Space For Breathing: A Rock Star Romance

by I. K. Velasco

  He was studying the books lining the shelves, running one long finger across each leather-bound spine. Oblivious to my presence, he slid one out of its place and began to flip through the pages.

  I intentionally uttered a little noise to alert him. I struggled to restrain myself from laughing out loud when he jumped ten feet into the air.

  "Oh, hi," he said, nervously running his fingers through his curls. An anxious little laugh escaped his lips. "Do you always sneak up on people like that?"

  Watching him fumble was strangely comforting, my own feelings reflected in his gestures. I ignored his question. "Are you ready?"

  "I suppose," he said. He placed book back on the shelf. "Do I need anything? Money?"

  "Don't bring too much since we're not going very far. Pickpockets are rampant in town."

  He slipped his billfold from his back pocket and checked its contents. He seemed satisfied with what was inside, so we headed off.

  The afternoon sun heated the concrete driveway, sending up waves of shimmering warmth. We walked across the cooler grass, passing the rows of blooming hibiscus bushes and sweet-scented mango trees.

  Tito was in his usual spot in the driveway, changing the oil in Mr. Owen's Corvette. He waved at us as we passed, exchanging a strangely meaningful look with me. I didn't acknowledge him. I led Jacob outside the Estate's gates, and we walked through down the main street towards the village square.

  "Um, Maeva?"

  I turned to look at him. "Yes?"

  "Is there someplace in particular that we're headed to?"

  "I just thought you'd want to see the village a little more closely. I know that you arrived late last night, so I don't expect that you were able to see much as you drove in."

  He nodded. "That's great."

  Walking just a couple of blocks from home resulted in a dramatic change in scenery. In contrast to the quiet gardens of the Estate, the village was a bustling, marketplace, complete with noisy traffic, streets filled with shops and hundreds of people shopping and doing business.

  Along the main road, we passed hidden alleyways, tucked away from traffic. Inside, were dozens of cardboard houses, narrow cobblestone paths between them. Drainage systems did not exist in these hidden alleys and the walkways were often muddy, covered in slime or floating on an inch of water. Yet it wasn't unusual to see women, their wash balanced over one arm or totting plastic shopping bags, navigating through the wet and dirty street, wearing only a cheap pair of rubber tsinelas, or children running barefoot through the mud and slime.

  As we approached the center of the village, I noticed Jacob's head tilting to the rows of plywood houses stacked along the sidewalk. He would peer at the people watching him, and they watched him, wondering who this foreigner was, politely returning their curious glances. He would smile now and then—no teeth, just the small upturned mouth.

  "So," he began. "Tell me about yourself. Were you born here?"

  His voice shook as he spoke, like he needed to talk to distract himself from it. It couldn't have been easy for him to be so far away from home.

  "I was born in Manila. Mr. Owen brought me here when I was seven years old."

  "Seven? Wow, that's quite young to be leaving home," he said sympathetically. There was an awkward beat, and he spoke again trying to fill the silence. "Do you miss your family?"

  I regarded him for a moment, struck by the candidness of his question. "Do you miss *your* family?" I retorted.

  His eyes darkened, and he seemed to be saddened by my question. Regret bubbled up my throat. "Yes," he said, forlornly. "But I don't think the feeling is mutual."

  I thought that was highly unlikely, but before I could answer, a very large group of children approached us. They wore colorful shorts, legs bare in the wet heat, white cotton t-shirts or tank tops, each in varying degrees of dingy whiteness. Only two had shoes on their feet - rubber slippers that hooked on with plastic straps. Their dirt-stained faces were open and smiling, bearing innocence I craved. They stared at Jacob without shyness or hesitance, clearly curious, questions shining in onyx colored stares. He smiled back at them, the grin on his mouth crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  "Hey, kids," he said, cheerfully, meeting each of their stares.

  "Hi," one little boy said. He seemed to be the oldest, about eight years old. "Are you American?"

  "Yes, I sure am," Jacob replied. His accent seemed to turn up just a notch.

  "My nanay told me that Americans are bad," a little girl said.

  Jacob leaned his head back and laughed. "I suppose some of them may be," he replied. "But not everyone in America is bad."

  Their heads turned when the distinctive tinkling of an ice cream truck came around the corner. As the truck pulled up and the driver got out, the children began to walk away, looks of longing on their faces. I died inside. I knew that none of those children would buy ice cream that day. Or any other day soon.

  "Maeva, would you like an ice cream?" Jacob asked me, his eyes sparkling. I glared at him. I couldn't believe that he was flaunting right in front of those poor children.

  "No, thank you," I said, trying my hardest to fill my voice with icy contempt.

  "Alright, well, if you don't want one, maybe someone else would want one?" he replied. He smiled widely as he turned to the crowd of children. They all looked up at him expectantly.

  Jacob gestured the man in the truck over and ordered ice cream for every single child. My heart melted every time I saw a face light up as Jacob handed out the cones.

  After the entire neighborhood had an ice cream cone, Jacob and I sat on the sidewalk, eating our own cones. I had given in and let him buy one for me.

  Looking at my watch, I stood up from my perch and brushed my skirt off. "We should get going. There's a couple more places I want to show you before it gets dark."

  "Sure," he said, standing up.

  I reached up and indulgently placed my hand on his arm. I placed a whisper of a kiss on his cheek. "That was very kind of you, thank you." He glanced down, nodding humbly.

  He looked at me wide-eyed and surprised. As the moment passed, I could almost see the invisible walls of formality between us bending a little. His lips curled into a shy half smile.

  I turned away, afraid of the sudden fluttering in my chest.

  Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate 9:00 pm

  Jacob

  She didn't speak on the way back to the Estate. I was brimming—too many thoughts and feelings to sort through. It was nice to just walk and not have to fill the silence.

  Twilight had burned through the heat and humidity, so the air wasn't so stifling. I didn't want to go inside when Rosalita opened the front door for us. I was enjoying the evening and the company. But it was late. We had been walking all evening, and the effects of jet lag were beginning to weigh on me.

  We arrived at her bedroom door, and I suddenly realized that I should say something. "Thank you for taking me to the village today, Maeva," I said, yawning.

  She stood in front of me, holding her purse with both hands, feet rocking back and forth. She was looking at her shoes. I was sure what was supposed to happen next. Had we just been on a date?

  Was I supposed to kiss her goodnight?

  "You're welcome," she finally replied. Without looking at me, she moved to open her bedroom door and stepped inside. In that moment before the door clicked closed, I watched her face framed by the jamb, a full-fledged smile gracing her pouty lips.

  Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate 7:00 am

  I love those first moments of wakefulness when my mind is blank, empty of the previous days' thoughts and worries. But just as easily as sunlight filled the space with yellow hue, my worries and thoughts returned to me as well. I had been up for hours already, contemplating this trip, everything I had seen in one short day. Inevitably, most of my thoughts belonged to Maeva.

  I couldn't wrap my mind around her intentions, her feelings towards me, but it was clear that the tangible memor
y of her hands on my chest could not be easily forgotten. The burgeoning heat of my morning erection was a clear indication as any. But I couldn't allow myself to fantasize about her. She was too mysterious, too complicated to deconstruct; so close yet she held herself so far.

  Tired of the questions, new and old, swimming in my thoughts, I rose from the bed, curious as to what answers may arrive that day. I undressed, headed for the bathroom and stepped into the water, cold enough to rid me of the last visages of sleep and maybe ease the pressing hardness between my legs.

  After drying off, I found my shaving kit and began the daily ritual by filling the sink. I lathered my jaw up with shaving cream and looked up at the mirror. She was there. As clear as the picture in my thoughts, reflected in the mirror in front of me.

  She was already dressed for the day, her tiny body covered by a flowing peasant skirt and a long, floral sarong - as fresh and beautiful as spring.

  She stood at the doorway, just staring. No hello. No good morning. Just looking, that incessant little curl on her lips. I stared at her reflection, wondering what was behind that smile. She looked as beautiful as yesterday.

  I forced my gaze away from her and continued with my task, my hands shaking.

  Suddenly, she was right there, her small, delicate fingers around my wrist, stilling the quivers. "Let me help you," she said, her voice almost a whisper. I tried to read the expression in her gaze, but again I failed.

  "S…sure." My voice cracked in response. Her smile grew wider.

  She hopped up on the counter, her little legs dangling over the edge. I stepped between them. I

  couldn't help imagining what it would be like to touch the heat there. I allowed her to anchor my face in her hands. She slowly placed the razor against one sideburn, moving in slow, steady strokes and periodically reached back to rinse the razor in the sink-full of water. I watched her pixie face, scrunched in concentration. Her pink tongue slipped out between her lips, an unconsciously enticing gesture.

  There was nervous fluttering my chest, as if someone had trapped a thousand butterflies and forced them into my lungs. The fluttering was not from nervousness or mistrust—it was merely from having her so close.

  I held my breath. She was holding hers as well. The only sound was the faint scraping of the razor bouncing against the echoing bathroom walls.

  She finished her task, then reached for the towel on the sink. She wiped my jaw clean, her fingertips over my cheeks, testing the smoothness. She smiled slightly, seemingly pleased with her work. I almost flinched when she leaned over to press her cheek against mine, the delicate skin rubbing together in a petal-soft touch. Placing both hands on either side of my face, she pulled away.

  Suddenly, her hand was on the towel that hung around my waist, and then it was falling onto the tile. We both watched it land in a puddle. Her gaze turned back to me, palpable and intense. Wide-eyed wonder. But I couldn't figure out what she was feeling.

  The razor clicked against the sink, and she reached out to touch, her fingers wrapping around my semi-hard cock. The contact sent blood rushing and in a moment my cock was hard, straining and pressing against my stomach. She never took her eyes off me, fascinated by the sight of her hands stroking and stimulating. I had come out of my body and was watching this unfold, unable to process that it was happening.

  Her middle finger flicked up to tease the sensitive head, and my knees buckled. I reached for the counter for support and found my hands on her thighs. Her skin was soft like rose petals, creamy and delicious to touch.

  Her skin, her hands, the growing pleasure coursing through my body was too much. I came, groaning as wave after wave pounded out of me. Eyes shut tight, I heard a small noise come from Maeva. I opened my eyes, readying myself to apologize, positive that I would see a look of horror on her face.

  Instead she looked up at me with such lust and desire, my hands itched to move up her thighs to caress her, to find evidence of that desire in her moist center. But I held myself back, curious to see what she would do next.

  Her eyes turned down as she rubbed the come over my softening cock. She brought her hand up to her mouth. She looked up at me again, and our eyes locked. Her tongue flicked out to lick the creamy sex from her fingertips. I couldn't help but groan.

  Without warning, a look of panic fell over Maeva's features, as if the spell had been broken. She quickly jumped off the counter.

  "Jacob…oh, god. I'm so sorry," she said, her tone brimming with humiliation. Before I could reply, she ran from my bedroom, in a flurry of black hair and regret.

  I could only stand and stare as she disappeared down the hall.

  * * *

  Maeva

  I fled. I was horrified. I had just taken him. Touched him, even though he didn't ask or give permission. Touched him only because I wanted to.

  I could barely see, blinded by pooling tears. I raced into my bedroom, slammed and locked the door. Leaning against the thick oak wood, I felt the first streaming rivers running down my cheeks. I was crying because of shame, because despite the horror sinking deep in my gut, I could feel my pussy throbbing. Touching him had brought me more pleasure than any touch I had experienced before. It was as if we were connected somehow and any pleasure he was feeling I felt as well.

  I stood there panting, reliving the experience. I remembered the look of confusion on his face when my hand made contact. And the way that confusion had transformed into burning desire. I remembered watching the small bead of moisture forming on the head of his beautiful cock and how my mouth watered to taste it. But most of all, I remembered the way his breath hitched, the way he shut his eyes and the delicious pulsing of his cock when he came.

  My pussy ached. Ached and pulsed and throbbed for him.

  I was urgent. The pressure in my center was tightening, throbbing. My hand slipped between my legs, pulling aside the thin cotton undergarment. I heard a rip, but that didn't register as much as the heat and the wetness, pulsing and beating like a little heart. Swiftly inserting two fingers inside the hungry opening, I came almost instantly, all the while imagining Jacob's beautiful cock buried inside me.

  Five

  Jacob

  I came downstairs for breakfast, expecting to see her again. Instead, the dining room table was set for one.

  "Good morning, Mr. Jacob." Rosalita smiled pleasantly as she laid the napkin across my plate.

  "Good morning," I replied, looking around. "Where is everyone?"

  "You mean, where is Lady Maeva?" she asked, with a wink.

  "Um…yes, and Mr. Owen," I quickly added.

  "Mr. Owen had some business to take care of in Manila and left early this morning. Lady Maeva decided to skip breakfast." She shook her head, clearly displeased. "I have to force that girl to eat! She is outside, tending her rose garden."

  "Oh," I replied, attempting without success to hide the disappointment in my voice. I didn't miss the flicker of satisfaction in Rosa's knowing smile.

  I settled at the table, watching as Rosalita served breakfast. It still felt strange being waited on hand and foot. I wanted to offer to help, but I knew that Rosa would only chide me and laugh.

  After she left to return to the kitchen, the sense of unease intensified. The table had enough place settings for twelve people, and it made me feel small and very alone. I missed the cozy breakfast nook in the tiny townhouse I grew up in, the one my mother refused to give up even when Riley and I offered to buy her a new, bigger house, befitting the mother of a rock star. She had said, "I watched the two of your toddle around this kitchen. A fancy, shiny new house pales compared to those memories."

  After breakfast, I wandered to the study to peruse through Owen's collection of books. Owen had a vast collection of the classics—Dickens, Bronte, Austen. However, the books that looked most intriguing were the ones on Filipino history.

  I chose one off the shelf, sat down on an antique, wing-backed chair and flipped through the pages, looking at pictures and reading bits
of text. I couldn't remember the last time I had nothing else to do but read.

  I looked up a couple hours later and realized that I had devoured half the book. Standing and stretching, my bones creaked from sitting still for so long. I turned to the window and spotted Maeva outside. She was hunched over some rose bushes, applying fresh soil to cover the roots. The tropical sunshine beat down on her, illuminating the wisps of hair around her face with red light. Stunning.

  "Why don't you go help her," Rosalita said from the doorway.