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Joan runs a scrutinizing gaze down her deputy as she stands on her doorstep, taking pleasure in the rosy flush it creates across the petite woman’s skin. Ingenues always blush in the most appealing shades of pink. Vera bows her head submissively under the stare.
Her flowing top, a navy background covered in soft shades of pink floral, complements her olive skin. The material a fine quality, a splurge for the modest deputy, that Joan resists the urge to reach out and stroke between her fingers.
The timid woman produces a bottle of Russian Standard, perhaps a sacrificial offering; appease the Gods, show them your loyalty, lest they feast on you. Joan permits a phantom of a smile as she accepts, impressed by Vera’s rather astute selection. She steps back, extending a graceful arm, inviting her...protege...inside.
Vera follows, like the sheep she still remains. With an amused smirk Joan leads her to the kitchen, where a bottle of shiraz is breathing on the counter, two spotless crystal glasses gleaming almost magically under the artfully placed track lighting overhead.
Vera cautions a quick glance around the tasteful abode, it’s muted colors creating a pleasing and sumptuous appeal, despite the rather minimalistic and museum-like design. Her eyes fall back to the governor as she offers her a glass with a silent toast, her smile barely creasing her porcelain cheeks. “Make yourself comfortable while I finish this,” she says as she returns to preparing the meal.
Vera watches as Joan moves about the kitchen with her confident yet fluid stride. In this setting, away from the critical eyes at the prison and crisp lines of the governors uniform, Joan exudes a grace and softer beauty that Vera finds bewitching. In truth, Joan always has that effect on her. She’s in awe of the confidence and command Joan possesses, but yet...there’s something more.
From the oven Joan produces an expertly crafted dish that Vera doesn’t recognize on the whole, only a few of the individual ingredients, but it smells divine. She sets it on the counter with a smile, a real smile, that sends a twinge of...something, in Vera’s chest. A second dish of precisely cubed and roasted potatoes with carrots follows. Joan gestures to the dish on the counter and bides Vera follow her with it to the table. Of course, Vera obeys instantly.
Joan returns momentarily to the kitchen, returning to the table with a previously chilled vodka bottle and two frost-dusted shot glasses. Vera smiles with pride when she sees the label- Russian Standard. In a chivalrous display, Joan pulls out Vera’s chair and with another blush the smaller woman sits. Joan smiles inwardly at the expected, albeit desired effect and commits this third blush to memory.
With a graceful descent, Joan takes a seat and shakes ice-streaked ebony locks behind her shoulders. She sweeps the garnet napkin into her lap and leans across the table to pour them each a shot of vodka. A tantalizing hint of cleavage appears at the v-neck of her olive green shirt and Vera catches herself staring, inexplicably, but undeniably drawn to the succulently rounded skin. She peels her gaze away as Joan sets down the bottle, handing a frosty glass to Vera. Vera takes it and their fingers touch, sending a pleasant tingle up her arm. She smiles shyly and sets the glass near her plate.
“This looks incredible...Joan. You didn’t need to go through so much trouble,” her feeling of unworthiness apparent in her small voice.
“Nonsense Vera, it was no trouble at all. Besides, you deserve it.” Joan replies in her authoritative tone, permitting a small smile to her deputy, setting the bait though the catch was likely secured as soon as she walked in the door.
Blush four, committed to memory.
The meal is Russian and consumed with small talk, Joan allowing Vera the guise of leading the conversation. The curious deputy asks questions about the objects in the room; the violin, the epee, the mask, the photo of young Joan and her father. Joan gives shrouded answers that Vera swallows up greedily, just like the second shot of cool vodka.
After the meal, Vera insists on helping with the dishes, claiming it’s the least she can do. There’s such an eagerness to please in her gaze that Joan relents and directs Vera to wash, though she assumes she’ll have to do it again later, expecting Vera to not meet her standards of cleanliness. She’s surprised, however, when she does and finds herself enjoying the act of domesticity, if only momentarily.
The cleanup is finished and they return to the shiraz to accompany the dessert she retrieves from the fridge. She cuts two portions of the chilled cake, placing one before Vera at the kitchen island, taking a seat on the stool next to her with the second. She turns on the ipod across the room, a raspy Russian voice sets the mood.
Ocean eyes grow wide with delight as she dips her fork into the decadent treat. A delicious moan escapes her lips when she takes the first bite, her skin now gloriously flushed from the alcohol. Joan swallows at the erotic image. The allure is dangerously enticing.
“What is this, it’s amazing?” Vera asks after a few bites.
“It’s called medovik; a Russian honey cake. It’s been my favorite since childhood.” A small truth, that Vera finds just as sweet as the honey. She wants more, but she’s cautious of the bee.
“Did you make this too?” she asks instead.
“No, I’m afraid not. I never managed to master the art. This was made by special request at a very fine Russian restaurant in the city. It’s not something they serve on their menu, but I know the owners.” She flashes a conspiratorial smile and Vera feels that twinge again.
Joan watches, waits, sizing up her prey, analyzing the moment and just how far Vera’s curiosity will compel her. She prepares for the strike of timid inquisition, but Vera doesn’t speak, only continues to consume the honey laid before her.
The next song begins and the commanding male voice begs attention. It’s striking, gravelly in tenor and captivating. Vera turns to listen. Joan watches, bemused at her deputy’s reaction. After a long moment, Vera finally speaks.
“What is this music?”
“It’s Vladimir Vysotsky. He was a Russian poet, singer and actor.” Vera nods, a curious flash in her eyes. Joan rises from her stool, taking the empty plates to the sink and grabbing another bottle of shiraz from the wine rack across the kitchen.
“So your appreciation for Russian culture goes beyond their culinary offerings then.” Vera asks as she rises from her stool to move closer to Joan across the end of the island. It’s an uncharacteristically eloquent and observant statement from the normally simple woman. Joan rewards her with a genuine smile and another sliver of truth.
“Blame it on heritage...My father was half Russian.” The revelation comes as an exciting surprise to Vera. She could only ever dream of being so... exotic .
“Do you speak it?” She asks in earnest as she leans against the counter.
“A little, though I’ve lost some of the ability through disuse.”
She watches Vera as she listens, her eyes cast vacantly to a spot across the room. The pop of the cork pulls her from her introspection.
“What’s he saying?”
“What do you think he’s saying, Vera?” Joan counters. It’s a test; a riddle to judge the smaller woman’s depth. Vera ponders for a moment, jumping head first into a game she does not see.
“He sounds angry.” She decides.
Joan offers her another glass of wine as the song ends and takes a long swallow from her own before rounding the counter to stand in front of Vera.
“On the surface, perhaps. You’re responding to the initial feeling, the one you feel here.” In a bold and wholly unexpected move, she lifts her right hand and places it, palm down, fingers wide on Vera’s lower belly. The spread of it reaches almost completely across the expanse of Vera’s small frame. She feels the tremble beneath her elegant fingers and raises challenging eyes to meet Vera’s shocked expression.
“I’ll play it again, and this time listen from here and tell me what you hear.” She removes her hand slowly and replaces it just above Vera’s left breast, indicating the fluttering muscle beneath. After a measured pause, she removes it and plays the song again.
They stand side by side in silence as the raspy voice engulfs the room. Joan watches through hooded eyes as Vera closes hers to listen...feel...the message behind the song. Delicate lips part unconsciously and Joan inhales sharply at the sight. The song ends and slowly Vera opens her eyes.
“Now? Tell me what you feel.” Joan urges, glass of wine drawn to her luscious lips.
“Despair.” Vera replies simply, ocean eyes glassy as they gaze ahead.
“Good,” she purrs and Vera turns to meet her gaze.
“See, you are more intuitive than you think, Vera. You should trust your instincts more.” The smile she offers now oozes with seduction. Vera lowers her gaze to Joan’s shoulder as a crimson blush burns her ears. Another snapshot to add to the collection , Joan muses inwardly.
The next song begins and the coincidence is too tempting to ignore. Like a fox stalking her prey, Joan plans her move. She sets down her glass of wine, leaning dangerously close across Vera’s chest to reach the counter. It’s not necessary, but she finds these involuntary flashes of color across her deputy’s smooth skin too delectable to resist.
“Do you dance Vera?” Her dark, seductive gaze is met with bemused blue eyes.
“I...umm...I’ve not done it much.” She confesses, still a bit baffled by the question.
Joan extends her hand. There’s a long pause before Vera anxiously accepts it.
“I...don’t know what I’m doing.” Vera laughs nervously.
“Don’t worry...I’ll lead.” Joan replies with a knowing smile. She leads Vera to the middle of the room and lifts their joined hands, slipping her right arm beneath Vera’s left, grazing her hand slowly into position along Vera’s shoulder blade. She draws her in close and Vera gasps. Joan wishes she could see the full glory of the blush that undoubtedly colors Vera’s chest.
She starts slow and simple, giving her deputy time to catch the pattern. She picks up quickly, good girl, so Joan progresses to a few more advanced moves, turning them together in the center of the room. Vera begins to relax in her arms, her eyes finally breaking from the security of Joan’s shoulder. She hazards a gaze upwards and is met with an odd expression on Joan’s face. Her chest flutters under the watchful gaze and she turns her head, looking out into the empty room. After a slightly awkward turn that Joan manages to recover, Vera breaks the silence.
“What’s this one about?” She leans back to look Joan in the face. Her cheeks are rosy from the wine and heat between their bodies. Joan finds herself aroused and quickly turns Vera in her arms, pulling the smaller woman’s back into the curves of her body, their arms crossed at Vera’s waist. She leans forward, coal black hair tickling Vera’s cheek.
“Friendship.” She husks cooly into the shell of Vera’s ear.
“Ho….how so?” The shudder in her voice produces a delicious hum in Joan’s body.
“He says…” she begins slowly, leaning closer still, to rest her cheek gently on the crown of Vera’s head. Vera’s breath hitches and Joan’s arms grow tighter around her waist as they continue to sway with the melody.
“If you want to test the loyalty of a friend, you should take them mountain climbing. If the friend should refuse, or if he should go, but complain and offer no assistance on the journey, he is not loyal.” She spins Vera out, then back again, settling this time above the opposite ear.
“However, if he should accept and climb and help you when you fall, in spite of his complaints, his loyalty is guaranteed.”
Lips and warm breath glance across her neck and ear as she’s spun out another time. Joan draws her in, then dips her, effortlessly supporting her as she makes the heady descent. She’s being tested, she knows it now, and her stomach bursts into a thousand butterflies. How desperately she wants to pass Joan’s inquisition.
A strong forearm supports her back and the opposite hand slips beneath her hair to cradle her neck, offering support as she rises. She meets Joan’s fiery gaze as she’s pulled back in, long fingers trailing down her neck to the hollow of her throat before peeling off to reclaim their position behind her shoulder blade.
The song has already ended, and yet, they dance. Joan orchestrating the gentle sway of their hips, breath growing shallow inside both breasts.
“So, tell me Vera, where does your loyalty lie?” Joan finally proposes the question, little more than a husky murmur, and Vera doesn’t falter.
“With you, Joan. Alway with you.” comes the faithful whisper.
Her guiding hand releases Vera’s and comes to rest on a rosy cheek. Dropping her guard, she leans down and grants a tender kiss, leaving them both breathless and wanting more.
The blush that stains Vera’s chest threatens to consume Joan entirely.