A book club. A battlefield. A beginning.
The flyer had been simple — white paper, black ink, taped neatly to the bulletin board outside the post office.
MAPLE LANE BOOK CLUBMonthly meeting: Thursday, 7 p.m.Host: Gloria WhitmoreBring wine. Bring a dish. Bring opinions.
Claire saw it the morning after she'd come — really come — for the first time in a decade.
She stood frozen in front of the flyer, thighs aching deliciously from Nina's fingers, lips still raw from her cries. Her world had changed overnight. Now this paper looked like an invitation to something more than just books.
She knew Gloria would be watching her now. Knew Gloria had always seen more than she let on.
So she picked up a bottle of pinot noir from the grocery aisle and baked lemon bars — extra tart, the way her mother used to make when she was angry but pretending to be sweet.
That Thursday, she wore lipstick again.
This time, unapologetically.
Gloria's Living Room – 7:04 PM
The room smelled like white wine and flower arrangements.
Gloria wore navy silk. Her makeup was flawless. Her voice syrupy.
"Claire," she said, smiling as she opened the door. "You look radiant."
Claire felt her skin warm under the compliment. "Thanks. It's been… a good week."
Inside, half a dozen women sipped wine and nibbled on finger food. A new face — auburn hair, gold hoops, tight sweater — introduced herself as Veronica King. Recently moved in with her husband, a retired Air Force colonel who was already out golfing five days a week.
"He keeps himself busy," she said, smirking. "Which gives me plenty of time to read. And explore."
Gloria's eyes lingered on that last word. "I do love a woman with curiosity."
Claire watched from the couch, stunned at how effortlessly the air in the room throbbed. These weren't just bored women sipping wine. These were women on the edge of something — or already across it.
And then Nina walked in.
Late. Wearing nothing but a linen shirt and tight jeans that looked painted on. Her bra was visible beneath the fabric. She carried no wine. Just herself — that cocky grin, that swagger.
She scanned the room. Her eyes landed on Claire. And her lips curled.
Claire nearly spilled her drink.
Midway through the discussion (which no one cared about)
"…so I think the real metaphor in the book is about ownership," one woman droned. "Like, how we let men possess our stories…"
Nina yawned.
Claire tried to focus. Tried not to replay the memory of Nina's mouth between her thighs. The way she whispered "good girl" as she came.
Gloria noticed. Of course she did.
"Claire," Gloria said suddenly, her voice playful but pointed, "what do you think about possession? Do you think we let others define us too much?"
Claire flushed. "I think... I've let a lot of people decide how I should feel. For too long."
Murmurs. A nod or two. Veronica licked her wine glass.
Gloria smiled, slow and feral. "But no more, I hope?"
Claire's voice was steady. "No more."
And just like that — the room exhaled. Something electric shifted.
Later, after the last woman left
Claire lingered to help with the dishes. Gloria handed her a towel.
"You and Nina," Gloria said quietly, "looked cozy."
Claire froze. "It's... complicated."
Gloria stepped closer, eyes sharp and gentle all at once.
"No, darling. It's not. You've tasted something real. Why complicate it?"
Claire searched her face. "You're not... surprised?"
Gloria laughed. "Claire, I've fucked more women than most men have even met. The only surprise is how long it took you to join us."
Claire blinked. "Us?"
Gloria dried a glass. "This street is quieter than it looks. But the women here? Honey... we've been starving in plain sight."
She took Claire's hand and placed it over her heart.
"You feel that?" Gloria asked. "It's still beating. Still craving."
Claire nodded, breathless.
Gloria leaned in — not to kiss, but to whisper: "You should bring Nina next time. And stay late."
Across town – Veronica's Bedroom, Midnight
Veronica lay on her stomach, texting someone saved as "C."
V: Saw you tonight. Gorgeous.C: That smile was for you.V: I want to taste it.C: Then stop fucking around and come take it.
Her husband snored beside her.
She turned off the lamp, pulled down her panties, and touched herself while picturing Claire's lips around a wineglass — and the way Nina's hand never stopped moving under the table.