Miranda's Revenge

by Ruth Wind

  He looked at her earlobe, reached up a hand to trace the shape of it and he drew a strand of hair between his fingers. “So soft,” he said.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open and they stepped into the gilded, mirrored box. A thousand Mirandas, a thousand hims. He stood beside her and admired the picture they made—she slim and white and pale, her hair a cloak around her shoulders, he whipcord lean and dark and sober looking, severe, like an old-time picture. He raised a hand to her neck, his fingers very dark against the alabaster paleness of her throat. She leaned backward, her head upon his shoulder, her eyes mere slits. He trailed downward, watching in the mirror as his fingertips slid over the skin revealed by her dress. Before his eyes, her nipples rose, and from this angle, he could see the lace of her bra.

  With the tiniest smile, she pressed backward, her bottom rubbing his member ever so lightly, and he—

  The bell dinged for the elevator, and the doors slid open. There was no one there. “This is our floor,” James said, and pulled her off the elevator, and down the hall, both of them laughing.

  His room was at the west end of the hotel, a corner with a view over the slopes. At night, he heard the trams moving over the mountain, moving, moving, moving, but it was worth it for the room. “Let me show you the view,” he said, skirting the bed.

  The French doors were open to the breeze, a light curtain rising and falling in flutters that made him think of that sari she’d purchased this afternoon. A vision of that thin blue fabric skimming her pale skin moved through his veins and he nearly shuddered.

  They stepped out onto the balcony. Five floors below was the street, bustling with early evening traffic, backpackers and couples holding hands and families of sunburned tourists headed for an ice cream. The tram moved up the hill relentlessly, shuttling weary workers and cheerful kids to the shops and apartments and the movie theater on the other side of the mountain. Miranda leaned on the wrought-iron railing and inhaled deeply. “Man, that’s a good smell. Not like the city.”

  “The city doesn’t smell good?”

  “Not really. Especially in the summertime. It’s peculiar, and you do get used to it, but this—” again she took it in, her breasts lifting with the air in her lungs “—is really good.” She tipped backward, leaning against his arm. “Are you planning to kiss me again, señor?”

  “I could,” he said, and did. He leaned into the siren call of her lips and tasted the summer flavor of margaritas. She moved closer, putting her body close to his, and he spread his hands over her back. They fit their lips and tongues together, kissing without urgency, and James took the time to imprint the feeling of her body against his, the uplifted pleasure of soft breasts against his ribs, the flare of her waist beneath his hands, the tense strength of her thighs pressing into his own. His blood simmered, just below boiling, where it had been for days—really since the first time he’d seen her.

  He knew by the soft panting heat of her, the dampness of her skin and the low, hungry noises she made, that she felt the same way.

  A knock sounded at the door. He raised his head, looked down at her. “Our hot chocolate.”

  “I like chocolate.”

  He went to the door and let the boy from room service in, carrying a tray with a big silver teapot on it, and cups, and a silver pitcher of cream, and a tray of beautifully presented cookies. He signed for it and showed the man out. When he turned back, Miranda was pouring the thick chocolate into cups. “Cream?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m worrying about your race.”

  “Don’t.” He put his cup down, settled on the chair and tugged her hand until she was in his lap. Gold light spilled through the open French doors, set her hair on fire. She rested on his lap, her feet still planted on the floor, as if she would run away. Smiling to himself, he pulled her knees up a little so her feet dangled over his legs. Demurely she sipped her chocolate, and he picked up his own cup.

  “This is outrageously decadent,” she said. “It makes me think of a place—” She halted and shook her head.

  “Go ahead. It doesn’t matter if you were with a lover. I don’t mind.”

  “No, I wasn’t, actually. But you seem not to like it when I talk about my travels. It bothers you.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” he said, resolving to stop being such an ass. “Take me there. What does that chocolate make you think of?”

  “Paris,” she said simply. “A winter afternoon with a girl from Australia. We went to a little café and they served hot chocolate like this. We’d been walking all day and we were cold and wet and miserable and it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You would like Paris, I think. It’s so different from anywhere else. Just so itself, the light and the buildings and the carefulness of the Parisians, who are also very joyful.”

  He watched her lips as she spoke, watched the deep pink flesh shape words and taste her chocolate. “I would.”

  “Tell me another story,” he said, admiring her throat. He put down his cup and put one hand on her thigh, another resting alongside her arm. She seemed a little taut, but giddy, too.

  “What do you want to hear about? Ireland? Scandinavia? Spain?”

  “Ireland. It seems a place I’d like.” He stroked one finger down her arm, admiring the fine grain of her skin, almost poreless, so fine he could see tracings of blue veins beneath it. As he touched her, he saw that her nipples tautened, and although he was sure she didn’t realize it, her buttocks and thighs tightened, shifted.

  As she spoke of green fields bounded by hedges and white cottages and brightly painted buildings in the towns, he traced upward and downward on her arm. When he tired of that, he moved his hand down to her bare calf, and upward to her knee beneath the skirt. He traced the shape of it, touched the back of it, that sensitive place.

  She put her chocolate down. Looked at him, waiting, all hair and lips. He slid his hand up her skirt, over a thigh as silky as water, all the way to her hip, to the edge of her panties at the side. She made no move to help him, and it was wildly arousing, a fact he suspected she knew. Her eyes were sultry, fixed on his face. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth.

  He pulled his hand around beneath her skirts, skimming the skirt upward to reveal her thighs, long and fine and slim, and he moved his hand to the inside of her thigh, unable now to hold on to his composure as much as he would have liked, especially when she shifted, ever so slightly and spread her legs, pushing one thigh up against his arousal firmly.

  He responded to her invitation by sliding his dark fingers over the milkiness of her leg, stopping short of the place she wanted him—his thumb or fingers or tongue—just in time. She moved against him, urging him upward, pressing her bottom closer to his sex, and he just stroked her thighs, looking at her mouth, her breasts.

  She breathed in, and lifted her hands to her dress, and began, one at a time, to unfasten the buttons. With a little shimmy, the lacy undergarment shook right off her breasts and there were Miranda’s pure white, supple, rose-tipped nipples.

  Control, control, control. She wanted to control the situation because then she would not be afraid of him. He wanted to show her the joy in losing control. He leaned forward just enough to lick her right nipple, just once, then slid his hand a little way up her thigh.

  “Please,” she whispered, her breath coming more airily as he was poised above her breasts, breasts that his mouth watered to devour, skin that wanted his mouth on every inch of it. His control slipped and he pulled her close to him, shifting her so that she straddled his erection, her sex hard against him, and he opened his mouth and sucked her aroused nipple into his mouth.

  She cried out, a mewling sound of pain and hunger, and she grasped his hair, almost painfully. He grabbed her beautiful bottom in his hands and suckled and kissed and nipped her breasts until she was moving up and down against him, almost maddeningly.

  Control, control. “Wait,” he growle
d, and slid her over to the bed, urgently shoving up her skirts and practically ripping her panties from her, revealing that triangle of reddish hair. He held her still, suckling her breasts while he found the hot, wet center of her, and stroked her, fingers playing a tune she began to sing to, her head moving back and forth.

  But with enormous control and more strength than he would have imagined she possessed, she turned the tables on him, taking advantage of a moment when he lost his head, pleased beyond imagining at the taste of her and the silkiness of her bare shoulders against his face, to shove him backward.

  He laughed, and she grabbed his wrists in a grip that was stronger than he would have imagined. Tucking his wrists beneath her knees, she said, “Fair is fair.” She pushed him down on the bed, and straddled him, the skirt of her dress making a pool around his waist.

  With a saucy smile, she said, “Close your eyes for one minute.”

  “I’d rather watch.”

  “No.” Inclining her head, she touched her own breasts, and he nearly fainted with the heat of it. “Close your eyes.”

  He closed them.

  He could feel her doing something, but waited until she said, “Okay, open them,” that he realized she’d slid the slip off from beneath her dress, leaving her naked beneath it. No bra, no panties, just that floral fabric hiding and revealing in equal measures. There was a shadow of hair over her sex, and the pointed insistence of nipples that wanted touching. As she bent to unbutton his shirt, he glimpsed the white curve of a bare breast, and he ached to touch it.

  “I need to touch you,” he said.

  “Not yet, she said, shoving his shirt away from his chest. Her hands skimmed over him, and she bent to kiss his ribs, his belly, whatever she could reach without releasing his arms. “Beautiful,” she murmured.

  Then she slid just a tiny bit backward and unbuttoned her dress so that it fell just the slightest bit open around her sex, and he groaned. She put her hands on his belt and began to unfasten it, and James finally gave in to the delight. He watched her, clad in diaphanous fabric and hair and sleek white skin, unbuckle him and unzip him, and smile when she took his member into her hand. “Oh, very nice,” she said.

  He felt her body relax the slightest bit, and flipped her over. “My turn again,” he growled, and she laughed, the sound happy and full of life. He shucked his shirt, and skimmed out of his jeans and there was Miranda, lying below him in a puddle of late evening sunlight, her hair spread like a magic fabric around her, her bare breasts exposed by the opening of her dress, her legs akimbo. He knelt over her and unbuttoned the dress. “This is so pretty, let’s be careful.”

  He divested her of the delicate fabric, then put her back on her back on the bed and looked down at her. She swallowed. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “You are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said and knelt then between her legs and bent to gather her up, kissing her and feeling her legs anchor him, and then he plunged down and far away, into the waiting, hungry heat of Miranda.

  Miranda gasped at the fierce plunge of James into her core at last. Every cell in her body quivered with the depth and heat of that charge, and she whimpered as he slowly, slowly pulled back, his tongue diving into her mouth as he plunged again, hard. She cried out in surprise and delight, and again, and again, and she tried to hold on longer, but an orgasm of monumental proportions split her right in half, the past and the future, and then James was following, over the edge, roaring and plunging, hard, hard, hard, bringing her to a place she’d never been, lost in so much pleasure it was like another being lived in her.

  Then he collapsed with her, kissing her face, her neck, their bodies sweating and tangled. Slowly, a molecule at a time, she returned to her body.

  And only then did she realize: “James! We didn’t use a condom!”

  His head jerked up. “Holy shit! How did we forget something like that? God, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. It was scary and weird that she’d forgotten. That she’d so willingly let go of everything that she forgot to use a condom. “I even have one in my purse!”

  “And I have one in my pocket. It’s even new.”

  Despite everything, Miranda laughed. “That was amazing,” she cried, pulling him close, nuzzling his neck. “You made me completely forget everything, everything.”

  He rubbed the tip of his nose along her jaw. “Is that a purr, my little cat?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She looked at him, pulled his face up so she could see his dark, dark eyes, his long lashes, the sharpness of his conquistador’s nose. “That was seriously the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Ever.”

  He smiled, nibbling her lip. “Good to know.”

  “Okay, you’re missing your chance here, to say, ‘me, too, Miranda.’”

  His eyes glittered. “Sorry. Me. Too. Miranda,” he said like a robot.

  “Come on! Don’t be mean to me.”

  His eyes went darkly sultry and he pulsed against her once. “Well, I was absolutely sure I could give you a nice juicy orgasm and wait until tomorrow for mine.”

  Miranda smiled, clasping him close to her, reveling in the feeling of his skin against hers, his naked legs entwined with hers, their bare arms tangled. “Better.”

  “I love your hair,” he said, toying with a long lock of it.

  “I love your kissing.”

  “I love your breasts.” He nuzzled her neck and then—groaning—rolled from her. They lay side by side, facing each other. The last of the day’s sunlight cascaded into the room. The breeze that lifted the curtains blew over their bodies, and Miranda shivered slightly, as much from reaction as cold.

  “Let’s get under the covers.”

  James pulled back the quilt. “Absolutely.”

  “So, will this ruin your chances to win the race tomorrow?”

  “No,” he said, and smiled. “Not ruin them. It would have added energy to want to have you and not do it.”

  “I see,” Miranda said lightly. “You were using me.”

  “Yes, you’ve found me out.”

  She drew circles on his brown chest, touching the dark nipples, the scatters of hair between. “It’s weird that there is no patron saint of running.”

  “Well, there is St. Sebastian, the patron saint of athletes.”

  “But there should be a running saint.”

  “You should make an altar. It would sell zillions.”

  “I wonder what she would look like?” The butterflies around the Lady of Mariposa flitted through her imagination. Maybe she would use butterflies, the eternal symbol of transformation. “What is holy about running?”

  James closed his eyes, his hand resting easily against her hip. “The wind, the quieting of your mind. The feeling of heat in your limbs.”

  “The competition?”

  His lips turned downward. “Maybe. Swiftness. To be the fastest is pretty exhilarating.”

  “Should I go home and leave you alone?”

  “No, no!” He scooped her close. “Not yet.”

  Miranda inhaled the scent of his skin, that faint tang of sweat. “I’ll be there at the finish line tomorrow. I have to cheer on my dad, too.”

  He propped himself up on the pillows and looked down at her. “Your dad doesn’t seem that bad. He’s codependent, but I expected worse, honestly.”

  “They’re probably not that bad apart,” Miranda said. “They just made each other miserable for years, and since I was the last one at home…I had a front-row seat.”

  He curled a finger around hers. “And you’re still mad.”

  “They almost divorced when I was in high school. It went on for ages—a year, maybe two? Fighting and these petty little wars. One would start drinking and carousing and the other one would get furious and take revenge, and yet, there they were, everybody’s darling, the scientist and the poet, and their great love story.” She rolled her eyes. “They were so caught up in their own story that the
y forgot they made it up—they just kept acting out these roles, ad infinitum.”

  “Your father is a stunning writer, Miranda. You must know that.”

  “Of course I do.” She looked at him and waited for the inevitable next words, a pain burning in her chest.

  “And you obviously take after him, a creative artist.”

  Sharply she said, “Oh, yeah, Daddy’s girl.”

  He was quiet for a minute. “I can’t guess the story, Miranda. You have to tell me. Or not, of course, but I don’t want to guess.”

  “I’m not his child,” she said, and to her horror, tears sprung to her eyes. “I was always Daddy’s girl, the apple of his eye, the one everyone said was just like him, and it turns out I’m not even his genetic daughter.”

  James picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I hate that they had affairs, that they were so unfaithful to each other, and that I have to keep this bloody secret for everybody else.”

  “Why do you have to keep it?”

  “Oh, because it’s so icky. And it’s embarrassing and it will freak everyone out.”

  “It’s not all that weird, Miranda. No offense, but it’s not even shocking in this world.”

  She bowed her head. “Maybe I don’t want anyone to know. Maybe, for all that he’s a pain in the ass, I like being Paul Rousseau’s talented daughter.”

  He didn’t say anything, just scooted close and took her into his arms, letting her put her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. “That’s a pretty good reason.”

  “Except that it’s a lie. Maybe because they lied so much, I just hate lies. And I hate that there is so much of me that belongs to him, and yet it doesn’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “My art for one thing. All those altars, because he was so Catholic, because he is so creative.”

  “A father is more than genetic material.”

  “I know.”

  A long silence fell. James threaded his fingers through her hair, and Miranda simply rested against him, reveling in the fit of their bodies, their height and size so perfect together.