Color Blind

by Leigh Lennon

  “Child, heavens, I’ve missed your beautiful face in my life.” A ten feet radius holds the three most important women and in my epiphany, I vow never to let any of them go, especially the blonde in the four-inch heels holding on tight to my mama.

  16 years ago

  Liz’s hands are clammy in mine. It’s the first time we’ve held them, waiting at Applebee’s for my mama and dad to arrive. I’ve somehow convinced Liz to accompany my parents to the game.

  “This is a big step, Iz,” she keeps spewing the whole ride to the restaurant.

  For someone as confident as this girl next to me, this little get together has her spooked.

  Sitting as close to her as my body can get without squishing her, I gently move her chin to meet my face. “Girl, who hurt you?” I know this isn’t the time or place but her body is turned on by me. Her hesitation moving forward in a relationship isn’t because of the lack of chemistry we share. Her pale ivory skin flushes the second we’re within arm’s reach. I can’t help but see in the thin t-shirts she wears that her nipples harden which makes me want to push her, but I don’t. She’s worth the wait. My cock may not like it, but I’m hoping it will lead to gratified pleasure, eventually.

  14

  Liz

  Dinner with Isadora Laita is no longer a distant memory. I hold the presence close to me as we fall back into a familiar camaraderie. At the center is Iz and me. Our hearts have always had their own language, working as its own entity.

  All that’s cluttering my brain is SHE, the little kid he adores, could have been ours. The conversations that his mom and I are enjoying could have been mine for years. It’s not long when my mind returns to the land of the legally sane. I gave it all up; for good reason. When I try to locate said reason, I don’t see her at all.

  Looking around the house, Mama Laita stops me. “Oh, sugar. If you’re lookin’ for your sister, they snuck out of here an hour ago.” Her all-knowing look speaks volumes.

  I’d told Candace I’d be accompanying them back to the hotel, my integrity still intact, because leaving with Iz is an idea that excited me between the legs a little too much.

  After our goodbyes to his mama, I almost stomp to Iz’s Jeep. My heels can’t make the loud sound I desire and I slam the door to justify the anger coursing within me.

  “C’mon, Buttercup, what’s your issue?” It’s all he asks but his arrogant grin lights up his whole face and it appears he holds back his laughter only by a hair.

  “You fucking know good and well what my issue is. I told Candace I wanted to hitch a ride back to the hotel with her and Lang. I saw you and Lang conspiring in the corner an hour ago and then they’re gone, without a word to me. Don’t tell me you didn’t have something to do with this.” My arms are as animated as my voice when he’s quiet, reversing out of his mama’s mini-mansion’s driveway.

  In his silence, my fury is fueled and I roar like I’m the king of the jungle. “Well, are you going to fucking say something?! Anything?”

  Still with his eyes fixed on the road, his reply is kind, almost pleasant. “You told me not to tell you I didn’t have anything to do with Lang and Candy leaving so quickly, so I’m not.”

  The pure venom in my eyes could kill Iz. “So, you’re admitting you were behind the quick disappearance?” I retort.

  “Yep!” the bastard announces with a pride one would imagine having holding their kid for the first time. Knowing the man like I used to, he probably is just that—fucking pleased like a Cheshire cat.

  Silence fills the Jeep and when I grit my teeth, I’m sure some enamel is disappearing. I’ve been to San Francisco more times than I care to admit when I worked at Daddy’s law firm. I notice we’re heading a complete different direction away from my hotel, toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Iz, where in pray tell are you taking me?”

  With a small chuckle, one that has always set my panties aflame, he replies, “I love your Liz-isms. Where in pray tell? A classic from my girl.” My reply is on the tip of my tongue but he beats me to the punch. “Don’t start that shit with me, Liz, you’ll forever be my girl and my Buttercup so don’t even say it.” And part of me wants to be his forever Buttercup again.

  “Then where are we going since the words pray tell aren’t acceptable?” My snarl ensues the chuckle from earlier.

  “First off, everything that’s you has and will always be acceptable. And second off, since Mama’s taken’ Nev to the movies, I want to show you something. Something that’s part of me. Something that I needed when the world was caving in three years ago with the loss of my dad, my marriage, and my career.”

  During that time, it was all over the news how everything of substance was being stripped from the Israel Laita all at once. There was not a day I didn’t want to pick up the phone and call him or reach out in some way.

  My attention in this moment is anchored on the sadness radiating in the chestnut brown orbs that now ensnare me. My heart clutches as I’m face-to-face with the broken Iz of three years ago like he has been transported to this moment. I will no doubt walk the earth to make this sadness that has returned, as though it’s fresh, go away, far away.

  Reaching for his hand, he jerks his head up in a fluid but surprised motion. “Okay, Iz, I’d like to see what helped you get through the hard times in your life.” Turning on his left turn signal, we’re now entering a parking garage. It’s really the last thing I’m expecting. I try not to fret or ruin the mood by fussing at him. I. Can’t. Be. Alone. With. Him. Yet, I can’t continue to watch the hurt coat his beautiful face. My own heart sinks when I see it there.

  When I let myself out of his Jeep, he fusses at me. “Girl, don’t forget—I always open the door for you.” This little Iz trait was one of the many ways he could shower his devotion onto me as though I was his everything.

  Taking my hand, his steps are controlled as he leads me to an elevator, travelling higher and higher until it dings and it opens to an expansive room. No door, just a huge space with floor-to-ceiling windows, so close to the Golden Gate Bridge, I’d be able to touch it if not for the glass. I swirl around, taking in every view of the bay. The moon is almost visible in the roll of the waves in the water. The headlights portray the backdrop of the canvas that currently holds my eyes. My face doesn’t turn from the beauty of everyday life playing out beneath us.

  My attention breaks when Iz’s lips are the catalyst that brings me from the trance, whispering into my ear. “Want something to drink, wine maybe, Buttercup?” His words are fluid, smooth, and transports me back so long ago when my body held onto every breath he’d utter. Somehow, this same technique holds true.

  I turn my back to the outside, my mind conscious of the brooding fire that now ignites between us. He stands, not moving, as I’ve never answered him. Between the beauty he exudes and the modern design of his spectacular home, I remain like one of Medusa’s victims, still as stone.

  “This view, this place—was my sanctuary. Very few know about it.” That is all Iz says to me. I get it; this place could give anyone the peace they needed from the outside world—for a little while anyway.

  In my line of sight, behind the elevator, are two hallways and before I can ask, Iz perceives my question. “Those lead to the bedrooms. One is for the master and the other are two guest rooms.” Heat and lust accompany his timbre and it’s my intention to break away to the large windows, to give us space. But my feet stay where they’ve been, with no desire to disrupt the distance between Iz and myself.

  My mind wanders as the calculator in my head does some simple math. What I want to ask is how much he’s really worth, but I can do a ballpark estimate in my mind within a few million dollars. I mean, what’s a few million when he’s probably worth a hundred million? Just the name Israel Laita sells a shit ton of merchandise and products a year. The man could be the poster child for tampons and increase sales by one hundred percent.

  In my own little world between the idea of his wealth and tampons, I’ve lost sig
ht of him until I sense his presence behind me. Between the footsteps and the ramped up heat my body emits, my knees weaken. The warmth on my cheeks intensifies. Turning my head ever so slightly, I see the index finger of Iz taking my blonde locks, positioning them with utmost precision behind my right ear. “Buttercup, besides my mama, sister, and daughter, I’ve never brought anyone else here.”

  It’s not words or speech but the sweet melody of lyrics, the softness of an overture that makes its way to my brain. The mere perception of my own discerning questions in my mind establish he still knows me in every intimate way. As our relationship was young in college, so was my security. Of course, everyone wanted to snag this man who’d one day play in the NFL. I never wore green very well and jealousy never suited me.

  “You remembered.” He’s Israel Laita after all and sometimes even in college my insecurities came out to play. His breath on my skin is more intoxicating than any wine he’d offered me earlier. My mind is currently concocting the best of debates with my heart. It’s almost impossible and as my brain works hard to convince my heart of this, I finally succumb. Dumb is what I am right now, thoroughly and absolutely fucking dumb.

  The heat from his hand that has traveled up my arm is a familiar, welcome feeling and a reminder of years earlier. The friction of our bodies together causes me heart palpitations. I twist my body ever so slightly, his eyes stop me and in them he makes his intentions clear. Iz is forever the gentleman and his body stills, waiting for my consent.

  “Iz.” It’s all I say.

  “C’mon, girl, tell me this is what you want. Tell me I’m still who you want—through all the messed-up shit in our life—tell me there’s still a chance.”

  My mind blanks and all I see is the Iz who won my heart with chocolate peanut butter cups years ago. He’s the same man who showed up to my dorm with medicine and saltines when I was sick. He slept in a small upright chair for me. He eased my fears of falling for another man again after the hurt and loss of a devastating relationship. This is still that same Israel Laita and my desire for him has never wavered.

  I reach toward his scruffy face, with his sexier than fuck five o’clock shadow—that’s a look on him that makes me wetter. Is that even possible? I wonder when I stroke his chin. “Fuck, Iz, I’m not sure where this is going but I’ve never wanted something more than I want you right now.”

  It’s the answer he’s been waiting for and in one split second I’m lost in the arms of Israel Laita.

  With Iz, everything springs back to memory and without thinking, I jump into his chiseled forearms, even beefier than I remember years ago. They encircle me and lay claim to my body all at the same time. My own hands curl around the base of his neck. When he arches it back, it takes him a second to crash his lips with mine, causing pinpricks to trickle down my own spine. Iz’s moves are so precise, picking me up with ease as if he’s about to pass the ball to the end zone for the win. He does this all while moving with urgent need to his bedroom, or what I assume is his room.

  My legs still lock around his hips. I don’t let go, as they stay strongly linked together. When I look over his shoulders, shoulders that carry the weight of so much pain from the past three years, we’re at the foot of his bed. I’m not sure if it’s the nerves and fear of what will happen the second my body reaches his mattress, or the fact I’m wrapped in Iz’s body again, that makes me say the hell with common sense. It may be both and I try to will the powers that be, the one shouting like a fucking foghorn in my mind that this is a bad idea, to shut up for now. I want this—I need this. Iz and me; I need the warmth of his body but shit, I need to know I’m desired and wanted. It’s something I have sure as fuck forgotten for the past fifteen years.

  When releasing his grip on me, I unwrap my long legs from his inviting body. His hands skim gently over the curves of my hips and even with the barrier of clothing between us, his powerful strokes warm me from within.

  When he kneels in front of me, as flat to the mattress as I can be, no words are spoken. We communicate merely by the friction our bodies make upon contact.

  It’s been too long since we were horizontal with one another. I’m in no hurry and judging by Iz’s meticulous movements, neither is he. His calloused fingertips, the ones so used to gripping the leather of a football, had always been so soft against my skin. He’s reading my mind and takes his hands, working at the top of my forehead, threading his fingers through my locks. With his hands, the same ones that could cause an orgasm to erupt in t-minus ten seconds, he caresses the top of my head, his eyes boring into my soul. If he looks close enough, he can see the tears I have cried with his vacancy in my life.

  I look up to the ceiling, tilting my head back to avoid Iz seeing the single tear escaping from me. I’ve missed this too much, the total devotion he showers me with, as though I’m the only woman in this world.

  Tilting my head toward him, he studies the expression on my face and says nothing. He only takes his hand and gently blots out the single tear. The tear is the representation of our time apart. It’s no longer part of the equation.

  His lips hover over my head, placing a tender kiss upon my button nose he’s always loved. Working his lips down to my own, his hands now find their way to my nipples. One swipe, even over the camisole I’m wearing, and they harden. With a small turn of my lips, it’s apparent the effect he has on them, as one small brush with the back of his hand creates an inviting sting I’ve missed. Bringing his hands under my top, he works his way from my belly button to my bra. It’s not long until he’s under the piece of fabric constraining my tits, the tips of his fingers working my tight pebbles. Every pinch, nip, and kneaded sensation is met with my own moan and he ramps up the pace.

  Still, his head is horizontally over mine and with the reaction of his hands on my tits, he shows me those pearly whites of his in that cocky little smirk that officially ruins the silk panties I’m wearing. It’s not long until his mouth is on top of mine, frantically working his tongue with me as though he has to have deep access. Pulling back slightly, he takes one more suck of my bottom lip, nipping it faintly. The chestnut of his eyes doesn’t leave the violet of mine. I adjust to his gaze, not wanting to break away from it, or else this dream may end. I become ambitious when I run a finger down his bulging chest, watching his wicked eyes undress me. Taking a cursory glance at his body, I can’t get over the sculpted chest of this man and understand that Adonis has nothing on Israel Laita.

  We’re unable to break the contact we have on one another when his hand departs my nipples and I’m left with a void. Instead, they are back at my chin. It’s now I see his lips tremble, as though speaking will ruin this whole mirage. Do I want this so badly, like water in the desert? Before I can fuss at him, he gently says, “Liz, I want you. I need you.”

  It’s my turn to say something but I can’t. I simply stare in his eyes, and I see fear, like I may leave or disappear on him. With his body tense, I wiggle my way from underneath him. A smile forms on his face when I drop my skirt, shimmy out of my panties, remove my camisole, and unclasp my bra. I’m serving myself up to him, painstakingly vulnerable and within Iz’s greedy stare I also know his intention—of swallowing me whole.

  His eyes stray from my face as my hands touch his cheeks, cupping his five o’clock shadow, bringing his lips to mine. “Me, too, Iz. Me, too.”

  Pulling me back on the bed, he lays me flat like before, starting to straddle me. When he takes one hand, he drops kisses on every part of my arm, then over my collarbone, and down the other arm. With my breasts free, he nips at my nipples. The slight pain with the sensation of him both biting down and sucking on them makes me avert his hand, demanding attention be showered farther north.

  “Demanding like always, Buttercup,” he replies as a small whimper escapes my mouth. Continuing down my body, he stops at my stomach, a place of utter fear with most women over a certain age. It’s not the same firm belly he once was very familiar with. Brushing his lips over the sensi
tive skin of my middle section, he peppers kisses all around my stomach. His velvet lips feel like heaven against my flabby tummy but the softness of that area doesn’t stop him. The stubble of his chin and the smoothness of his lips are a great combination of opposites, creating friction on my skin. Directing him below my belly button to the area I need release, I gently push his head lower, until he’s quite aware of what I need, desire, and demand.

  Lifting his head up, his agenda is plainly reflected within his orbs and my body has goose bumps all over with anticipation. But, because this isn’t a planned occasion, I’m a little self-conscious over my lion below who hasn’t had a trim in a little while. Her winter coat doesn’t seem to hinder him, as he almost attacks the area with vengeance.

  His tongue has never lost its touch. Taking one hand, opening my pussy lips, I hear him take in a long breath. I hope it’s not in fear of my winter coat, but after popping my head up, seeing his smile and the hunger behind the grin makes me realize I could look like Simba from The Lion King and he’d still eat me up. Though, I have no intention of that happening.

  “Fuck, Liz, I have never forgotten what you look like, smell like, when it comes to my pussy.” With his words, he’s too close to making me come hard.

  “Iz, please.” It’s all I say because my need in this moment is fierce. I’m so close to the first real orgasm in many years because Iz has been the only man on this earth who knows how to get my motor going.

  I can’t see him but I know what he’s doing. It’s my greedy pussy that’s in need and I have been demanding this from the beginning. With his fingers, he begins to lightly stroke the pad of his thumb around my clit in a circular motion. At the same time, his tongue dances kisses at the center of my nub as it swells with my own desire.