The Sensual Woman
Everyone who has survived was someone else before. And before, sober and sensible Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies, was a blatant sensualist.
She was one of those people who improvises off a recipe, and has to have a taste-tester there while she's working.
And she would lick the spoon, making little happy noises of appreciation.
While barefoot and blasting her favorite jazz CD.
Her fingers smelling like the herbs she crushes. Hair pulled up loosely. Sweater, if she's wearing one, turned up so it's past her elbows. Flour smudges up her cheekbone and across her forehead.
(And it's so easy to make the past the present, to walk in those memories.)
There is a large bunch of fresh flowers on the table, usually not roses. And the windows are always open.
She framed her favorite bits of student artwork over the years and she looks at it wistfully sometimes.
The whole place is wide open, so that when Laura has dinner parties they can circulate freely while she cooks.
And there are always dinner parties.
There is good wine at these parties. Other people usually bring it, though. They're always horrified when they pour a glass for Laura and she adds most of it to whatever sauce she's prepping.
And if there's a boyfriend -- Adar, whoever -- she'll dance up against him while they're cleaning up, absently finishing glasses of wine to make up for what she didn't have during the party.
Because the stereo is playing torch songs and there are candles burning down. They smell good, like wax and something richer.
And the good food and the good wine and even the company have relaxed her utterly, and Laura's so pleased with herself for pulling another lovely evening off.
She has all the best political gossip. Part of her is planning how she'll use it as carefully as she planned the party, and as deliberately as she's planning how the rest of the evening will go.
Laura, in short, is as happy as a clam.
He's warm, the man brushing against her. Or she's warm, if it's a woman and Laura doesn't have to play straight right this second. And she's in that place where every sense is awake and already stimulated, and she wants to indulge her hedonistic side to the brim.
So she starts unbuttoning her blouse, button by button as she leads her lover toward the bedroom, and she's totally forgotten she forgot to put on shoes for the party.
"All the gods' children got shoes but Laura," is a byword.
She wiggles her toes in the deep plush of her bedroom carpet, blouse hanging off her shoulders, almost forgotten. The other woman undoes Laura's updo and draws the mass around her face and across her neck.
The bed is huge, and stacked with pillows. And the duvet cover is heavy around a feather quilt. It's a million different colors, patches of silk and satin stitched together with gold embroidery and patterns. The air smells like jasmine and vanilla, and the long black skirt Laura was wearing falls to the floor easily.
It's summertime, so the windows are open and the air is slightly cool.
They don't turn the lights on, because the sun is fading but not gone, and it picks out highlights in the fabrics and in their hair. Laura gets gooseflesh as her lover draws her hands up her arms and down her stomach, and she pulls them back onto the bed in order to feel warm flesh and cool fabric sliding against her skin.
Her lover's mouth tastes like the raspberry sauce Laura made for dessert, with the faintest hint of lemon. And the thigh between her own is insistent, as is the hand on her breast and the one on her hip.
It feels so good, to kiss and kiss, moving slowly and letting the urgency build. Laura pulls off her lover's sundress and cups her breasts, dragging thumbs across the hardening nipples. She can't get enough touch, enough feeling.
The sheets pick up some of the heat of the twisting, turning lovers, but are still soft and comfortable on bare skin. Laura triumphantly looks down at her lover, and finds herself suddenly flat on her back, being tickled and teased by long fingers and nipping teeth. They are both laughing heartily, skin getting sweatier. The air more humid and warm with skin-smell.
Laura giggles as her lover licks at a ticklish spot just above her hip, mouth hot and wet until she stops and blows cool air over the damp skin, and Laura throws her head back and gasps. She grips the headboard above her, stretching her body out and glancing down with dancing eyes as her lover snaps the elastic of her underwear.
Her lover is graceful, sliding away that last scrap of fabric before spreading willing legs, hands taking the time to enjoy the feeling of Laura's legs beneath them while Laura wriggles and complains and groans at the friction which is not where she wants it, even as every touch makes her wetter.
Laura's trembling as her lover presses kisses onto the inside of her thighs. "Please, dammit," she growls, hips jerking under strong hands. Her lover smiles and obeys, finally drawing that tongue against the right spot, flickering and tasting and Laura whimpers.
Fingernails skitter across Laura's hip as her lover's tongue moves roughly against her. And the warm breath feels cool compared to Laura's fevered skin, hair tickling against Laura. And Laura moans, hips rolling up needily.
"Oh gods oh gods oh gods," she chants, letting go of the headboard, twisting the sheets in her hands. Her lover chuckles, sending a shiver up Laura's spine and back down to the heat pooling in her belly. One finger teases at Laura's opening and she writhes downward.
Laura is moaning and her hair is slick with sweat as two fingers start twisting inside of her, and everything goes tight and sweet and swimmy for her as she tightens. She's so close, and her back is arching, her voice hoarse and needy.
"Come for me now," her lover murmurs.
Laura cries out helplessly as she convulses, waves of sensation tingling along her skin, leaving her limp and smiling and light-headed. Her lover eases her back down, soothing and petting before crawling up her body to press gentle kisses along her collarbone.
Boneless, Laura leans over to kiss upturned lips, sticky with herself, and caress the curve of the woman's hip and stomach, thumb spiraling outward from the belly button.
"I want to do wicked things to you," Laura promises in a rum-and-tobacco voice, still so relaxed and yes, blissed out, that she can't manage more than to feel her lover's skin and muscle beneath her fingertips, waiting for Laura to stroke her into action.
The other woman kisses her ear and stretches out, apparently in no hurry, and as Laura recovers, her hands grow more questing and confident. Soon enough, Laura's lover is screaming, her hands twisted in Laura's hair.
When they're both spent, it's too much to even think of getting up. Instead, they lie atop the covers and let the breeze through the windows cool their sweat-damp skin.
Laura practically purrs with satisfaction as she curls into her lover's side and draws a sheet over them. "Did you enjoy dinner?" she asks huskily.
"It was delicious," her lover replies sleepily, spooning against Laura lazily. "But I preferred dessert."