by Orton, D. L.
Mierda, she’s beautiful.
We sit in silence, both of us enjoying the view.
She sighs softly. “It’s lovely here.”
“Yes. It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”
She continues gazing out at the waves, her lips parted. “Someday you’ll have to watch the sun set over the Rocky Mountains.”
“Will you take me?” I say it on a lark and then hope she doesn’t think I’m being too presumptuous.
Shit, I’m already in over my head.
She glances at me, her eyes glossy. “Yes.”
“Good.” I run the back of my hand across her cheek, almost able to see the electricity jumping off her skin.
I bet she looks great naked.
The thought makes me excited and uncomfortable at the same time. We just met, and although I am dying to get her clothes off, I don’t want to push her or appear too desperate. I adjust my chair and take my arm down, trying to make it seem nonchalant.
She frowns and glances down at her hands. “Why did you take your hand away?”
Ouch.
She pins me with her gaze. “Hmm?”
“Uh.” I look away. “It’s just that I didn’t want to—”
“Don’t.” She uses her finger to turn my head. “Don’t take your hand away.” She slides her fingertips down the line of my jaw and then places her palm against my chest, her eyes following. “Please.” She meets my eyes. “God, you look gorgeous.”
Ay yai yai.
I reach out and push a lock of hair away from her lips, and she closes her eyes and turns her head into my touch.
This time the passion rises in me like molten lava, filling my body with desire, and it’s all I can do not to pull her into my arms and start taking off her clothes right there in the restaurant.
Get a grip, mae. You just met her!
I slide my palm slowly across her shoulder, down her bare arm, and then squeeze her hand. “Would you like to have dinner first?”
She laughs, a sound that I have already come to crave, and her eyes pop open. “As long as you don’t stop touching me.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Over dinner, our conversation jumps from how inept the UN can be, to how hard it is to train cats. We tussle over whether guys should pay on the first date, and if the people behind Anonymous are heroes or outlaws—or both. She keeps getting the names of public figures wrong, and when I tease her about it, she reels off the winner of every Grand Slam tennis tournament for the last three years, and then tells me she can do the next three years as well.
I suggest she move to Las Vegas, and she laughs. “That’s a good idea. Maybe I will.”
By the time we get the main course, my face hurts from smiling so much.
She continues with a never-ending string of queries, but I find that if I stop and turn her questions around, she is willing to share her opinions with me, although it does seem that she has to work at answering instead of interrogating. She laughs when I call her on it, and then proceeds to ask another question.
While stroking the inside of my thigh. Mierda.
It turns out we both dislike shopping for shoes, but disagree about doing laundry: I think it’s not that bad, but she thinks it’s torture. She tells me she doesn’t eat red meat, and when I ask what that means, she says, “I don’t eat mammals out of professional courtesy.”
I point out that there are plenty of mammals that don’t share her sentiments, and then tell her about the game theory project I’m working on to predict wildlife population explosions. I’m surprised when she knows the terminology and even makes a suggestion about something I’ve overlooked.
Ay, she’s smart.
I try not to be intimidated.
As we eat, she throws out an endless stream of questions, and I find myself enjoying her company more than I would have thought possible. That’s the good news. The bad news is it’s a challenge to stay with her intellectually, particularly when she keeps touching me like we’re already lovers. The more we talk, the higher the bar moves, and the more I want to impress her—and the more difficult it becomes to think about anything except taking her clothes off.
Shit.
At one point, she sets down her fork and teases the threads at the corner of her placemat with her fingers. “So tell me, are you seeing someone?” Her tone is casual, but she doesn’t look up.
That body language I can read.
I move my left hand across the table and slip it under hers, caressing her palm and fingertips. “Do I have a girlfriend? No, not really. I’ve been in a couple of relationships, but I’m not ready to make any long-term commitments.” It’s my standard reply.
She bites her lip, still playing with my fingertips, and then laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
“I bet that’s your stock reply.” She makes quotation marks with her fingers. “Not ready to make any commitments.”
I stare at her, feeling uncomfortable.
“Hey,” she says, “no worries. It sounds like a great plan. My mother always told me not to make any big decisions until I was twenty-five, and that should be just about right.”
“Just about right for what?”
“For you.” One side of her mouth twitches. “And, well, me.” She drags the back of one finger up the inside of my forearm, tracing the line of the muscle.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but my concern vanishes the moment she starts touching me.
So what’s new?
Her caress is light, tickling me, and I squirm beneath her touch. “What about you? Are you going out with someone?”
She laughs, and I stare at her, bewitched by the way her face changes when she smiles.
She runs her fingernail back down my arm. “I forgot that you’re so tick—” She blushes. “I mean, I forgot that someone could be so ticklish.” She turns away, peering out into the lush tropical night, her fingertips gliding across my arm.
I study her profile, watching escaped strands of her hair swirl about her face. “So. Are you seeing someone?”
“No.” She looks at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And I’m dead certain about it.”
I chuckle, trying to find a clever retort, but failing.
She slides her open palm up my arm to my shoulder and bumps my chin in a mock jab. “No one but you, that is.”
My whole body responds to her implication.
Ay! Maybe I am ready to make that commitment.
She takes a drink of water, running her finger around the condensation ring on the table, her eyes downcast.
She’s going to ask me something risky again.
I smile to myself and mentally brace for her next question.
She sets the glass down and leans forward, stroking the back of my hand. “Do you plan to have kids someday?”
“Yeah, sure. Not for a while, but eventually, yes. How about you?”
She holds up her finger, asking me to wait. “Hypothetical question, so there’s no correct answer.” She raises her eyebrows, and I nod. “Suppose you got your girlfriend pregnant when you were twenty-five and not ready to have kids—“ I start to protest, but she cuts me off. “Through no fault of yours. Say the condom broke.”
“Uh huh.”
She moves the back of her fingers down the line of my jaw, her eyes following her touch. “So she’s pregnant now, and somehow you know that this is the only time she’ll ever get pregnant.”
“Okay.”
“Would you choose to have the baby?”
I think for a moment. “Does she know it’s her only chance?”
“No. Just you.”
I pause for a minute before answering, trying to stay focused on her question instead of the way she’s touching me. “That’s a tough one, Iz.
I guess it would depend on our relationship, if we were planning to get married or had already talked about having kids someday.”
She runs her fingertips across my lips and then glances at my eyes. “So?”
“So, if the relationship was solid, and I was certain I wanted to marry her, maybe so. But a lot would depend on what she wanted too.” I take her hand and kiss her fingertips. “What about you? What would you do if the situation was reversed?”
She slides her hand slowly up the inside of my leg. “Well, if you were pregnant, that would be a trick.”
“Right.” I say it with heavy sarcasm and then press her hand flat against my leg, not allowing her to distract me.
She looks up, her eyes big.
I give her the eyebrow. “That was pathetic.”
She jerks her hand away.
Damn if she isn’t used to running the show.
I make a show of placing it back on my thigh. “You have been demanding honest answers from me all evening, Isabel. Don’t you think I deserve the same?”
“Touché.” She stares at my mouth.
Mierda, I want to kiss her.
I force my brain to work. “So. What would you do if you knew it was your only chance to have a baby?”
She tilts her head and traces an imaginary outline on my leg, her finger moving within nanometers of my very attentive cock. “I’d have to give up most of my career aspirations. And it would be rough for our relationship: no savings, not enough money to buy a house, lots of new bills, and no time as a couple.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “It would be a hard decision, but I don’t think I would have the baby.” She pauses in her drawing. “And I asked you that because it’s an area where we differ.”
“Oh, really. I thought my answer was identical to yours.”
“Well,” she says, looking flustered, “I’m not really a ‘right to life’ type, and you are.”
“Well, shit, I’d better get on that. I don’t think I’ve saved a single life yet, unless you count the people in the train set I had as a kid. My mom tried to throw those away when I left for college, but I found them in the trash and stashed them behind the old Boogie Board in the garage. You never know when you might need miniature people.”
She takes her hand away again, looking annoyed.
“Really, Isabel, why do you say that? I don’t think abortions are a particularly good form of contraception, but I don’t have any moral issue with them either. Besides, in your scenario, she could have the baby and give it up for adoption, if that’s what she wanted to do. If she wasn’t ready to be a mother, I certainly wouldn’t try to talk her into it—even if I was planning to marry her.”
“Now you tell me.”
Something about her tone of voice gives me pause. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She gazes out into the night.
We sit in silence, watching the waves break out on the reef, my body missing her touch.
I reach out and stroke her cheek. “Hey.”
She glances at me, her eyes filled with tears. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She shuts her eyes and then rubs her cheek against my fingers. “I just wish it didn’t have to end.”
I stare at her, uncertain if she’s talking about tonight, this week, or the rest of our lives.
She places her hand back on my thigh, letting it wander. “And I’ve missed him too.”
“Him?”
She traces my erection with her fingertip. “Gus.”
“Who’s Gus?”
She slides her palm across my now very hard cock. “You know. Gus.”
Ay!
Gus strains toward her touch, and it’s all I can do not to moan. “Ah.” I can feel my face getting warm. “I didn’t know he had a name.”
“He does now,” she says. “So tell me, what are you and Gus planning to do after graduation?”
“I have no effing idea. You’re making it too hard to think, Iz.”
She smirks. “I’ll stop if you want.”
“Please don’t.” I place my hand on top of hers and entwine our fingers. “I love the way you touch me, and I want to return the favor.”
“I’d like that.”
My pulse races and my brain freezes.
“Um,” she says, “how about we have a chocolate soufflé first?”
“Excellent idea.” I motion toward a wooden loveseat hanging between two palm trees. “And eat it over there?”
The waiter sees us looking at the swing and mouths the word “soufflé?”
I nod, wondering how he knows what I’m thinking. This is the third time this evening he’s done that.
Isabel stands up, pulling me with her, and then leads me into the flickering shadows, her hand warm in mine. Suddenly, nothing but being with her seems to matter.
We rock back and forth on the loveseat, holding hands and gazing out as the moon casts an alabaster glow on the breakers. A gentle breeze rustles through the palm fronds, making her eyes sparkle in the moonlight.
Ten minutes later, we dip our spoons into chocolate heaven, maybe even better than my signature chocolate cake. We eat and talk while the tables in the café fill and empty, and fill again.
When the waiter comes to clear the dish, I pull out my wallet.
“The bill has already been taken care of, sir.” The waiter glances at Isabel and back at me. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.” He returns to the café.
I look over at her, a bit taken aback. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’d love to say you’re welcome. But I didn’t do it.”
We both turn toward the café. An elderly man nods at us and then gets up to leave. He’s the same guy who was sitting alone in the restaurant when I arrived, and he’s still wearing sunglasses and a Panama hat—even though it’s dark now. I wonder who he is, and why he doesn’t want to be recognized.
Isabel blows him a kiss. “Thank you!”
The man gazes at her, his hands twitching at his side, and then nods in acknowledgment. I get that weird feeling again, like something isn’t quite what it seems, and then he disappears into the night.
“How sweet,” she says. “Is he a friend of yours?”
I shake my head, still trying to figure out who he might be, but coming up empty. “But I think he likes you. A lot.” I trace my finger across her lower lip. “And so do I.”
She cocks her head and slides her hand across my chest, and then notices that there’s something underneath my shirt. “What’s this?” She pulls out the gold St. Christopher medal I have worn since I was a child and studies the Latin inscription on the back. “What does it say?”
I remain silent.
“Tego?” She gives me a concerned look, wondering if I didn’t hear her question.
“It is better to keep one’s mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.”
She groans. “Right.”
I give her an injured look. “My godmother gave it to me when I was eight, and I never really thought about it. She was very old at the time. We called her Aunt Teak.”
She ignores my pun. “So you’re Catholic?”
I shift uncomfortably. “Yes and no. It says that on my birth certificate, but it’s not something I was given a choice about. And I don’t recall what the back says.”
“Really.” Her voice is droll, but it cuts. “For all you know, it could say: this guy is an idiot.”
“For all you know, it could be right.”
She bursts out laughing and then tucks the gold disk back inside my shirt, letting her fingertips linger against my skin.
“Okay, you got me,” I say, keeping a straight face.
She drops her hand to my forearm and g
ives me a quizzical look.
“It’s a chick magnet. And a damn good one, if you’re any indication.”
“Hah.” She pulls her hand away, but I grab it and kiss it, and then set it back on my thigh.
And I hope to hell it keeps working.
She draws her fingertips across my shirt, moving around the buttons in exaggerated figure eights—and brushing both my nipples.
My body responds in spades, and I force down the urge to pull her down on top of me in the sand.
Easy, mae, or you’ll scare her away.
When her finger bumps into my waistband, she hesitates and then places her hand flat against my chest, her eyes following.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
She taps her finger. “Am I that intimidating?” She doesn’t glance up. “Or is there some other reason you don’t want to touch me?” There is the slightest waver in her voice, the first crack I’ve seen in her thick and shiny armor.
So she’s only pretending to be in control!
I suppress a smile, but the voices in my head are yelling like drunken frat boys, whooping and shouting obscenities. I force myself to keep a straight face. “Well, to be honest,” I wait for her to look up at me. “I’m gay.”
She stares at me, her mouth agape. Then her eyes get really big, and she pulls her hand away.
I start laughing, and she whacks me hard on the shoulder. “You bas—”
I reach out, grab her head, and kiss her, holding her the same way she held me this afternoon. For the first time all evening, I feel like I’m in control, and it’s awesome.
She continues to call me names and threaten to kill me, but I don’t let go of her.
And then she kisses me back, deep and hard, the need in her so intense that I could easily lose myself in it. Desire explodes in me, fiery shocks of super-heated electricity moving from where our mouths touch, deep into my core, making my fingers and toes—and other parts—tingle.
Maybe there is a chance I could stand as her equal. The thought gives me—and Gus—courage.
I break the kiss. “I don’t imagine there’s a guy in the world that wouldn’t find you intimidating, Isabel. You’re well-educated, athletic, and incredibly bright.” For the first time, I don’t feel self-conscious. “And on top of that, you have amazing force of personality, a biting sense of humor, and—” I glance from her eyes to her lips, and then lean away and let my gaze fall across her body. “Curvas hermosas.” I study her face. “You’re beautiful, Iz. How could I not find you intimidating?”
