A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

Eagan.

  Alcove number fourteen. According to Neal that's where I'm going to find Brina. Apparently, she's resting. I make my way to her

  The music, the noises, along with the performers on the stage, are just a brief distraction. My skin craves only Brina; her lemony scent, her sweet voice, her responsive body.

  I wade briskly through writhing limbs, alight with blue and silver shadows. The attention of the crowd is held by a group of dancers swaying and jumping on the huge stage. The silver and blue lights create the impression of rain falling around and over them.

  I know exactly where to go. I designed this place for Neal.

  I leave the people and the show behind. At last, I step into the alcove. The vaulted ceiling, the walls, the floor are screened with wine-red velvet. Witnessing the actuality of my designs fill me with pride. Then my gaze settles on my girl's lovely figure. My heart leaps. My cock swells and jerks. My jeans become an uncomfortable restraint. My muscles tense.

  Brina is reclining onto a cloud of velvety red pillows. She's asleep. The fluttering of her eyelids speaks of a restless slumber. She's wearing a simple black T-shirt, jeans and well-used sneakers. Her long hair is a shiny, dark stain around her slender frame. Her purple lips are slightly parted. She looks perfect.

  I kneel beside her on the carpeted floor. I reach out and stroke my hands along her ankles and up her calves. She stirs. She opens her eyes. She sees me. Tears pool in her inky gaze. She sits up, then she scrambles toward me on her hands and knees. I wait for her with outstretched arms. She winds her arms around my neck and wraps her legs around my middle. I fold her into my embrace and I squeeze her body tightly. I don't care if I crush her. I don't care if she can't breathe. It's been too long. Her familiar scents ooze though my clothes and my skin. My mouth relinquishes a quiet cry of elation.

  “You're here.”

  It's all she says. But her body tells a more fervent story. She trembles. Her breathing is labored. I feel her tears as she rains kisses along my neck and my jaw. She desires me as much as I crave her. A charge of exaltation invades my chest. My erection twitches. I dig my fingers in her hair and grab her nape. I tug and yank her face away from my neck. She whimpers, then she moans as I begin to lap at her tears.

  I devour her soft, salty skin. I'm greedy. I'm breathless. She surrenders her mouth to my demanding kiss. I growl my approval. I nibble at her soft lips. I bite. I suckle her tongue. I taste her sweet mouth. Then I ravage it.

  Her fingers delve into the back of my neck. Her hips grind against my erection. She pants against my lips. I drink her sounds of lust. She needs relief.

  For a moment I'm tempted to stop her movements. I'm tempted to deny her release. I'm tempted to punish her. I'm angry at her. She left me behind. I understand her motivations. I am proud of her. My brave friend. Still, I can't ignore the rage trapping my guts.

  A terrible sob escapes from her throat. Brina knows me too well. She senses the tension in my muscles. I brush my lips across her cheeks, her jaw, her chin. I press my hand on her ass and I begin to guide her movements.

  “Let go. I'm here. I love you,” I murmur.

  Her body sways, squirms and shimmies sensually against mine. I barely contain my own orgasm as she wails and shakes in my arms.

  I pet her hair and caress her back, until she quiets down. Then I push her gently away from me, and I rise. She stares up at me. I look down at her. Still on her knees, she licks her swollen lips. The taste of her lipstick lingers in my mouth.

  “Let's go to Neal's place,” I tell her. “I want to fuck you.”

  The Berlin night is a lavish drape, and the city lights are its embedded gemstones.

  Inside the small studio apartment the expensive furniture surrounds our naked bodies. The open windows allow the summer air in. The warm currents graze my heated skin and paint goosebumps on Brina's frame. The flickering candles cast a timid glow over our limbs.

  I gaze down at my my girl, reclining onto the wooden floor. The lush brown forms a perfect background for her milky-white skin. She's my nude canvas.

  With no clothes shielding her figure, I can see that her hips are curvier and her breasts fuller. An unsettling surge of ire and lust clutches my chest and then claws at my entrails.

  When she left me behind, she took with her fragments of my heart and my soul. I don't want only those pieces back, I also yearn for her whole soul and heart. I need to see her dark eyes well up with longing and lust because of me. I need to feel her tight body quacking and coming apart in my arms. I want her to know that I'm the only one capable of catching her and keeping her safe.

  “Touch yourself,” I rasp out.

  A spark flashes in her moist eyes. Her breath stammers. She cups her small, firm breasts in her palms and kneads them gently, then she teases her nipples with her fingertips. Tiny mewls escape from her parted lips. So complaisant. So exquisite.

  I wrap my fingers around my hard cock and I stroke it. Brina's eyes focus on my movements. I groan with satisfaction.

  “Spread your legs. Touch your pussy,” I order.

  Brina wails and hesitates. Her hands cease their motions.

  “Do it, Brina,” I urge.

  She bends her legs, then she parts them, showing me her pink and wet folds. One of her hands glides down her chest, her abdomen, until it reaches her groin. Her trembling fingers delve into her dark curls and find her clit. As she touches it, her hips rock upward. She closes her eyes and she moans my name.

  I fall on my knees between her parted legs. I watch Brina pleasure herself and I begin to fuck my own hand with more vigor. Hot tingles of lust course along my spine.

  “Stop,” I hiss.

  We both follow my command. Brina opens her eyes and stares at my face.

  “I want you on your hands and knees. I want to take you from behind.” My harsh words burn my throat.

  Brina's gaze brims with tears. Her limbs shake. A cold fist seizes my heart and squeezes it. I let go of my erection and I open my arms.

  “Come her,” I say huskily.

  She sits up, then she launches herself into my embrace.

  “I would never hurt you. You know that, right?” I ask her, even as I slide my fingers through her long, silky hair.

  “I know.” She kisses my neck. Her tears smolder my skin.

  Her puckered nipples poke at my chest. My cock pulses between our heated bodies. The impulse to just lose myself in her warmth grows impossibly strong. I ignore it. I hold her until her shivers abate.

  Before moving away from me, Brina presses a tender kiss to my lips. Then she turns and bends, until she's on her hands and knees. She glances at me over her shoulder and wiggles her ass playfully.

  “Little minx,” I mutter.

  She giggles. The sound turns into a small cry, when my fingers trace her slit and dig within her damp folds.

  I want to make sure she's ready for my invasion. She's probably tight after a month without my dick inside her. I'm not planning to hurt her. But I want to posses her. I want to fuse our bodies. I want to keep her. Forever.

  I shove a finger inside her cunt. I add another, then another. The inner muscles ripple around my digits. Her liquid warmth seeps through my skin.

  “Fuck my hand, Brina,” I instruct.

  Her spine and hips wave and dance. Desire chokes me, as Brina's weeping walls clench around my fingers. I brush the pad of my thumb across her swollen clit. Her neck arches backward. Her strands tumble like a murky waterfall along the pale skin of her back. Her lips part on a voiceless cry. So sensitive. So graceful.

  As I slowly withdraw my hand from her shivering cunt, Brina bows her head forward. Her tresses cascade over the wooden floor, painting it with black smudges. Strength abandons her arms. They curve. Brina hides her face between them. Her heavy panting punctuates the air.

  I pet the length of her back with one of my hands, while the other guides my erection inside her quaking body. Her pussy resists the invasion at first, but then it sucks my dick i
n. Brina whimpers and pushes backward, taking even more of me inside her.

  I want to comfort her with my voice. I want to praise her beauty, her courage, her trust. But I don't. I can't. Numerous words crowd my head. Words of longing. Words of hunger. Words of love. They bleed out of my skin. They blend with the sweat beading along my quivering muscles.

  I missed you. Never leave me again. I need you.

  My control crumbles. I grasp her hips. I fill her in one, hard shove. I fuck her. Our colliding flesh submerges the small apartment with erotic sounds. Even if my thrusts are unrelenting, her depths are ever accepting. The tightening tendons of my neck bow. I'm humbled.

  We sob our pleasure in unison. I lurch against her again and again. I give her my release and my soul. My bliss and my pain. My anger and my heart.

  We both collapse onto the floor. Eventually, I roll to the side, bringing her with me. Still wedged deep inside her, I cradle her against my chest. Her delicate limbs, as soft as petals, humid with arousal and fatigue, tremble against my body. I curl my entire being around her.

  “I understand why you had to leave. I do. And I'm proud of you,” I gasp against her shoulder. “But I also hate that you left me behind.” The admission bruises my chest. For a while Brina doesn't say anything. At length, she whispers, “I love you.”

  I nuzzle into her hair. I nip at her nape. I murmur her name along with my words of love.

  She awakens me with the sweetest of kisses. Her soft mouth brushes across my slightly parted lips. At first, the contact is as faint as a feather. Then, it becomes more insistent. Her tongue strokes over mine once, twice, three times. She utters small sounds of pleasure, that stoke up my desire. Her silky body blankets my skin. Her nipples graze my chest. Her hands slide along my shoulders, my neck, my face. They leave burning shivers in their wake.

  My pulse quickens. My breathing falters. I loop my arms around her lithe frame and I crush her against my chest. I deepen the kiss. I devour her mouth. I swallow her needy cries.

  Brina shifts and squirms, then her hand slides between our bodies. Her fingers curl around my semi-hard cock and guide it inside her pussy. As her velvety heat envelops my sensitive flesh, I pour my groans into her mouth. Then I break the kiss.

  Our eyes open and meet. Our gasps blend.

  “Thank you for running after me, Eagan,” she says against my lips.

  I smile and trace my fingertips across her chin, her jaw, her eyebrows.

  “You speak my language, Brina,” I tell her. “Your mother speaks Italian. Your father speaks French. And yet you speak mostly English. Because of me. For me. You're been running after me all your life.”

  Tears stream down her cheeks. Her cunt spasms around my aroused dick. I thrust up into her, just once, before lapping hungrily at her salty drops. They belong to me. I claim them.

  “Take me,” I demand against her rosy cheek.

  Brina kisses me once more. Then she makes love to me.

  I'm a kid.

  I'm wearing a yellow raincoat and yellow boots. I'm standing beside a huge, dark pond.

  On the other side of the pond I see twenty-year-old Brina. She's wearing a purple sweater, jeans and sneakers. And she's holding a purple umbrella.

  But it's not raining.

  “If I jump in the water and disappear, will you jump after me to bring me back?” I ask her, my voice is feeble.

  She smiles. “Of course.”

  The pond disappears.

  Brina unfurls her fingers and lets go of the umbrella. It soars and fades into the sky.

  I rush toward her and wrap my arms around her waist. She cradles me close to her chest.

  “I love you, Brina.”

  “I love you, Eagan.”

  I feel safe.

  Brina.

  The air inside Neal's club vibrates with cheering voices, approval and adrenaline as Ivan concludes his piece.

  Tonight yellow and purple lights illuminate the theater. The two colors clash and then mingle in absolute accord. They dance along the walls, on the floor, across the stage, bathing the audience and us, the musicians, with the same dreamy intensity.

  Ivan motions for me to approach the mic. Even as I expose myself to the eager eyes of the crowd, I let my gaze wander and seek the bright blue regard I adore. The moment I find it, warmth seeps through my skin and my soul slowly uncoils. My fingers graze the strings of the blue guitar once, then I announce, “The song is called A touch of cinnamon.”

  I love a boy who lives in a cinnamon home,

  Neal, wearing a white tuxedo and a white top-hat, makes his way through the waving audience, until he reaches Eagan. The lights smudge Neal's pristine outfit with yellow and purple stains. A vehement conversation, full of nervous gestures and sharp nods, arises between my lover and his friend. Eagan glances repeatedly at the stage, regardless, his eyes avoid my stare.

  A wispy, but pungent thread of ice worms through my veins.

  He leathers his body with cinnamon scented soap,

  Neal keeps talking and gesticulating. Eventually, Eagan heaves an evident sigh. He glances at me and mouths unintelligible words, then he turns and follows Neal, until they both fade into the crowd.

  He wears the scent wherever he goes.

  I need him, I long for him, I crave him,

  For a fugitive and yet infinite moment, the cold fingers wrap around my throat and impede my voice; not even my constant puppeteers, experience and technique, are able to pull at my vocal chords. But then my eyes focus on the audience and perceive their dancing bodies and their passionate gazes. While I drink it all in, a different sort of heat bleeds into my skin. It melts the veil of frost around my neck and it imbues my veins with courage.

  My soul soars anew, even as I spread my arms to the kind unknown.

  My cinnamon boy builds cradles around my frozen skin,

  He shields me from harm and from pain,

  He lets in only the rain,

  I need him, I long for him, I crave him,

  I love a boy with sun-kissed hair,

  With ocean storms in his bright blue eyes,

  I love a boy who drinks my tears when I cry,

  I need him, I long for him, I crave him,

  Through veils of grass and tears,

  In a cradle of velvet and steel,

  I love a cinnamon boy who can melt my fears,

  I love a boy who can break my icy skin,

  And protect the petals hidden within.

  After the concert, I surrender to the impulse to walk away from my audience. I leave the glory to the twins; they know how to handle it.

  My thoughts are a confused meld of anger, disappointment and excitement.

  Before I can step out of the club, Hans the bartender touches my arm to catch my attention. He tells me that Felia is the reason why Neal and Eagan had to leave; apparently, she's in some kind of trouble. When I ask Hans for additional explanations, however, he's unable to provide them.

  So I thank him, and then I plunge into the Berlin night.

  Neal's huge bed is soft and comfortable, but my sleep is troubled, for I miss my familiar cradle of velvet and steel.

  When the sounds and noises of the morning steal inside the apartment, intimate sensations veil my body; the beloved scent of cinnamon, and the heat seeping from Eagan's strong arms curled around my frame.

  My eyes flutter open. Our gazes collide. We stare at one another for a long while. Disappointment and confusion don't reside within my soul any longer, and I hope Eagan can perceive it, for his bright blue eyes seem troubled. The moment he gives me his easy smile, my heart leaps and rejoices.

  “What happened?” I demand.

  Before answering, he dusts kisses all over my face and across my lips.

  “Neal's been busy lately. And Felia is trying to get his attention. Last night she took a walk, naked, down the streets of Berlin. The security guys that Neal hired to keep an eye on her called him. And Neal asked me to go with him, because he doesn't know how t
o deal with his sister anymore.”

  “Did she talk to you? Did she say anything?” I prompt.

  Eagan shakes his head. “We took her to her apartment. And we kept her company until she fell asleep. Then Neal kicked me out and told me to rush into your arms.”

  Eagan inhales and exhales a long breath, then he buries his face in the hollow of my neck.

  “I'm sorry I missed your performance,” he murmurs.

  I stroke my fingers along the back of his neck and through his hair.

  “Don't be. I'm proud of you. They're your family. And you take good care of them.”

  “Neal keeps saying that now you're family too. The Medwin siblings are crazy. You're in trouble, kitty-cat,” he mutters.

  I laugh softly. “Bring it.”

  I feel Eagan's grin unfold against my skin, then I sense the wet rasp of his tongue, as he licks my throat.

  “Sing me your song,” he requests.

  I press my lips to the tender shell of his ear, then I sing for him.

  I love a boy who lives in a cinnamon home.

  Epilogue

  Brina and Eagan

  Brina.

  18 months later.

  We spent an entire week traveling across Egypt with our parents. We admired the pyramids, the desert and the Nile river. We discussed about history and ancient civilizations. And we took numerous pictures. But mostly we talked about love. Bea and Arthur, Jean and Margherita told us, over and over again, about their strong bond and their needy devotion. They explained to us that such love is equally resilient and fragile. Eagan and I expressed our agreement and understanding. Then we recounted our own struggles and our own journey. Before bidding us good-bye, à bien tot and arrivederci, our parents gave us words of approval and affection.