I laughed. “You know, when I saw that trip on the auction form, I had a fantasy of us down there on the beach together. I didn’t think it would come true.”
She took a step closer to me, her voice dropping a little. “I wanted us to go for Valentine’s Day. How does that sound?”
I closed my eyes, picturing white, sandy beaches and cocktails under palm umbrellas. Amelia would be next to me, her smooth, lean body clad only in a swimsuit. I opened my eyes, and this time my smile was genuine and full-hearted.
“It sounds like heaven.”
Chapter Five
The day before Valentine’s Day, we left New Orleans for Puerto Vallarta on a commercial flight. The sky was leaden with clouds and rain, and the fog was so thick it took us ages to drive to the airport despite the light Friday-morning traffic. It warmed up a little after our cold snap in January, but it was still bitter when the wind blew. Amelia and I were bundled to the gills in heavy coats and hats, and the idea of arriving somewhere with actual sunshine seemed more like a fantasy than a reality.
We had more reasons to be grateful for leaving New Orleans than the weather, though. Part of why I’d been so excited to leave was to avoid the Mardi Gras celebrations in New Orleans this weekend. Most locals have a very torn relationship with the holiday. On the one hand, lots of people get some or most of the week off, like a second Christmas. The weeks leading up to Mardi Gras—Carnival—are graced by beautiful balls, fantastic parades, and gorgeous costumes. On the other hand, in the final days of the season, including the day itself, the city is deluged with hundreds of thousands of drunk tourists, all of whom have decided that puking, peeing, and defecating in the street are part of the fun. For several days every year, it’s difficult to get anywhere, especially downtown, and if you have to go down there for any reason, you have to fight through crowds of rowdy, drunk people. As I now lived next to the French Quarter, I was anxious to get out of town. I’d enjoyed the parades as a child but had started to dislike most of the celebrations as a young adult, especially the main attractions in the tourist parts of town. The Marigny has some smaller, mainly local parades and events that I like to attend when I can get to them, but that is really the only part of Mardi Gras I enjoy anymore. Living in Paris as I had the last few years, I hadn’t celebrated in a long time, but I hadn’t exactly missed it, either.
Also, we were exhausted. We’d spent the weeks between the birthday gala and our trip working, almost nonstop. The day after the gala, we both had to get to the office the moment the shipping company in town opened, just after dawn, and we worked all morning, afternoon, and into the late evening. This happened almost every day, including weekends, until we left. Most of our efforts dealt with arranging, storing, and cataloguing the massive shipments of artwork from Montreal, but we were also wrapping up several long-term, large-scale projects, including one of my original sales with Brent Cameron. The Cameron sale was our largest project for the last quarter of 2014 and the first quarter of 2015, but I was so tired of the whole job that by the time I was overseeing the final installation of artwork a few days before our trip, I felt neither jubilation nor joy. I was simply too tired to care.
We had also experienced several delays at our newest project at Teddy’s, and it seemed like I spent at least an hour on the phone every day with someone about it between the gala and our trip. It took eons to get the artists’ work and then another era to try to figure out a time for the installation that would serve for us and for Teddy and her staff. Nothing had panned out. Finally, after days and days of back-and-forth phone calls, we’d settled on a delivery date after the trip. Still, I strongly suspected, based on what had already happened several times, that the date would end up moving again before it actually happened.
Amelia had come back from Montreal in desperate need of a break, and the long hours and frantic pace of our work didn’t make things any better for her. By the time we left for Puerto Vallarta, she looked harrowed and ill. She’d lost weight and had battled her cold and a sore throat on and off since she returned. I didn’t look much better than she did by the time we climbed onto the plane to Mexico, and both of us quite literally passed out when the plane took off, too exhausted to be excited. When we finally walked off the plane, out onto the tarmac in the blazing sun of a Mexican winter, both of us were still blinking away our sleepiness, befuddled to find ourselves there already.
Puerto Vallarta is a city divided in more ways than one. Obvious divisions exist, as in most resort towns, between tourists and locals. There are also divisions among locals: those with lots of money, those with a basic standard of living, and those crushed by institutionalized poverty. Even among tourists are divisions, and the divisions are, much like those of the locals, arranged geographically. On one side of the Río Cuale, newer resorts and American businesses crowd the beach in tacky, offensive blandness, appealing to U.S. travelers that want all the conveniences of home in a new place. Tourists that want to go to Walmart and KFC are welcome to stay in a Holiday Inn and feel like they never left home.
On the other side of the river, where we were staying, is the Old Town, Emiliano Zapata Colonia. There, smaller, off-brand hotels attempt to blend in with the older part of the city by borrowing design elements of the original architecture. There, the restaurants, stores, and shops are generally locally owned and singular, with none of the banal Americana available a couple of miles away. Many of the streets in the old part of town are still cobblestoned, and it’s easy to imagine why old Hollywood used to flock there for getaways. Emiliano Zapata is also Puerto Vallarta’s gay neighborhood and is generally considered one of the safest places for gay and lesbian tourists in Mexico.
Our limo driver offered to give us a driving tour, but both of us were too worn out to want one. Instead, he dropped us off in front of our hotel, a small bed-and-breakfast. It was less than a block from Playa Los Muertos, the ghoulishly named but gay-friendly beach. Our room was a penthouse suite with a large balcony overlooking the water, hemmed in by tropical plants and flowers like a little private oasis. We could see the crashing waves and the beach below, but it would be difficult for anyone to see us from any direction. We both stared at the water for a long moment and then collapsed into the two Adirondack chairs there on the balcony without saying a word.
After watching the water for a few minutes, I began sweating heavily. I’d expected it to be warmer here, but it was actually hot. Our balcony was shaded with palm trees and large-leafed bushes, but even in the shade I was uncomfortably warm in my heavy winter clothes. I’d flung my coat onto the bed when we came into the room, but I needed to get out of the rest of my winter things. I was about to suggest this change to Amelia, but when I looked over at her, I saw that she’d fallen asleep. Her face was drawn and pale, and the lids of her eyes looked purple and bruised. She’d pulled off her sweater and was clad only in a light cotton button-up shirt and slacks, so it was safe enough to leave her out here in the shade for a little while. She appeared so tired, I didn’t want to wake her. I rose as quietly as possible and went back into our cool, dark room.
A bottle of champagne and an assortment of fresh fruit stood on a little table, with instructions to call for more when needed—no extra charge. Several bottles of beer and water were in a little mini fridge, and the freezer held ice and paletas, Mexican fruit popsicles. I opened and drained half of a large bottle of water and then stripped down completely. My bra and underwear were damp with sweat, and once I removed them, the cool air felt marvelous on my hot skin. The floor was a beautiful blue tile, and as I walked over to the bathroom, my bare feet, clad in woolen socks for the last few weeks, felt remarkably unconfined.
The bathroom was a modern wonder, done in the same blue and white as the bedroom. The fixtures were marble and stainless steel, and large, flowering plants served as decorations. The shower had a slightly raised lip on the floor to capture the water, but it was deep enough to have no curtain or door. I turned the water on and left it cold, jump
ing in with a little shriek as it hit my hot skin.
I’d just finished washing off the last of the soap when I saw movement in our bedroom. A moment later Amelia was walking into the bathroom, still wearing her clothes but without shoes. Without saying a word, she came into the shower with me, fully dressed. Her face seemed almost grim when she met my eyes, but I quickly realized what I saw there wasn’t anxiety or anger, but raw desperation. The water hit her clothes, plastering them to her as she slid into my arms. She crushed my mouth under hers, bending my head back. Her excitement was so frantic and stark she seemed to want to spend it all in her lips. I let her kiss me a while longer before meeting her a little and then a little more. She clutched my breasts, squeezing them painfully. I groaned and she squeezed harder, making my vision cloud with pain and pleasure.
My hands were on her back, and I hesitated for a moment and then let go before backing up a couple of steps. Her hands dropped to her sides as I stepped too far away. She blinked at me a few times, her eyes still clouded with desire, and it seemed to take her a moment to realize I was no longer in her arms. She frowned slightly in seeming confusion, and I hesitated for a moment before reaching up to undo the top button of her shirt. I saw her go rigid and I stopped after the first button, resting my hands on her hips. She seemed to shake herself a little, and some of the tension went out of her shoulders.
With a barely perceptible nod, she gave me permission to continue, and that was all it took. I quickly unbuttoned a couple more and then helped her wrench her wet shirt off and over her head. We flung it out of the shower and she stood in front of me, breathing hard, her eyes smoldering with heat. Then she moved her hands to the button on her slacks. The action made me gasp with shock. While I’d seen Amelia in just her lingerie more and more frequently over the last few months, it certainly wasn’t a regular occurrence, and she rarely did it without significant coaxing. A moment later, slacks yanked down and slung aside, she stood in front of me, glorious in her bra and panties. She moved to take a step closer, but I held up a hand to stop her.
“Wait a moment,” I whispered.
Even when she did undress this far, she generally didn’t let me stare at her like I was doing now, and I could see her mounting frustration as I continued to gaze at her. Her body seemed to thrum with suppressed energy, her shoulders and hands literally shaking. She often teased me by making me wait, and I was enjoying the reversal. She looked almost angry.
“Nice,” I said. I ran my fingers up and down her arm, light enough to draw goose bumps. She took that as a sign of permission and leapt toward me. I slipped to the side again and held up a hand. “Did I say you could move?”
“But, Chloé—”
“Quiet.”
She finally caught on, and I saw her relax a little. A sly grin rose on her lips, and she put her hands on her hips.
“You want an eyeful, is that it?”
I nodded. “And I plan to get it this time. You have to wait until I’m done looking at you.”
Her smile widened, and then her hands moved around behind her, and she unclasped her bra. I was stunned. In all the months we’d been together, and in all the times we’d made love, she’d removed her bra two or perhaps three times, always in the dark or when we were in the middle of things, making it difficult to look at her clearly. I went cold and then hot with surprise, and she looked gleeful at my reaction. Too stunned to react, I didn’t stop her when she stepped closer to me, pulling me into her arms.
Our breasts crushed together, almost painfully, and I moaned into her as she kissed me, her mouth rough on mine. Her lips moved to my neck, and she bit down. My shriek echoed off the tile, and we both jumped a little in surprise. She met my eyes for a second, amused, and went back to my neck, nibbling a little more tenderly and sucking gently as her kisses moved across the sensitive skin on my collarbone.
My mounting desire was making it hard to stay on my feet. My fingers and toes had gone slightly numb, and it was as if electricity were racing up and down my arms and legs. Every time Amelia’s hands moved on my body, I jerked toward her, clutching her sides, drawing her toward me, wanting to absorb her into myself. My hands rose, almost as if by their own accord, and rested on her breasts. She went completely stiff under my fingers, and I almost wrenched them away, suddenly aware of what I was doing. Then she relaxed again and continued to kiss and fondle me. Permission given, I let my fingertips explore, for the first time, her magnificent breasts.
My hands had brushed her nipples and breasts before, but being allowed to explore them like this was a revelation. Though we are nearly exactly the same height, Amelia has a much slighter build than I do. Her breasts are also two cup sizes smaller than mine, but perfectly proportioned to her slim frame. Her nipples, however, are surprisingly large and pert, and they responded to my touch immediately. Feeling them quicken under my fingers made me gasp with surprised excitement, and Amelia was likewise surprised into a reaction. She tilted her head back for a moment, her eyes closed, and I continued to roll her nipples in my fingertips. I watched her face quickly shift from pain to pleasure. She grimaced as I squeezed them especially hard, but then her face relaxed into a smile. Her eyes opened just slightly, and she smiled wider when she saw me watching her.
“I like that,” she whispered.
With these words, a heat like fire raced through me, and without pausing, I impulsively leaned forward and slipped one of her nipples into my mouth. Again, she stiffened in surprise. Her hands froze for a moment, and then she was clutching at the back of my head, encouraging me to go on. For months I had been desperate to do this, and I sucked on one nipple, hard, before biting it slightly. Amelia groaned—a sound like nothing I had ever heard from her. Encouraged, I shifted my attentions back and forth between her breasts for the next few moments. I’d wanted to pleasure her in some way since we got together, and being allowed to do it for the first time was one of the most erotic things I’d ever experienced.
Finally, as if no longer able to control herself, Amelia pushed me back against the shower wall, her mouth meeting mine in a brutal kiss. Our breathing was jagged and harsh, both of us so turned on we were shaking all over. Her hands were on my breasts, and mine on hers, and then she was sliding hers down toward my hips. She slid her foot between mine and roughly shoved one of my legs to the side. Obediently, I slid my legs apart, bracing myself on the shower wall behind me, and a moment later, her fingers slid between my legs.
“So wet,” she whispered, grinning at me.
I could only nod, dumbly, as her fingers began to explore. She often began this way—gently, teasing me—and it was all I could do not to scream at her to give me what I wanted. I’d learned through extended experience not to rush her, however, as that generally made her go even slower. I stayed rigid as her fingertips brushed my lower lips and parted them, gingerly. She ran a finger up and down, just inside the folds, from my clit to my opening, and I shuddered. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on my lip, trying not to say or do anything to extend this wicked torture. Still, she stopped moving, and when I opened my eyes, she wore a devilish grin.
“What would you do if I left you here? Alone?”
I almost sobbed, not sure if she was serious. “I’d die.”
Her grin widened, and then her fingers continued to move, slowly, languidly, only briefly touching the places where I wanted her to focus. I moved my hands up to her shoulders, and I couldn’t help but relay my desperation as I squeezed them, hard.
“Gently, Chloé, or I’ll leave you here to ‘die.’” She had the nerve to wink at me, and I couldn’t help but almost growl at her. She looked delighted with my anguish and continued her slow gentleness between my legs.
“Amelia, please,” I hissed. I shifted my hips a little, hoping to force her to speed up.
She drew her hand back, and this time I did almost scream at her. I managed to muffle my response at the last second, and a kind of strangled mewl came out of my mouth. As if sensing I could wa
it no longer, she shifted from amused anticipation to something harder, more determined. Her blue eyes seemed to go a shade darker, her pupils widening. Finally, she put her fingers between my legs again, touching, gently, and then they were plunging inside me.
My head whipped back of its own accord, hitting the tile behind me, and my eyes squeezed shut in pleasurable anticipation. The angle was somewhat awkward, but I could move my hips up and down a little to meet her fingers inside me, and the feeling was so incredible I almost melted into her right then. My orgasm began building instantly, and Amelia paused again.
My eyes opened and I looked at her, too incredulous and angry for words.
She smiled again. “Not so fast. Just wait a moment more, darling, and it will be even better.”
Again, I knew better than to argue with her, and we both stood there, staring at each other, not moving, eyes locked. Her fingers were still inside me, and I could barely stop myself from shifting to meet them. Despite trying to wait and keeping myself still, the orgasm was building inside of me anyway, and Amelia, finally realizing the futility of holding me back, began to move her fingers again.
My pleasure, as it crested over me, was so vast, so engulfing, I lost all sense of self. I was dimly aware of screaming, of yelling, of throwing back my head again. My eyes were shut and tears leaked from them. Blood was rushing through my head so quickly, it drowned out sound and sense. The pleasure pulsed behind my eyes, and I could hear and see nothing—only feel. At some point my legs unhinged, and Amelia and I were falling down together, onto the tiled floor. The orgasm faded into delicious, sensuous ripples inside me, and she then pulled me into her arms, the cold water of the shower still falling on us from above.
I came back to myself slowly, still trembling all over. I don’t know how long we lay there, but for a long while I was incapable of doing anything but staying where we were. I finally began to return to myself when I realized that my back was aching from the hard tile. Also, I was beginning to get cold. I wriggled out of her arms and stood up to turn off the water. She watched me from the floor with hooded eyes. She was still in her panties, but they were so wet from the shower I could see the outline of her sex and some of the dark curls of hair down there. Despite the fact that we’d been together for months now, I’d only seen her completely naked a few times—when she was going in and out of a shower, for example, never when we were having sex. In general, she liked to leave most or all of her clothes on when we made love, and it was a rare day that I could get her to remove both her shirt and her pants. She’d taken her bra off a couple of times, at my insistence, but only once or twice of her own accord, and she’d never let me touch her breasts before. Today marked significant progress toward achieving my ultimate relationship goal with her: making love with Amelia and not simply receiving it.
Canvas for Love Page 6
