Sin City Slow Burn
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 10
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 10 - Two guarded women collide during a high-stakes Las Vegas conference: Claire, the perfectionist who’s spent years hiding her heart, and Maren, the controlled VP terrified of needing anyone. From stolen glances and whispered touches to raw, trembling nights against city lights, one week ignites everything they’ve denied. Back in Chicago, they face the real test: choosing love over armor, vulnerability over safety, forever over fear. A slow-burn lesbian romance of desire, tears, and surrender.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Exhibitionism Oral Sex Sex Toys Slow
The Weekend Getaway
The drive north from Chicago felt like crossing into another world.
Snow-dusted pines lined the highway, the lake a flat, steel-gray expanse visible between breaks in the trees.
Maren drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Claire’s thigh—warm, steady, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over denim.
The heater hummed softly; Miles Davis played low through the speakers, muted trumpet notes drifting like smoke.
Claire kept her coat on, but her fingers were laced through Maren’s, holding tight, as if letting go might break the spell.
They arrived at the cottage just after sunset.
Cedar shingles, expansive windows facing the bluff, a wraparound deck dusted with fresh snow.
No neighbors.
No streetlights.
Just the low roar of the lake far below and the sharp, clean scent of pine and frozen water.
Inside smelled of woodsmoke and cedar.
A Fire already crackled in the stone fireplace—Maren must have started it remotely before they left.
A bottle of the Barolo waited on the counter, two glasses beside it, the deep ruby liquid catching the firelight.
Claire stood in the doorway, coat still on, staring.
“You own this?” she asked, voice soft.
Maren came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.
“Bought it two years ago after the divorce. Never brought anyone here. Until you.”
Claire turned in her arms.
The words landed soft and heavy, like snow settling on bare skin.
Maren kissed her forehead.
“Happy early Valentine’s Day, Claire.”
They didn’t speak much after that.
Coats shed.
Boots kicked off by the door.
They moved to the thick wool rug in front of the Fire—slow, unhurried, clothes peeled away layer by layer.
Maren lay Claire down, kissed every inch of skin exposed to the firelight: collarbone, breasts, the faint scar on her hip, the inside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered.
Claire’s hands roamed Maren’s back, tracing long muscles, faint freckles, the raised line of an old scar across her shoulder blade.
When Maren finally settled between Claire’s thighs, it was worshipful—long, languid licks, gentle suction, fingers curling slow and deep while she whispered against slick skin:
“I’ve never felt safe enough to cry in front of anyone.”
“I’m scared I’ll never be enough for you.”
“I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes.”
Claire came quietly—shuddering waves, tears slipping down her temples, whispering Maren’s name like a prayer.
Maren drank her through it, then rose, kissed her deep so Claire could taste her own surrender, then guided Claire’s hand between her own legs.
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