Eight sticky-sweet lesbian love stories. Originally published as highly-rated individual short stories on Literotica, now available as a convenient ebook anthology.
A regular lunchtime customer becomes a hot date in "Catch of the Day." In another restaurant-centered tale, "Cilantro and Onions" features a May-September romance with all its ups and downs. A butch tow truck driver helps a stranded college student with repairs and more in "Come and Rescue Me."
"Lemongrass" features the high school prom you’ll wish you had attended, and an ending that lets you know there’s more romance in store. "Red and the Wolf" puts old enemies together in a sweet story that’s nothing like the fairy tale. "Speedy Delivery" is another May-September tale that starts with a stolen bike and blossoms into an unlikely romance.
The devil’s daughter is running things in daddy’s absence in "Sympathy for the Devil," and life quickly heats up when a new resident comes calling. "Viva La Gloria" starts on a rooftop and ends in romance with a chance encounter by two young women.
If you enjoy tales of women helping women, first-time romance, chance meetings blossoming into something more, or old enemies falling in love, this book is for you!
“What can I get you?” she asks.
I fix my eyes on the counter top for the moment, wanting desperately to stare openly, to take her all in, but at the same time not wanting to appear creepy or rude. Decorum wins out.
“Two chicken tacos,” I say to the scarred and battered laminate of the counter. “With cilantro and onions.”
She mutters an okay, and I sneak a quick look at her face before dropping my gaze again.
In my mind I still see her -- nut-brown eyes, mottled with flecks of amber around the outside. Cheeks beautifully sculpted and slightly rosy, though if the color comes naturally or from the heat of working in the kitchen, I do not know. I do know she’s smiling.
My heart skips a beat.
“You sure you don’t want anything else?” she asks. “Cheese? Tomatoes? Sour cream?”
I shake my head. “Cilantro and onions. And water to drink, please.”
With guilty pleasure, I lift my gaze enough to watch her slender fingers punching the buttons of the cash register that separates us -- proprietor and customer, beautiful middle-aged woman and hopeless young romantic.
I fixate on her fingernails as she is efficiently punching in the price of my order. Her nails are nothing like my mother’s, expertly sculpted and bathed in a coat of shiny red once a week without fail, or even my own, that are kept short by a nervous habit I have had since childhood. The woman operating the register has nails that are trimmed and neat, devoid of polish, the cuticles a little ragged in places.
I notice the beginnings of a callous on her left index finger -- a rough patch, the skin a little darker shade of brown. These are a working woman’s hands, honest hands, the kind of hands that tell you the truth when you hold them.
“Two tacos, cilantro and onions,” she reads back, with an almost musical lilt to her speech. “Four twenty-five.”
I pass a worn five over the counter and lift my gaze long enough to enjoy another quick smile she casts in my direction.
I hold out some hope that I might get to feel her fingers brush my skin as she hands me the change that is due, but my luck today has ended, and the three coins fall into my hand with a muted clink. She slides over a plastic table marker adorned with the number nineteen, and my brief command of her attention has come to a close.
I sigh and wander off to find a place to sit. I end up on one side of a table meant for two and place my number in the center.
