by A. O. Peart
“What?” Mrs. Yeng is ninety-three, and her hearing is terrible. She lives two floors below me. I often lend her a hand and carry the groceries from her car. Yes, she still drives, and God helps anyone who happens to drive close to her. She’s a really sweet Chinese lady though, who usually minds her own business.
If she finds me here… like this… crap. What would I even say to her? Quick, think of something. Next, I hear another knock on the door, and I imagine—from all the people in the world—the idiot mailman entering my apartment. I squeal very quietly, trying to lift the cake without damaging it. But it’s already stuck to the inside of my thighs and to my crotch. Holy Mother of Sweet Jesus. My only hope is that they won’t open my bedroom door.
I start to sweat, quite profusely. I reach—veeery slowly and carefully—to my side table drawer and pull a washcloth out. I dab my forehead, underarms, and stomach with the terrycloth fabric. It feels way too scratchy and make a mental note to start using fabric softener.
I hear a male’s voice. Oh, no! Who the fuck is that? The mailman? That’s just the most stupid thought ever. But it keeps swirling in my head and refuses to dissolve into nothingness. Wait. Colin! Yes, Colin! Oh, my freakin’ gosh, it’s him.
At first, I don’t know what they are saying. But a moment later I hear Mrs. Yeng’s quaking voice dangerously close to my bedroom door, “She’s in there. She was calling out, but my hearing is so bad, I couldn’t understand what she wanted. I think she’s hurt. We must help her.”
Geez, woman. Where the hell did you get such a brilliant idea? Go away. Now! I frantically look around again, hoping for a flash of genius energy to my brain.
“I will check. You stay here.” Colin’s voice had never sounded as wonderful.
“Yes, you check. She stays there,” I whisper severely to myself. I press the washcloth to my face and neck, wiping off the beads of sweat. “Good Lord, please don’t embarrass me like this. I will make a donation to the Estranged Nuns or something. Just don’t let Mrs. Yeng see me now.” I’ve never heard of Estranged Nuns of course. It’s my brain, making shit up without reason or logic.
“Young man, if Natalie is laying there hurt, maybe even half-dressed, you have no business in seeing her degraded. It would be most mortifying to an unmarried lady to be seen by a male at her indecent state.” Oh no, oh no, oh no! I’m about to die. Mrs. Yeng most likely believes I’m still a virgin. I have to make a quick decision—stay like this and suffer the consequences, or dump the cake and hide. Ah, screw it. I paid good money for the cake. And it’s from Garnelli’s for goodness sake. It would be sacrilege to let this Sicilian beauty go to waste.
“Let’s just ask her,” Colin says in a pleasant and respectful tone. “Natalie? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Please don’t open the door. I’m… I’m… I just got out of the shower. I’m getting dressed.”
“You see?” Mrs. Yeng probably wags her arthritic finger at Colin. “I told you.”
“You said she was laying there, hurt.” Colin laughs. “How about we let her dress in peace. Can I walk you to your apartment? Where do you live, Ma’am?”
I shake from nerves and hyperventilation. That was too close. I concentrate on breathing normally and slowing down my heartbeat. And I crave sugar. I always crave sugar when I’m nervous or scared. That cake never looked better. I dip my finger in the frosting close to my thigh, careful not to ruin the still-flawless surface of the chocolate. I suck it off my finger, almost forgetting about the company outside my bedroom door. They are gone. I’m sure Mrs. Yeng is totally smitten with Colin. The age makes no difference—women melt when he wants them to.
And the cake is slowly melting too. I feel a drizzle running down my folds and my buttocks. I’m covered in soft chocolate. Where is Colin? Ugh. I hope Mrs. Yeng doesn’t make him stay over for her legendary jasmine tea. I take another lick of the chocolate frosting. Yum, it’s so tasty.
I hear my front door open again, and Colin hollers, “Hey, Nat! Are you in the bedroom?”
“Lock the front door before more neighbors storm in!” I yell, licking my finger clean. I reach for the lighter and wait.
He walks in and freezes. A lazy smile starts to blossom on his lips. “Hmm, what have we here?”
I look in his eyes and slowly light the candle. “Make a wish, big guy.”
TWELVE
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Christina Rossetti
It’s Friday evening, and I’m spending the night at Colin’s. Yesterday I bought a thick Italian cookbook in the University Bookstore in Bellevue. Yes, I have moments of insanity but, fortunately, they don’t happen too often. Well, at least I don’t think they do. So I insist on making dinner in Colin’s kitchen. He smiles broadly and gives me his blessings. I definitely need them; although I will never admit to anyone how nervous the cooking makes me. But it is time to put on a big girl’s panties and show the world what I am made of. I figure if there are so many celebrity chefs, that craft can’t be all that difficult, can it?
I studied the cookbook yesterday, made a list of ingredients to purchase, and arrived at Colin’s with three bags filled with groceries. When I explained my idea, the look on his face was priceless! He seemed as if he wasn’t sure what to do—insist on diverting me from my plan, laugh, or run to the phone and dial Papa John’s Pizza for delivery.
But after the initial shock, Colin starts to unpack the groceries and takes some pots and pans from the cupboard. I stop him and ask him to retreat to the family room. He lifts me up instead, spins me around, and kisses me gently on the lips. I squeal in delight, and Colin laughs.
“I will open the wine.” He points to the bottle I brought. It is a Pinot Noir recommended for my recipe by the guy who was stocking wine shelves at the grocery store last night.
Colin hands me a half-filled glass. The rich burgundy color of the wine is deep. I take a small sip, smack my lips in sheer appreciation. Colin inclines his head after tasting his wine. “Good choice,” he agrees.
“Go play something for me.” I impishly slap his butt and giggle.
“What would you like? Something upbeat?” He walks to the family room and picks up his guitar.
“Play that Flamenco stuff I like.” I lay my cookbook flat on the kitchen counter and open it on the page I marked yesterday at home. PARMESAN MEATBALLS WITH FETTUCCINI IN ALFREDO SAUCE recipe happily stares at me from above a heavily-photoshopped picture of a mouth-watering dish. I can do that.
“Nuevo Flamenco. Great choice, baby.” Colin nods, and a moment later the longing notes of Russ Hewitt’s Lydia make me smile.
I glance at Colin. He reclines in his oversized armchair with the guitar nestled against his body. He watches me, looking content, his fingers moving fast over the metal strings. I read the recipe and go through the steps, careful not to miss anything. It feels weird because I have no idea what the heck I am doing. Following the recipe, I mix ground beef with other ingredients and start to form the meatballs. So far, so good.
Soon the meatballs and the Alfredo sauce are simmering. I keep whisking the sauce, worrying that it might stick to the bottom of the pot. I boil some water for the linguini and wipe my hands on a paper towel, stealing another glance at Colin. His eyes are closed and his brows are drawn together. The music is soothing and beautiful, but he seems tense and… pained? My heart lurches, and I want to go to him. But something stops me—the music maybe. It seems as if it evokes something dark and foreboding in him, and I don’t know if I should intervene. Why the hell not? Now I don’t even understand my own reasoning. Ah, screw it.
“Colin,” I say quietly.
He opens his eyes and smiles at me. And just like that he’s back; he’s with me.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I’m fixing the salad.” I turn the sauce off and start arranging the colorful leaves of baby lettuce and grape tomatoes in two small bowls. I take them to t
he table, and then return to the stove.
Colin puts the guitar down, leaning it against the side of his armchair. He walks to the kitchen and hugs me from behind. When I feel his hands over my stomach, slowly moving upright toward my breasts, a warm, delicious feeling awakes inside me, and I smile. I put one hand over his, while stirring the fettuccini with my other hand. I don’t say anything. I only feel and marvel at his touch and at what it does to me.
He kisses my neck, and then nibbles on my earlobe. I feel his hardening erection press against my lower back. Colin cups my breasts and kneads them gently. I moan and tilt my head to expose the side of my neck to his lips.
“I want you, but I’m also really hungry,” he whispers.
“Let’s take care of your hunger for food first, shall we?” I turn to face him and put my palms flat on his hard chest. I feel his heartbeat under my right hand and I smile at him.
Colin grins back at me, and then pecks me quickly on the cheek. “I won’t argue with that, although I should.”
“Come on.” I pull him by the hand and walk him to the table.
He sits down, and I bring our wine glasses. I go back to the kitchen to drain the fettuccini over the sink. The hot steam slams me in the face, and I pant, instinctively moving my head to the side. Cooking is a dangerous business, geez. I turn off the meatballs and join Colin at the table. He leans over and puts his arm around my neck, pulling me to him. His mouth is on mine, and he kisses me hard. His tongue parts my lips, and I let him enter freely. My hands find the way to Colin’s hair, and I press him closer. I can’t get enough of this man!
He withdraws from the kiss and smiles at me sheepishly. I know he wants to eat but doesn’t want to come across too eager. “This looks delicious.” He gestures to the salad.
“Thank you. Let’s eat then. The main course is ready too.”
“More wine?” He lifts the bottle and his eyebrows.
“Yes, please.” I move my glass closer to him.
The fettuccini turns out okay, just a bit too salty. I try to remember if I put in the required amount of salt twice. Or thrice? Argh.
“Sorry… uhm, this is a bit too salty,” I say, guiltily.
“It’s fine,” he ensures me. “You did really good. Thank you for cooking for me.”
“You’re welcome. But don’t get used to it.” I smirk.
He grins at me and lifts his wine glass.
After dinner we wash the dishes and put the leftovers away. We move to the family room to lounge by the fireplace. My eyes get heavy. Colin sits cross-legged on the floor, playing the Pink Floyd marathon on his guitar. I’m snuggled in a fluffy blanket, curled up next to him. His fingers move incessantly across the strings, and I marvel at how slim and shapely they are. Some men have stubby fingers, but not Colin.
The notes are quiet, longing somehow. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep for a moment. When I look at him again, he gazes into the distance, and his expression is sad; really sad. This is another one of those moments when he withdraws from the present and lets his mind go to some place inaccessible to me.
When we first started dating I hadn’t witnessed any of this self-imposed exile. Now, as time progresses, I find him closing up more and more. I worry, and not because he’s like those emotionally crippling, manipulating guys from my past. No, he’s not—he really cares about me. But there is something about him that makes me uneasy. Actually, ‘uneasy’ is an understatement.
When he starts playing and quietly singing Pink Floyd’s “Goodbye Cruel World”, I touch his arm, and he gazes at me with unseeing eyes. A few seconds pass, and a ghost of a smile vacillates on his lips.
“Colin,” I say softly, moving my hand up and down his forearm.
“Hmm?” He snaps out of his reverie and smiles desolately at me.
“What is it?” I whisper. I’m not sure why I whisper. Maybe deep inside, I’m apprehensive to bring him back to me too abruptly.
Colin looks lost. I want to hold him and tell him that whatever invades his normally happy manner will pass. But I can’t do that, because I don’t even know if that’s true. I don’t know what causes him to retract deeper and deeper each day. Is it the girl he has witnessed dying? But that was year ago, and he told me she’s only a vague memory. Or is she?
“You look sad and… gone… somewhere else,” I prompt.
His lips part, and he takes a deep breath. But then the moment is gone. Colin smiles his dazzling smile at me, knocks a staccato beat on the guitar a few times, and starts playing “Over the Rainbow”. It’s his own version, and I like it even better than my favorite one by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. Colin knows how to put a grin on my face. So I smile at him and kiss his arm. But I don’t feel put at ease. I resolve to question him soon. Right now he’s back, and I want him to stay this way for a bit longer.
I sit up and wrap my arms around his neck. Without a moment of hesitation Colin puts the guitar down on the floor. He pulls me onto him and lies down. I straddle him and lean over to kiss his lips.
I love kissing Colin. He’s probably the best kisser I’d ever encountered—skilled and, most likely, well-practiced, which is fine by me, since he had done all his practicing before we became an item.
“God, Natalie,” he rasps in my ear, “you feel so good.”
He’s not bluffing. I feel the proof of his arousal stiffening against me. I pull my t-shirt over my head. He cups my butt with his hands and lifts his hips to press onto me even harder. I outline his ear with the tip of my tongue and gently bite his earlobe.
A short gasp escapes him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He helps me take his shirt off, and I toss it onto the floor, right next to mine. I run my fingers over Colin’s sculpted chest and down to the ripples of his stomach, marveling at the impeccable view under me.
He pulls me back down and hungrily kisses me, his tongue in sync with mine in perfect harmony. His hand finds its way to the nape of my neck, and the other quickly and efficiently unhooks my bra. He never lets the kiss end while he takes my bra off and lets it drop onto the floor. My nipples constrict against the deliciously warm skin of his hard chest. He gently urges me to move up and down to rub my breasts against him, teasing and making me want to beg for more.
“Oh, baby… this is… you are… this feels like heaven.” I don’t care if I’m uttering the most obvious clichés. My brain happily hops over to the back when vagina is in the driver’s seat. And that’s just fine by me.
Colin rolls us around until he’s on top of me. He hovers over me, supporting his weight on his forearms and knees. His eyes smolder, but his expression is fervent. I fist my hands in his hair, and he clenches his teeth, smiling in a predatory way. It’s one of his sexiest smiles, and I want him more than ever. He straightens and sits on his heels, watching me like his prey. Slowly, he unbuttons his jeans, and runs the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. He takes my hand in his and brings it to his bulging erection.
I feel the corner of my mouth lift in silent understanding and unzip his jeans. He springs free and inhales deeply. I tug on his jeans, and he stands up. The pants fall down, and I’m rewarded with his undeniable glory: a perfect six-pack stomach leading to the inverted triangle between his narrow hips. And there is his impressive manhood—dreamily hardened just for me.
Unhurriedly, without taking his eyes off me, he lowers himself back onto his knees, and lifts up my skirt. He’s on his stomach now and pushes my legs apart to position himself between them. Soon I feel his warm breath on my sex, and then his tongue swirls over my folds and my clitoris. I cry out, unable to contain the scream inside me. My hands are in his hair, trying to pull him even closer to me. He grasps my hips and mercilessly works his tongue and mouth, bringing me over the threshold of pleasure.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. My beautiful Natalie,” he murmurs as he crawls toward my breasts, watching me loosen up after the aftershocks of my orgasm pass. His movements, his gaze, his expression are all deliberately sensual.
> He closes his mouth over my nipple and continues the sweet torture. I gasp, when his teeth graze the sensitive skin, and he sucks on it, his hand playing with my other breast. I writhe under him, squeezing my thighs around his torso. He traces kisses all the way to my lips. His mouth is on mine, ravenous and possessive.
I taste my own arousal in his kiss and moan against his mouth. I clutch onto his sculpted shoulders and feel his erection pressing over my sex. A renewed heat stirs within me. “I want you inside me.”
He inhales, and the breath hisses through his clenched teeth. In one swift plunge he enters me. I groan, feeling carnal desire seize me.
Colin wraps one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist. He holds me close to him. I meet him thrust for thrust, welcoming the sensation of fullness he’s giving me. His hand moves from my waist to my butt and presses in sync with our thumping rhythm. I put my palms on the sides of his face and lose myself in the kiss.
I sense another orgasm building up, but I hold off. I’m not ready to let g, because Colin’s full attention is on me. His mind is not wandering into some dark, lonely place where I have no access. For an instant I deem myself selfish, but I quickly dismiss the absurd thought. My chest constricts, and the sweetness of the moment makes me realize that I love this man. I love everything about him, even his grim secrets, because they are part of who he is.
I open my mouth to tell him how I feel, but he beats me to it. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear and buries his face in my hair. His words are unexpected, and I spiral into a splendid orgasm. Colin plunges faster into me, his breath rugged, his hand roaming over my breast. With almost indiscernible grunt he finds his release and stills.
I’m panting, and my heart hammers in my chest. Slowly, he lifts his head and gazes at me. He looks vulnerable and almost surprised.
