He held me close as I rode his narrow hips, the sweet silken sheathing again and again. I was shaking so hard that I clung to him, feeling like I was coming out of my body. It was so fast, as if I had never stopped coming. He didn't come with me. He stayed hard inside my throbbing pussy, even when I collapsed against his chest, pressing a sweaty cheek against his skin.
"I want you there again," he breathed into my ear.
He slipped out of me, friction rubbing against the over-sensitive folds of my pussy. He nudged me onto my back, and I had to close my eyes. My insides were still throbbing.
He kissed my eyelids, lapped at my mouth, my neck, my breasts, my navel—like being worshipped. His hard cock remained pressed hotly against my thigh, the entire time.
Before long, I needed him again, needing to feel the satisfying fullness of him. I tugged him up to me, kissing his mouth. "I need you inside," I whispered against his lips.
He entered one more time, slowly, and it wasn't long before I was rupturing again, this time taking him with me. I felt the thumping of his cock inside me, the pulsing, the filling.
We lay quietly afterwards, tangled limbs clinging. I felt his body relax beside me, his breathing becoming deeper.
"Maeva?" he said, his voice slow, hoarse and sleepy. "You're leaving." It wasn't a question.
I didn't bother answering. He already knew the answer. I leaned up to kiss his drooping eyelids, then left his bed.
Nine
Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate, 9:39 am
Maeva
I awoke the next morning, barely able to feel my head. The throbbing across my forehead was so intense, even opening my eyes was painful.
I stumbled out of bed, feeling my stomach rolling in wild circles. I hurried to the bathroom and choked back the urge to vomit. Bitter bile came up my throat, and I held my middle in agony. When the nausea faded to something I could stand, I turned on the shower. Placing my forehead against the cool tiles, I let the frigid water flow over me, hoping to numb the feeling out of my body.
Afterwards, I felt cleaner and less queasy, but my headache had not abated. I went downstairs to find some toast and aspirin. Mr. Owen and Jacob were already sitting at the table.
"Good morning, little Orchid," Mr. Owen greeted, cheerfully. I could hear the smile in his voice, though I couldn't see it clearly through my squinted and still bleary vision.
"Morning," I mumbled, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
I saw that Jacob wasn't in any better shape than I was. He gingerly placed a piece of dry toast between his lips, forcing himself to chew slowly. I went over to him and kissed his lips. My brain barely registered the minty taste of his mouth. "Good morning, Jacob."
I was already sitting down at my regular place on the table, when I realized that he hadn't answered me. I blinked a few times to fight the pounding behind my eyes. When my vision cleared, I saw the look of shock on Jacob's face and the one of bemused mirth on Mr. Owen's. It dawned on me what I had just done. My cheeks burned like fire.
"Looks like you two had a good time last night," Mr. Owen commented, slyly. "It's nice to see that you've gotten to know each other so well."
"Yes, we did have a good time," I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible though I knew my burning cheeks was more than enough evidence to give me away. "Jacob's been a fun guest, but I think we're going to take it easy on the tequila next time."
Jacob nodded in agreement and the two men laughed.
Rosa appeared just then with the cordless phone in hand. "Mr. Owen. Sorry to disturb your breakfast, but they said it was urgent."
While Mr. Owen took his call, I looked across the table at Jacob. A slow, sweet smile crept onto his lips. I smiled back.
"No, there is no way that I'll be able to make it tonight. That's unfortunate," Mr. Owen said into the telephone. "It is a good cause. Perhaps I can send Maeva in my place? Okay, wonderful! Please reserve two tickets. Alright. Thank you. Good-bye."
"What was that about?" I asked as Mr. Owen clicked the phone closed.
"It was the Women's Business Society. They're having a fund-raiser tonight, and they wanted me to attend. Unfortunately, I must be home for a conference call this evening, so I said you would take my place."
"Aw, Mr. Owen. You know how I despise those things," I said, indignantly. "They're just a bunch of stuffy old ladies showing off to the other stuffy old ladies of so-called higher-class Manila. It's just so political and disgusting." I normally would not be acting so childish, but my massive hangover wasn't exactly helping the situation.
"I know, Maeva, but it's for a good cause. And I'm sure that Jacob here would be happy to be your escort. Right, my good man?" he said, patting Jacob on the shoulder.
"Of course," Jacob replied, smiling at me reassuringly.
* * *
Makati, Metro Manila, Philippines—Regency Palace Hotel, 7:23 pm
Jacob
It felt amazing to have her on my arm that night. As we entered the ballroom, I could sense the crowd sneaking glances at us, whispering discreetly, wondering whom this strange man was with Maeva Rinaldo. It was strange to feel comfortable having people stare at me. I couldn't explain it. Maybe it was because Maeva looked so beautiful, dressed in a strapless scarlet ball gown. I figured she deserved to be looked at.
A waiter showed us to a table in the center of the ballroom. We sat with three other couples. Maeva made some introductions and later whispered to me that they were important people in Manila politics. She talked politely to them, but her forced conversation told me that she did so out of duty and not out of friendship.
We ate dinner, and I barely made a dent in the entree. I still felt a bit queasy from that morning's hangover. Looking at Maeva's uneaten meal, she felt the same.
We listened to some droning speeches, and I didn't start paying attention to the program until the emcee announced that the Filipino National Dance Association would be performing several traditional dances for the evening's entertainment.
I watched as the dancers performed, the haunting, unfamiliar music, their elaborate costumes and intricate movements perfectly woven to leave me in awe. Now and then, Maeva would lean close, her lips against my ear, explaining the cultural or historical significance of a movement or step.
After a couple of numbers, the emcee gave Maeva a small signal. It was very discreet—he just raised his eyebrows slightly and moved his fingers. Maeva acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod. I witnessed the exchange, utterly curious as to what just occurred. I was about to ask when Maeva picked up her napkin from her lap, wiped her delicate mouth and stood up.
She kissed me on the cheek, then leaned closer to whisper in my ear, "I'll be right back. Will you be okay?"
Her soft lips grazed my neck, and I couldn't help but tremble. "Of course. But where are you going?"
A wry smile tugged on the corners of her sweet mouth. "You'll see," she replied mysteriously.
Another performance began then, a number that the emcee called the Sinkhil. Three beautiful women glided onto the center of the stage. The dancer in the middle carried a colorful parasol. They performed an intricate, flowing dance, accompanied by the haunting music of a sitar and drums.
At the end of the number, two of the dancers left, leaving the parasol girl alone in the center of the stage. She opened the umbrella and glided to the right, holding the parasol in front of her. Another dancer appeared. Her small body was encased in a brightly colored costume, much more elaborate than the umbrella girl's whose proud humbled into a servant's. The new dancer was clearly supposed to be royalty—a princess, perhaps. The garment's fine-spun silk clung to the princess's body and the high-cut slit on each side revealed her smooth, tone legs.
Four men, carrying four bamboo poles, followed the princess and her attendant. The music began—a slow steady drumbeat in time to the dancers' graceful movement to the center of the stage. The men arranged the poles on the ground, across each other in a matrix formation.
With a signal from the princess, the men began to clap the poles together, against the ground and against each other. To my surprise, the princess stepped into the bamboo matrix, each time barely avoiding getting her ankles rapped by the poles.
Her small feet, covered in delicate slippers, moved deftly, the choreographed movements lithe and graceful. She displayed the fans in swirling patterns, so fast they looked like hummingbird's wings.
She held her chin high, her eyes turned down in a look of pure grace and dignity. Examining the dancer's pixie face, recognition hit me, taking my breath away. Maeva. The princess was Maeva. She seemed to sense that I had recognized her. She quickly looked up, not long enough for anyone but me to notice, and met my gaze. It was enough for me to see the mirth playing in her deep ebony eyes.
Watching her perform struck something else in me. A chord in my heart that I had left un-strummed for some time.
The dance was fast paced and wild, building on a slow beat and moving up until her movements were almost frantic but always with underlying control. The music built up to a powerful crescendo, and the dancers posed at the last beat, still and unmoving. There was a brief second where the audience was just as still, struck paralyzed by the beauty of what they just witnessed. Then it erupted. Wild clapping and cheering that filled my ears, and my heart remembered when those cheers were because of my brother and me.
Maeva gracefully sauntered to the center of the stage. She seemed to be taking in their praise like fuel, until poured out of her with glowing light, and the audience clapped more. She looked right at me, and she must have seen the look of awe-struck wonder on my face. Despite the praise, the clapping, the cheers and the audience, she smiled some secret smile, her eyes locked only on mine, telling me that the performance was mostly for me.
* * *
Pangasinan, Philippines—Palenke (Farmer's Market), 2:46 pm
Maeva
Rosa asked me to pick up some fresh vegetables for dinner that night. The afternoon was cool and overcast, so I decided to walk. On my way out the door, Jacob said he wanted to join me.
We didn't talk at all, just leisurely strolled along the main road from the Estate. We went to the farmer's market in the neighborhood, and Jacob stood quietly by as I selected and bargained for what we would be eating that night. On the way home, he reached for my hand. It felt comforting to feel his fingers laced through mine.
I could tell that he was distracted. There was something going on with him that he didn't want to share with me. It wasn't as if we had been sharing things with each other all this time, but I couldn't help but wonder what was behind that look of longing.
"Jacob?" I caught him staring ahead. His glassy-eyed expression told me that he was looking but not really seeing anything. "Are you alright?"
He shook his head and his eyes darkened as they finally focused back on me. "I'm sorry, Maeva," he said, forlornly, squeezing my hand a little. "I know I'm a bit spacey."
Before I could even think about it, the words came tumbling out of my mouth. "What are you thinking?" I asked, quietly.
He stopped walking for a second. His eyes widened. He was just as surprised as I was that I had asked. We had become accustomed to surface talk and veiled conversation. "It's nothing," he replied. His voice choked a bit.
I decided to leave the subject alone for now and continued walking, tugging on his hand as I went. He caught up quickly and fell back into stride with me.
Passing by a row of shops, Jacob suddenly stopped short. I glanced into the store's window and saw a beautiful acoustic guitar perched on a velvet stand. Looking up at the sign, I figured out that it was an antique music store. It was strange that I had walked by this same row of shops so many times and had never once noticed that store before that moment. The guitar was slightly worn around the edges, but the wood gleamed as if it had just recently been polished. It looked very well taken care of, and I could tell that it would play beautiful music in the hands of the right musician.
Looking at the way Jacob admired it, I knew that he would agree with me.
"Do you want to go inside?" I asked.
Jacob looked at the guitar for a few more seconds before shaking his head. "No, it's okay. We should get back."
I looked at him, completely perplexed, but I didn't question him.
Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate, 4:12 pm
Jacob
I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in Owen's study, reading. It felt good to get lost in a story and just avoid all the things that I should be thinking about. Later, I decided to go up to my room for a nap before dinner.
I opened my bedroom door and saw it. The guitar from the antique shop was sitting on my bed, a bright red bow tied neatly around its neck. I couldn't move for a second, shocked that Maeva had done this. I ran my hands over the body's polished wood, admiring the sheen and condition of the instrument. I noticed the slip of paper tucked into the guitar's strings. I pulled it out carefully and unfolded the note.
Dearest Jacob,
It's time you find what you're looking for.
Maeva
I was surprised to feel the burning of unshed tears in my eyes. I was truly touched by this beautiful gift, not only by the gesture; but that she knew exactly that I needed this. I needed to play.
I picked up the beautiful instrument and tucked it into the curve on my arm and on my knee. It felt like it belonged there. The first chords brought more emotion pouring out of me. My heart clenched. God, I had missed this.
As I played, I began to hear a melody that I had never heard before. Or perhaps I had heard it before, tucked inside my heart before my fingers finally decided to play it. I quickly grabbed a piece of paper and something to write with. The bearer of this gift brought inspiration as well. The notes and words began to flow from somewhere deep inside, and for the first time for as long as I could remember, I felt whole again.
Ten
Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate, 6:10 pm
Maeva
I heard the music and followed the faint strains of a strumming guitar sourced from Jacob's bedroom. As the melody grew louder, I caught the rumble of his voice—so warm and deep, like walking in gentle, drizzling summer rain.
"You are my moonlight/The sparkle off the water/You infiltrate my sight/With your bright love light…"
I pushed his door open. He was sitting on the bed, one foot hanging off the end, the other crossed beneath the cradled guitar. He sang with his eyes shut tight, like he was trying to draw the emotion from somewhere deep within.
"I am floating uncontrollable/In every wave that you churn/But I just want to drown in your ocean/To ease my soul's burn…"
Standing there watching him, I felt like an invader, creeping into this aura of creation surrounding him. But I couldn't will my feet to move.
"You are the sun's soft rays/The warmth on my skin/You filter into me/To ignite the fire within…"
He opened his eyes and looked right at me as if he knew that I had been standing there all along. "I have to touch, I have to feel that/You are here with me/Forever to have, together to be."
The last note echoed into the room, and I held my breath, feeling Jacob's gaze wash over me like his raining voice.
"Hi," I breathed.
"Hi."
"That was beautiful."
He smiled brightly--like sunshine after a storm. "Thank you. Though it is impossible for the music could ever match the beauty of its inspiration."
I heard his words, unwilling to believe that he meant them for me.
He gestured to his guitar. "And thank you so much for the gift. I don't know how I can repay you."
"There's no need," I replied. "Hearing you play is enough."
We were quiet for a few moments. Jacob strummed his guitar again, random notes and chords. He looked so content. "I haven't done this in so long," he finally said, almost wistfully.
I wanted to remember him like this—excited and brimming with creative energy.
"Wait, don't move. I'll be right back," I said.
I ran to my bedroom and grabbed my easel and a clean canvas. It was fortunate that I had gone to the effort of applying gesso to three new ones that morning. Tucking them under one arm, I found a fresh palette and the kit that held my paints, and hurried back to Jacob's room, awkwardly carrying all the materials.
He started to stand to help me. "What are you doing?" he asked, chuckling lightly.
"Don't move!" I commanded, much more harshly than I had intended.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, wide-eyed, but smiling and sat back in his original position.
"I want to paint you," I explained.
"Me?"
Space For Breathing Page 9
