Twelve Nights

by Remy, Carole

  Richard looked up into Angela’s eyes. She held his gaze steadily then took a deep breath.

  “Did you know I tried to steal Jimmy’s Giacometti?” she asked.

  Richard looked stunned. He hadn’t known. Angela feared she had killed whatever fragile understanding they had reached.

  Then Richard grinned. “A hundred twenty thousand wasn’t enough?”

  “I thought the contract was off, that I wouldn’t get paid.”

  “Woman,” he chuckled, “You have balls.”

  “Actually,” Angela smiled tentatively, “I don’t.”

  “Praise the lord.” Richard imitated a southern Baptist preacher and Angela’s smile widened.

  “You’re okay that I almost became a major felony criminal, but you can’t accept prostitution?” she teased.

  Richard’s face turned serious. Had she gone too far? Maybe some topics were better buried.

  “They aren’t the same thing,” Richard said almost sadly. “Hell, I am a felon, but…”

  “Forget I said it,’ Angela apologized. “I’m a screw up.”

  “It’s a hard thing for a man to accept,” Richard continued.

  “I know that,” Angela agreed. “But it’s in the past.”

  Angela made a sudden decision, one that she knew to the bottom of her toes was right.

  “I’m not taking the money, Richard.”

  “What?”

  He was watching the approaching waiter and seemed not to have heard her words. She could still back out, still be rich and comfortable, … still watch every word to hide the wealth from her father, still feel her twin’s anguish at her part in its acquisition.

  “I’m not taking the money,” she repeated more loudly. “I stopped being a prostitute two months ago. It’s a lot of money but the same principle.”

  Richard looked troubled.

  “Don’t refuse the money because of me.”

  “I’m not. The past is the past,” she repeated. “I realize that now. I’m looking forward, not behind any more. Will you come with me?”

  The waiter brought a tray loaded with tiny triangular sandwiches. Richard looked across the mound of cucumber and tuna and prosciutto delicacies and into her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  The food and the waiter and the restaurant disappeared. Richard’s answer spoke directly to Angela’s heart. A Shakespearean love sonnet wouldn’t have been more welcome. Angela sighed and her eyes glazed with tears and her stomach rumbled all at the same time. Richard seemed to sense her emotional fragility. He picked up a tiny triangle in his long fingers and offered it to her.

  “Was that a stomach growl I just heard,” he teased, “or are we having an earthquake?”

  Angela took a bite of the sandwich from Richard’s hand. As she chewed, the atmosphere turned steamy. Richard finished the sandwich in one bite.

  “The Queen Anne suite upstairs is still yours,” he said as though commenting on the weather.

  “I’ve never seen it,” Angela responded, her voice equally cool.

  Richard raised a hand and signaled their waiter, who hurried to the table.

  “Pack these to go,” Richard requested. He handed the man a credit card.

  Five minutes later they were in the elevator, the neatly wrapped cardboard box dangling from Angela’s finger by a string. Richard held an ornate silver tray with the teapot and cups. Once he had known their destination in the hotel, the waiter had insisted they not miss their beverage. It was a tribute to Canadian respect for privacy that no one in the lobby or elevator stared. Maybe they thought the pair were actors filming in Vancouver. Gwyneth Paltrow and … one of the Baldwins?

  As they walked down the muted carpet of the fourth floor hallway, Angela dug her wallet out of the back pocket of her jeans. The almost forgotten key card was tucked in a side panel. She slid the card in the door and held it open for the laden Richard. Angela gazed around the elegant room as Richard put the tray on the dining room table. The suite was like a miniature apartment with a spacious antique-filled living room and a beautifully appointed dining area. Richard took the box from Angela’s fingers and set it on the table beside the tray. Then he returned and tucked her chin between two fingers.

  “You can close your mouth,” he commented, pushing up gently. “Nice suite, eh?”

  Angela slid his hand to cup her cheek.

  “Yes, it is a nice suite, eh. Does it have a nice bedroom?”

  “Let’s look.”

  They walked hand in hand across the living room and straight to the bed in the adjoining room. Then Richard kissed Angela. His lips caressed and his tongue demanded. Her body and heart responded. Several moments later she leaned back from the embrace.

  “Did you notice if it’s a nice room?” she teased.

  “Any room with you and a bed is a nice room.”

  Richard lowered his mouth over Angela’s again and this time she didn’t interrupt him. His tongue scraped along the roof of her mouth and Angela sucked it deeper. Richard pressed her hips to his throbbing groin, his fingers digging into her through the heavy jeans. Then he slid his hands inside the cloth to bare skin. His mouth stayed locked to hers as they staggered together the remaining steps to the bed, even as they tumbled to lie tangled on the cover.

  Angela pulled the sweater off her arms and up toward her neck. She wrenched her mouth from Richard’s long enough to pull the bulky material over her head. His hands moved from hips to breasts and clung and pressed and clawed through the flimsy bra. It ripped and he completed the destruction and flung it behind him. Angela moaned as his hands returned to stroke and pummel her and he stopped her breath with his mouth.

  She struggled with his tie and jacket and shirt as he singlemindedly focused on her mouth and nipples, driving her beyond thought to primal need. She fought the clothes off him in a frenzy, ripping cloth with her nails and occasionally scratching skin. At last they were both nude and Angela’s need for contact peaked. She moaned in frustration when Richard’s mood abruptly changed.

  From rutting buck, he turned into eager and curious puppy. He pushed her back on the bed and held her pinned with a leg across her hips when she tried to rise up and attack him. He sniffed and licked his way along her length from ear to armpits to bellybutton to knees to toes. Angela pushed his head toward her crotch but he pulled back and rolled her over. She groaned when he began his exploration again at the top and worked his way slowly, agonizingly erotically down, this time with nips and occasional bites to mark his progress.

  By the time he reached her feet, Angela was dripping with sweaty anticipation and inner moisture. She rolled onto her back and held out her arms. Richard took them and placed them behind her neck.

  “Would you like me to tie you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t move,” he cautioned.

  His command was hard to obey. He spread her legs and lowered his head to her crotch. He began again with puppy-like sniffs and licks. Angela giggled. Then he placed his hands on her open thighs and pressed her into the bed. He latched his mouth to her like a suction hose and Angela’s giggles turned to a cry of surprise at the sharp ache, then swiftly metamorphosed to a wordless moan of encouragement. His tongue and lips and teeth found the keys to her hidden compartments. Her legs fought against the pressure of his hands as her hips sought the release of pumping. The restraint was gas on a bonfire and she came in a violent upheaval of shaking and screams.

  “Come inside me,” she yelled. “Come inside me right now!”

  Richard lifted off her and she whimpered in frustration. Nothing happened for several seconds. Then she heard the rip of a condom wrapper. The bed shifted with his weight as he rejoined her and Angela lifted blind arms to him. He was above her now and Angela braced herself for a hard swift, almost brutal thrust. Instead he lowered himself slowly and his fingers teased open her portals. Then the tip of him touched her. Her orgasm came with the touch, so fast there was no buildup, no warning. So violent her
hips thrust up and pulled him inside her with all the swiftness she had expected from him.

  His pumping began immediately, matching then leading the throbbing of her lingering climax. She came again as he pumped and her fingers gouged into his shoulders and her heels pressed into his hips and held him fast from above. The orgasm jarred their emerging rhythm and when it resumed it was faster, more urgent. Noises arose from Angela’s chest and reverberated in the air over the bed. Her ululation mingled with Richard’s grunts and the sweat from their straining bodies slapped and slurped, adding to the cacophony.

  Richard’s organ grew again inside Angela and she knew in a primal knowing that he was near orgasm. She undulated with his rhythm and clenched him with her muscles. She coached and guided and spurred and whipped them both toward the approaching peak until they were pounding past reckoning, past thought and reason. They leapt together off the cliff toward nothing, toward everything, toward each other.

  Then she was crying, not gentle ladylike tears but great gusting sobs that welled from her chest and burst from lips and eyes. Richard held her tight, his chest heaving, his face buried in her shoulder. Still the sobs pressed up and out of Angela’s lungs, out of her heart. Sobs for the aimless underachieving older twin, the beautiful disappointment, the prostitute who hated herself, the swindler, the thief.

  “I love you.”

  The words reached her ear in a thread. She didn’t believe them.

  “I love you,” Richard repeated. “I love Angela Trout.”

  Slowly Angela’s sobs lost their intensity. She cried now for letting go of the past, for the strength to embrace an uncertain future. She remembered her words to Richard in the restaurant. The past was the past. He had succeeded. He would help her. It was time to let go.

  “I love you,” Richard reminded her again.

  Angela scrubbed her eyes open with the back of her hand. Her nose was dripping, her hair drenched in sweat, her eyes puffed almost to slits. She had never looked worse. She looked into Richard’s eyes and smiled.

  “I love you, too.”

  Section of Society Column in The Vancouver Sun, January 3, 1998

  Another big one has bitten the

  dust, ladies, as Vancouver’s most

  reclusive bachelor millionaire was

  seen yesterday with a ring on his

  finger, or was that through his

  nose? In a private ceremony, an

  ebullient Jimmy Buko wed the eye—

  catching Agnes Trout of Auburn,

  Alabama.

  Word is Buko has decided to

  endow the library of the new

  University of the Fraser Valley, and

  his wife of three days, a former

  librarian, will supervise the design

  of the building and the acquisition

  of the holdings. The new library …

  Announcement in The Vancouver Sun, December 18, 2001

  Gordon and Mary Trout of Auburn,

  Alabama, are pleased to announce

  the marriage of his daughter Dr.

  Angela Beth Trout to Richard

  James Urbano of Vancouver. The

  bride recently received her Ph.D. in

  art history from the University of

  British Columbia. The couple left

  for an extended honeymoon …

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