“I have no clue what actually goes into a sex talk.”
“I’m not exactly sure either,” Sadie admitted.
“Is there some kind of template out there? Maybe a checklist? Hold on, let’s do a search.”
In less than a minute, she was scrolling through results on her phone.
“Let me see.” Sadie got up, coming over to sit next to Anne, and then craned her head to look at the screen. At that proximity, the heat from her body was palpable. “My, my, my. The internet seems to have a very different definition of ‘sex talk’ than we do. Look atthatwebsite. ‘Lesbian Foreplay: Dirty Chat Tips to Spice Up Your Sexting.’”
“We are absolutely not clicking on that,” Anne said, too quickly.
“‘Let Your Dominant Girlfriend Guide You To—’”
Face on fire, Anne clicked the phone shut and tossed it onto the other bed. “We’re two intelligent women. We don’t need some ad-infested website. Let’s just figure it out on our own, all right?”
“All right,” Sadie agreed.
But neither of them seemed to know how to start.
Part of the problem was distraction; while they sat there, next to each other, Anne’s skin hummed with new awareness, a low, electric drone that buzzed across her flesh.
Sadie’s hands were resting on top of her thighs. Anne wasn’t looking down, but she was sure anyway. Somehow, her body knew where every bit of Sadie was, just like it knew gravity or how to wake up.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said finally. “Men were always easy. There was a kind of formula to it, like a part I’d memorized, and now there’s nothing to memorize. What if I say the wrong thing to you? Or do the wrong thing? What if you don’t like—” No. That was too close to some primal cord of fear Anne couldn’t bring herself to touch. “I guess what I’m asking is—what do I do?”
“One small step at a time, beloved,” Sadie said softly. “You could start by taking my hand.”
Shaking, Anne obeyed.
A clumsy second and then she had her reward: the thrilling friction of Sadie’s fingers as their hands moved together, interlocking. Instantly, all of Anne’s attention rerouted to the extraordinary press of warm skin on skin.
“How do you like to be kissed?” Sadie asked. “I suppose we could discuss that first.”
Anne thought about it, and after a few moments, realized she had no answer. Shame and anxiety clotted in her throat. She didn’t know. She was sixty years old, she’d been sexually active since high school, and she had no idea how she liked to be kissed.
What was the right answer? What should she say?
“There’s no right answer,” Sadie said gently, as though she’d read Anne’s mind. “Would it help if I told you what I like?”
Gratitude washed over Anne. “Please do.”
“All right, then.” A soft squeeze of Anne’s hand. “Authenticity matters more to me than anything else. I need the person I’m kissing to truly mean it. No hesitation. The way you kissed me earlier, at your house”—Sadie flexed her hand briefly in Anne’s, then relaxed—“that was very, very nice. Just the way I like it. You did so well.”
Anne exhaled, feeling like she’d passed a test.
“My neck,” Sadie added. “I like being kissed there.”
Oh. She’d been so focused on the idea of Sadie’s mouth that she’d nearly forgotten there were other places to kiss.
“My shoulders, too. The inside of my arms. I’m unusually sensitive there.”
“Your arms?”
“Of course. Hasn’t anyone ever kissed your arms before?”
Anne thought back as far as she could. “No.”
“Oh, Anne.” A surprising amount of emotion laced Sadie’s voice. “That’s awful. Your arms should be kissed as often as possible. They’re beautiful.”