hand through her hair. “Fuck.”
Cat cried all the way home. She cried once she was inside the door. She cried as she lay across her bed, wishing she could stop crying.
Why should she be mad? Dylan was a grown woman and if she wanted to do pornographic ads that was up to her. She didn’t have anything but a few
nights of …
Of what?
Cat considered it. She had blurted out to Dylan that she loved her. Did she love her or was she just saying that because her mother had pushed the
envelope?
She rolled over on her back, angrily swiping at her cheeks to keep the tears from rolling down her face. String at the ceiling of her bedroom, she considered
