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As Serena’s live-in nephew Jason was staying at his friend Alan’s home tonight, they opt for Chez Campbell. Ever the gallant officer, Bernie decides to follow Serena’s metallic lime Saab so she can leave when Serena wishes. Probably just as well, Serena thinks as she keeps an eye on the charcoal Mazda convertible in her rearview mirror: If she had to watch Bernie’s hand shift gears or hear her voice up close right now, she’d only be a puddle of cells by the time she reached her leafy detached. As it is, her panties are soaked with desire following the AAU office activities. She squeezes her thighs together to ease the ache between them but to no avail. Good God, Major, what you already do to me, she thinks as she steers into her quiet neighborhood.

Bernie can’t believe her good fortune. Cor, who’d have thought it?! Although Serena has flirted with her since that first day in the car park, Bernie knew the vascular surgeon cheekily flirted with nearly everyone. It was her modus operandi to cajole underlings and peers alike into doing her bidding, seeing things her way (or why it would be in their best interest to do something), be it freeing an operating theater, getting test results more quickly or making a mid-shift Pulse’s run. A comforting hand on an anxious shoulder, a congratulatory high-five, even an encouraging hug. Bernie has experienced all of these Serena Campbell moves.

And yet…and yet, it dawns on Bernie, there has been more.

Serena’s brown eyes lingering at the base of Bernie’s scrub-top V (hoping to catch a glimpse of the blonde’s bra and its pert contents). A too-long glance (that Bernie caught) to the ex-major’s firm ass as its owner casually perched on the corner of their desk. (At least someone can make scrubs look good, Serena had thought.) Serena staring in a daze at the tea mug that had just been pressed against those slim lips like a lover held to a wall and ravished.

Hmmph, thinks Bernie with a lopsided grin. Ankles indeed. Campbell’s been eyeing me for months and I just realized it. She honks her donkey-goose laugh as she turns down a cul de sac and parks the Mazda behind Serena’s Saab in the driveway of a Georgian brick home. As she exits the car, though, her visage becomes more thoughtful, not wanting Serena to think she was having a laugh at her expense. And as she sees the brunette bend to get her briefcase from the passenger seat, her mouth dries up, taking in the utterly feminine ass she so wants to grip with two hands.

“Well, um, here we are. Suburbia at its best, though nary a desperate housewife in sight,” Serena nervously quips. She knows where Bernie Wolfe’s eyes have landed and her self-confidence is momentarily dashed. Too many days of arse-planted paperwork and not enough steps achieved, she sourly thinks.

Bernie sees the anxiety flicker across Serena’s face. “Nope, only a very sexy vascular surgeon with a gorgeous arse I can’t wait to see sans burgundy panties,” she huskily murmurs into the brunette’s ear as they stroll up the walkway.

“Steady on, Major,” Serena recovers nicely. “If my knees buckle now, we’ll never make it inside.” But she manages to unlock the front door and usher Bernie inside. Barely. There’s a first time for everything and this is the first time this Harvard-MBA, esteemed vascular surgeon heralded for her technical prowess has had to mightily struggle to put a key in a lock and turn a door handle.

They kick off their shoes and drape their coats and bags over the hallway bench before Bernie gracefully turns Serena back against the front door, her lips searing a path from needy mouth to jawline and flushed nape.

“S’rena,’” the blonde rhetorically inquires, punctuating each word with a flicker of her hot tongue against Serena’s décolletage. Her tongue skips along the tops of the brunette’s full breasts, dances over sun-freckled skin and a couple of small birthmarks (the locations of which are now committed to the Bernie’s near-photographic memory). “How much I’ve wanted you but had no idea whether you felt the same—could only dream that you did?”

Serena responds with a guttural groan and quick nod as Bernie’s fingers find the top buttons of her silk blouse and her eyes ask permission to open them. “You snuck up on me, Major. And not only because of your quiet trainers. I had no idea I was into women—well, one specific woman—until…Oh God.” Bernie’s right hand has found purchase on one of Serena’s breasts, her thumb lovingly stroking it through its satiny hammock.

“Until…?” Bernie presses before her mouth takes over from her thumb, sucking and nipping at the hardened nipple. Her lowered voice shoots warmth straight down to Serena's clit.

“Wh-what was the question?” Serena’s voice has a far-off quality that Bernie finds incredibly sexy. She relishes seeing the usually buttoned-up, take-charge surgeon coming undone, especially knowing she’s the cause of that effect.

“I think a better question is this: S’rena, where is your bedroom?” Major Wolfe asks with a grunt; Serena Campbell’s legs are rapidly turning to jelly and Bernie would rather save her back for love-making rather than struggling to hold up the brunette.

Serena blinks several times to clear her head. She grabs Bernie’s hand and pulls her up the hardwood stairs to a second-floor master bedroom with plush carpet, a bay-window seat, updated en-suite bathroom and heavily pillowed king-size bed. Hands clasped, the women enter the darkened room; Serena clicks on a torchiere floor lamp, dials it only to a low setting. They stand facing each other by the side of the neatly made bed with its maroon coverlet.

With a moan, Serena summons courage to match her desire and presses up on the balls of her feet to plant a lingering kiss on the blonde’s mouth. Slowly, biting her lower lip in concentration, Serena begins unbuttoning Bernie’s white tunic shirt, her fingertips feathering down inside the shirt against the pale skin. Her eyes take in the faded tan lines as she moves over one bra strap, the sprinkling of brown moles that landscape the elegant notches and lines of Berenice Wolfe’s stunning clavicles like stars in a nighttime sky. Down, down to the black cups that hold perfect handfuls of firm breasts, separated by the raised pink fence of Bernie’s open-heart surgery scar. Serena releases the buttons to just south of the bra, using the barest touch of the backs of two fingers to flit over the nipple of one achy breast.

Bernie groans, spreads her long legs for balance. She sucks in a quick breath and involuntarily winces as Serena’s eager thumb and index finger tweak the small nipple. Bernie’s nipples are painfully sensitive; Serena’s sharp pressure is nearly too much. But she wants to build Serena’s self-confidence so she says nothing.

Serena, however, catches the micro expression of pain on her lover’s face and pulls back. She turns her head in shame. “I-I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry, Bernie. I’m rubbish at this.”
Bernie pulls her close, whispers in her ear, “No, you’re not, Serena. I’m just rather sensitive there. You couldn’t have known that. We’re both beginning to know each other, what we like…or love.” She thinks for a moment.

“S’rena. Please let me make love to you. I’m aching to touch you, everywhere,” Bernie’s voice is low and heavy with need. And exactly what Serena can respond to and still save face.
“How can I refuse an offer like that from a big macho Army medic like you?” Serena replies, heart lighter, libido restored. “I’m all yours, Major.” She steps back to see what Bernie will do next.

Bernie uses her lips and tongue to convey her gratitude and desire. Deep, sensual kisses that demonstrate all the passion the usually stoic blonde feels for the brunette, has felt for some time. (Even the BMAM is taken aback, truth be told, by her own fierce want.) She’s been holding out on me, hiding behind that fringe of bangs, Serena realizes with a moan.
At the same time, Bernie’s fingers eased open the buttons of Serena’s silk shirt, her tongue warmly greeting each new section of skin. With Bernie’s aid, Serena pulled the camisole over her head and then started to unhook her own bra.

“Mm-mm, no. I’ll do that,” the often-shy trauma surgeon asserts and deftly reaches around to release the hooks and slowly reveal the bra’s precious cargo. “Oh my, you are so beautiful,” Bernie murmurs a bit awestruck, her open palms cupping the C-cup orbs, feeling their dense, weighty beauty.

While one hand explores and caresses Serena’s left breast, the right breast is treated equally well by Bernie’s tongue. It skips, darts, flicks above, underneath and on the breast, whose owner now pants slightly, her knees weakening by the second. “Oh God, Bernie…”

The blonde utters words of endearment in between kisses. She unzips Serena’s trousers, helps her step out of them as well as her socks. Then kneels in front of the brunette. Gathers her womanly hips in her arms and gently places her cheek against Serena’s lower belly. She smells the heady aroma of Serena’s arousal through Serena’s panties, sees the darkened patch of silk between her legs, cups the mons within and presses her palm into it. Serena groans, nearly feels lightheaded. Sure, she has enjoyed sex with men. But she has never felt so treasured, so absolutely desired as a woman as she does now. Before she can articulate another thought, her knees give away as Bernie nuzzles the panties and plants kisses on them.

“Dear God, S’rena. You smell divine,” She kisses along the top edge of the underwear, hooks her thumbs inside the back and slowly eases them off, tongue traveling along every new centimeter of exposed warm skin. She turns Serena around so the brunette is now prone on the bed, her knees braced against the covers. Marvels at the sturdy back, the swell of hips, the meaty buttocks, open-mouth forges a path down Serena’s posterior body and then presses her still-clothed front against the brunette. Serena flips around, eyes roaming over Bernie’s body.

“YOU have too much clothing on,” Serena observes, tugging on the blonde’s shirt.

Bernie tsk, tsks. She likes that Serena has regained some confidence and asks almost shyly, “D’you want to help me with that?”

“You couldn’t stop me if you tried, soldier. Arms down, legs apart,” she replies in her best drill-sergeant voice. She quickly unbuttons Bernie’s shirt, flings it aside, helps her out of her tight jeans and socks, tosses them halfway across the room.

There stands Berenice Wolfe, nipples proud, shoulders back, legs parted. A 50-year-old with the trim body that a 25-year-old would envy—and her 50-year-old counterpart does. Envies and covets.

“Bra and panties too,” Serena commands for the enjoyment of seeing Bernie blush as she unhooks her own bra and then shucks off her panties to reveal glistening brown trimmed curls. At the sight and smell of Bernie Wolfe—her first of a woman this up-close and personal other than herself—Serena gasps and her confidence falters.

“Bed, darling,” Bernie takes over again. She pulls back the covers and nods for Serena to lie down on her back.