Sin City Slow Burn
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 8
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 8 - 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 First Date: Chicago
Three weeks after Las Vegas, the texts had become their private language—filthy, teasing, tender, a lifeline stretched across separate apartments and long workdays.
The final exchange before tonight had started innocently enough at 7:12 p.m.
Maren (7:12 p.m.)
You wearing it?
Claire (7:14 p.m.)
The midnight dress? Yes.
Feels like cheating to put it on without you here to take it off.
Maren (7:15 p.m.)
Good.
I want you half-undressed by the time I ring the bell.
Claire (7:17 p.m.)
You’re terrible.
Maren (7:18 p.m.)
You love it.
Panties on or off?
Claire (7:20 p.m.)
Off.
Same as Vegas.
Maren (7:21 p.m.)
Fuck.
I’m hard already.
Claire (7:22 p.m.)
Language, VP Voss.
We’re supposed to be civilized tonight.
Maren (7:23 p.m.)
Civilized is overrated.
I’m going to ruin that dress in the elevator.
Claire (7:25 p.m.)
Promises, promises.
Maren (7:26 p.m.)
Not a promise.
A guarantee.
See you in 30.
Don’t touch yourself.
That’s my job.
Claire had laughed out loud in her empty apartment, thighs already slick, heart racing.
At 7:58, the intercom buzzed.
Claire opened the door barefoot, the midnight blue silk already on—same dress, same high slit, same way it clung to every curve like a second skin.
She’d left her hair down, loose waves framing her face, and chosen the simplest black heels she owned.
No jewelry except the small silver stud Maren had given her for New Year’s—a quiet, private exchange in Claire’s kitchen at 12:01 a.m., lips tasting of champagne and promises.
Maren stood in the hallway looking like she’d stepped out of a different season.
Charcoal wool overcoat, black turtleneck beneath, dark jeans that hugged her thighs, boots polished to a low gleam.
Her hair was down, dark waves catching the hallway light.
She held a single white orchid—stem wrapped in black tissue, petals perfect and fragile, the faint scent of vanilla and Earth rising from it.
Claire’s heart did something painful and sweet at the sight.
“You brought me a flower,” Claire said, voice soft, almost breaking.
Maren stepped inside, closed the door behind her with her hip.
“I brought you dinner reservations,” she corrected, voice low and rough.
“The flower is just ... an excuse to touch you sooner.”
She set the orchid on the entry table, shrugged out of her coat, then reached for Claire—slow, deliberate, hands sliding up her bare arms to cup her face.
The kiss was gentle at first—hello, I missed you, you still wreck me—then deeper, hungrier, until Claire’s back met the wall and Maren’s thigh pressed between hers, the wool of her trousers rough against bare skin through the slit.
They broke apart, breathing hard, foreheads resting together, the faint scent of cedar and bourbon and winter air clinging to Maren’s coat.
“We’ll be late,” Claire whispered, voice trembling.
Maren’s thumb brushed Claire’s swollen lower lip, lingering there.
“I don’t care.”
But they did leave—eventually—coats on, orchid left in a glass of water on the counter, the petals catching the soft glow of the hallway light.
The drive to River North was torture.
Maren’s hand stayed high on Claire’s thigh the whole way, fingers tracing slow circles over silk, inching higher with every red light, the heat of her palm searing through the fabric.
Claire’s breathing turned shallow, thighs parting just enough to invite, the wet heat between her legs soaking through nothing at all.
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