Scissor Link, Georgette Kaplan [best 7 inch ereader .TXT] 📗

saw Roberta, seeing her. She held her hand up in whatever greeting she could manage. Roberta waved at her. She waved good-bye.

“You know yoga doesn’t have any proven health benefits?” Wendy said in her ear. “The science just isn’t there.”

EPILOGUE

Wendy ignored the fancy fixtures of Janet’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, Janet’s own apartment was much more tasteful. She knocked at the door.

“Ready to go?”

“Just one moment,” Janet said through the door, then it opened and Wendy realized oh, yeah, there was a reason people cared about their appearance besides not wanting to be arrested for suspected vagrancy.

Janet wore a simple, sleek blue mini-dress 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—as if it were 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 kind of a shock. Janet looked beautiful, she always looked beautiful, but this was an entirely different kind of beautiful from Power Dyke Secret Kinky Librarian Janet Lace. It was High-Class Escort Janet Lace. Rich Widow Whose Husband Died Under Mysterious Circumstances Janet Lace. Spy Undercover At A Caviar Tasting Party Janet Lace.

Wendy decided to go with that last one if Janet asked how she looked.

“How do I look?” Janet asked.

“Like a spy undercover at a caviar-tasting party.”

Janet smiled, too pleased to admonish except for a little bit. “I don’t know where you get this stuff. But it’s very flattering.”

“You should see the first drafts,” Wendy replied. “Just be glad I’ve never compared you to a sexy Buddy Holly.”

Janet’s hand automatically went to where her glasses weren’t. “Funny. 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, or we’ll miss the last-week’s-episode preshow and Tina will eat all the dip.”

Janet tapped two fingers on Wendy’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.”

Wendy picked at her T-shirt. “It’s a viewing party, Lace. 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.”

Janet blinked. “There’ll be people lying on the floor?”

“Yes.”

“The refreshments will be tortilla chips and salsa?”

“Maybe guacamole, I don’t know.”

Janet looked down at herself. “I’m overdressed.”

“Babe, it’s fine, it’s my sister’s place, people wear whatever.”

“Yes, and I’m not wearing ‘whatever,’ I’m wearing Alexis!”

“You name your dresses?”

“I’m changing,” Janet announced, swooping around on her heel.

With a sigh, Wendy followed her into the apartment, closing the door behind her. Janet 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 Janet takes to throw on a casual look,” Wendy mused to herself, glancing at her watch. Then: “Does she have a casual look?”

“Wendy?” Janet interrupted her thoughts with a slightly plaintive rendition of her name. Wendy looked over to the cracked-open door.

“Yeah, hon?”

“I may be stuck.”

Wendy 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.”

Janet seethed most pleasingly. Wendy could feel it right through the door. “Just get in here.”

Wendy went into the dressing room, and any further dad jokes left her mind as she beheld Janet Lace, the subtle flaxen tan of her skin complemented by cream-colored bra and panties that encircled the most interesting areas of a particularly interesting body in patterns of lace. And there was a dress over her head.

“This is not funny,” Janet said.

Wendy glanced at a nearby table, happy to see that Janet’s version of dressing down included designer label jeans, a gray wool crewneck, and a scarf. Then she resumed glancing at Janet. What was it called when you repeatedly glanced at someone without looking away? Or blinking? And they were sort of naked?

“Wendy—” Janet said seriously, and given everything she said was serious, this was an accomplishment. “If you are taking a picture—”

“Oh no,” Wendy interrupted, drawing close. “This is all mine.” She could see Janet’s face through the thin fabric of the dress, inverted around her neck, and just about make out her sourpuss expression. Darting forward, Wendy 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 Janet, not all the taste of her, just her warmth. Her scent. Wendy felt tremors through her where there had been volcanos, and it was pleasantly teasing.

“Wendy…”

She loved that name.

Wendy got down on her knees—easy, when you were wearing jeans—and brushed her fingertips scantly over Janet’s ribs, her hips, her thighs. She didn’t think she could speak, but she still wanted to ask permission, and when Janet spread her thighs a little, canted her hips forward, it was all the answer she needed. She took hold of Janet’s panties and peeled them down her thighs, but not over her knees.

She didn’t want Janet naked, not quite, she wanted her to feel her panties down around her thighs and constantly know that they