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whispered, aching to be skin to
skin with her lover. Her gown fell to the floor in a bright puddle of color and
she couldn’t wait any longer. She turned and they kissed again, less clothing
between the heat of their bodies now.
    “Catherine,
it has been longer than I can bear!” Elizabeth Capulet, mother of Juliet and
wife of the House of Capulet, sank to her knees before the wife of Montague and
worshipped at the only temple she had ever known to move her completely.
    Untying her
petticoat at the waist and wiggling it down her hips, Catherine Montague bent
for a moment to kiss the other woman, breathing in her scent as she stood,
leaning back against the bed post for support and spreading her legs wide. She
was wearing just her corset now, her blonde curls tumbling over her bound
breasts. Catherine moaned as Elizabeth’s mouth met her flesh, parting it with a
gentle, side-to-side tonguing, and she reached behind her to grab onto the bed
post, her knees weak at the sensation.
    “Catherine!”
Elizabeth gasped between her thighs. “You are like heaven’s own scent.”
    Elizabeth’s
tongue was as familiar with the other woman’s body as a fruit-bearing tree was
familiar with the sun. She drank her in as if she had been winter-starved for
her, her own body ripening like fruit against the heat of her lover’s radiant
light. Catherine’s gasps and moans filled the room, her juices flowing thick
and copious, soaking the front of the other woman’s gown, her knees growing so
weak she began to sink to the floor.
    “The bed,”
Elizabeth offered, pressing their bodies together and her mouth to Catherine’s,
letting her taste her own sweetness. There was the matter of their clothes, and
they both paused, smiling as they unfastened one another, freeing their bodies
to the cool air and each other’s warmth.
    The Lady
Elizabeth Capulet was a dark-haired beauty and, while her daughter was a
growing likeness, this woman was no bruised or withered fruit. She was still a
ripe plum, with a fleshy, juicy center and a firm, supple skin. She was only
eight and twenty this year, and although she had been a wife and mother long
that time, she felt to be still fully blooming open.
    The Lady
Catherine Montague was her bright twin, and though others rarely saw the woman
smile and laugh the way she did here, in these chambers, there was no mistaking
the golden beauty she once was and the still glowing beauty she was now. A
sweet, ripe peach—she was slightly older than the other woman, and had been wed
and bed before her as well. It wasn’t too long after they each had their babes
in arms, Romeo toddling at Lady Montague’s feet, Juliet suckling at Lady
Capulet’s breast, the women had met and become fast friends.
    “Do you
remember?” Catherine slid her body along her lover’s as they found their way
under the coverlet. “Do you remember the first time?”
    “Yes.”
Elizabeth smiled, cupping the other woman’s face in her hands and kissing her
mouth, her cheeks, her chin. “And I have long since thanked the stars for that
day.”
    “And I.”
Catherine closed her eyes as she remembered watching the young Juliet suckle
her mother’s breast, just as Elizabeth was suckling at hers now.
    Oh, the
memory of how she had felt a wet heat between her thighs as she watched the
fat, pink bud of her friend’s nipple wet with milk and saliva! How Elizabeth
had given her babe to the nurse, her eyes dreamy and half-closed in that sweet,
pleasant after-nursing trance.
    That early
morning, when Catherine had watched Romeo toddle off, holding the nurse’s hand,
and had somehow found her mouth latched there, suckling Elizabeth’s breast,
lifting her skirts and touching her between her legs.
    It had been
the first time, but it would never be the last. She would move heaven and earth
to be with her lover now. Oh, how hungry they had been then. Two young women,
wed to older men who seemed to know or care nothing for how a woman was meant
to