It was nice to have the evening off. It was nice to be away from all those dead bodies and the smell of formaldehyde for once. But that didn’t matter now. Vicky Po was spending the evening with her best girl friend, Sara Pezzini, sipping Dolcetto, eating Chinese takeout from their favorite restaurant, listening to the somewhat classical stylings of Bond, and discussing men, careers, and new experiences when Vicky found herself apologizing for the things she had said to Sara a few weeks earlier at a party they had attended and she had gotten a little too drunk.

“You probably think I’m an ass,” Vicky said as she looked down at her chicken chow mein and not at Sara. “I didn’t mean to come on to you like that. You know me and drinking.”

“I gotta admit, I was flattered,” she replied, “But its okay. I know you weren’t yourself that night.”

Vicky blushed. She was relieved to hear that. She looked up for the plate in her lap to see Sara grab her wine glass from the coffee table and take a sip of her Dolcetto. Then she asked something she had always wanted to ask from the moment she felt they had become more than friends. “So, have you ever thought about it?”

“What?” Sara screeched, her green eyes wide, searching. Then comprehension, “With you?”

“I mean,” Vicky stumbled, trying to recover as quickly as possible, “with another woman.” God! That wine was really getting to her! Maybe now was a good time to stop drinking.

But the conversation had already taken them down a road they never would had thought of traveling before. “I always found you attractive,” one of them said. “I had a secret crush on you when we were in training,” said the other. Both knew they were drunk, but the prospects of this conversation were quite interesting. They sat on the couch for a couple more moments just staring at each other wondering how it had gotten this far when Sara finally stood up and began taking the excess food into the kitchen. Vicky followed with the empty paper plates, throwing them away as she passed the sink and headed towards the fridge where Sara still stood, her mind reeling.

Cornering her where she stood, Vicky pressed her up against a cabinet, kissing her hungrily, aggressively. She pulled up her tee shirt and brushed across her cleavage and along the sides of her breasts. She could feel the firmness through the fabric of her bra. Vicky pulled away to see Sara’s eyes closed and her dark eyelashes standing out in the contrast of her pale skin. She then began kissing her again, tugging at her pants, wanting to touch her. She trailed her fingers beneath the denim that covered her, teasing her by dipping her fingers just inside her panties, but not quite touching her where she wanted to be touched. Sara gasped and moaned ever so softly as Vicky kissed her harder to make her quiet, biting her lip then moving her lips to her neck and nipping her there.

Vicky pulled away, sensing the tension that was quickly creeping up on her friend. “I’m so sorry,” she nearly whispered as she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room to grab her coat, which lay on the back of the couch. When she turned around, she realized that Sara had walked up behind her and had her pinned against the couch.

“Don’t be,” Sara whispered back, leaning in for a soft, light kiss, nothing like the first one, but still fanning the flame of passion that was now lit between them. She took Vicky’s hand and began leading her into the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door, lit a couple of candles, and turned on some music.

Vicky sat down on her bed, watching her. She felt strange, but the sensation quickly drifted away as Sara sat down beside her. “Chopin,” Vicky said, hoping to sound a bit more relaxed. “How nice. I always liked classical music. Didn’t know you liked…”

“You talk to much,” Sara replied, mercifully taking control away from her, ending her babbling with a sweet and tender kiss. Vicky could feel herself fall into her, arms wrapping around her body. Her hands worked quickly to pull the shirt over her head, and are slowed in a struggle with the hook of her bra, the reward coming when her breasts brushed against her palms.

Vicky couldn’t believe this was happening, what she was doing. “You’re beautiful,” she said to Sara. “I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are.”

“You sound like a soap opera,” Sara retorted. Vicky laughed as did she. After a long pause, they looked at each other knowing what was going to happen next.

Vicky stood up and began to undress herself as Sara watched her. It turned her on to think that she was not seeing her as a friend, but as a lover, as someone who would bring her pleasure. Vicky pulled Sara free of her remaining jeans and underwear and they kissed again, getting tangled up with each other.

The candlelight warmed Sara’s body as Vicky kissed her in every place the soft light touched. She watched as she traced a wet figure eight around her nipples and down the sides of her breasts. Sara sighed softly letting her know she was doing something good.

Vicky was hungry for her, and her mouth seemed to have a spirit of its own as she glided her lips over every inch of her; between her breasts, down her belly to her clit; and when she moaned, she heard her name, “Vicky,” come softly from her mouth. She moved her tongue down her thighs, teasing. “Vicky,” Sara signed, “Don’t stop… Don’t stop.” Her fingers brushed lighting through her hair, letting her know that she wanted her. Vicky plunged her tongue into her warm wetness, gently sucking on her clit.

It happened in slow motion; they moved together and became sensual shadows on the wall. They became hands, lips, tongues, thrown against it, larger than life. Vicky watched Sara’s face while her hands did the work, their hips moving in time to her strokes. Sara’s dark hair fanned out against the cover on the bed, her eyes closed, lips parted only a fraction, looking like a vision. She threw her head back, her hair trailing a wave across the covers. Her face fascinated Vicky, how it changed from desire to rapture as she climaxed against her hand.

Vicky brushed the fringe from her face. Sara’s skin was soft and warm, and Vicky found herself feeling secretly possessive of her. She twisted a tuft of her hair round and round her fingers, feeling somehow changed by what had just happened. Sara looked at her and she could see that she was tried.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Next time,” Vicky replied, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin from the cleft between her breasts and nuzzling her neck. It was optimistic of her to think there would be a next time.

There wasn’t.

They met for lunch the following day, both too embarrassed to talk about what had happened the night before. Vicky felt lost, her feeling so confused. She really loved Jake, but she wanted Sara. Was she gay? Was she straight? She knew Sara was definitely straight.

“I like guys,” she said, braking them into the subject. “You and me – it was great, but it can’t happen again. I value your friendship too much. This would just get in the way. And there’s Jake.”

“Okay,” Vicky replied. Sara looked at her knowingly. “I understand. You’re right.” She smiled. It did happen! She wanted to say. It did happen ant it was special. She wanted more. She wanted to be with Sara again and touch her again, but didn’t say a word. They stopped talking about the subject altogether as Sara began asking about a current case she was working on.

They hugged before Sara left, before she got on her bike to go back to work. Vicky hung around for her just a moment too long and let go of her reluctantly. Sara waved and Vicky headed back to her office below ground, away from everything, away from this crazy thing she called her life, feeling lonely, isolated, and hurt like never before. She caught a whiff of Sara’s skin just before she began walking down the street, letting it tease her memory. The breeze picked up and the scent soon disappeared with it. She glanced at her watch and walked on. The phone was ringing when she entered. She made a mad dash before her voicemail did. Vicky picked up the phone, hearing her voice and there it all was again. “Sara,” she said, thinking of Dolcetto and Chopin and the scent of her skin.