by Darcy Burke
She opened it and stepped inside Moss’s office—only to see the owner of the hotel, Eusebio Lopa, sitting at Moss’s desk. “Oh.”
The Filipino’s mouth mirrored hers. But then he smiled, shook his head, and said something.
“I do not understand.”
Judge Lopa spoke again.
Zapo? Zamu? What was he saying? “Full sentences are better,” she explained.
“Moss went to Zamu,” he said.
“Is that some local word for jail?”
Lopa bent over his ledger book, wrote something, and then held it up. Della had to step forward to read the neat letters in the margin: Cebu. He pointed at her.
“No!” The word fell out of her mouth.
Lopa laughed—a full one, by the looks of it. Della sat down in a chair and watched him a moment. But then she smiled—or tried to. She could see the humor, had it not happened to her. “Moss is free?”
Lopa was standing beside her. How had he gotten around the desk without her knowing? But then she realized her eyes were blurry with tears. He handed her some wrinkled pages.
Telegrams. Receipts for telegrams—so many telegrams. Moss had sent several, and to dozens of places. One was a proposal? She blushed.
With her teary eyes unreliable, she could not understand Judge Lopa, but she followed him. He found her trunks and spoke to the clerk. Two boys in white uniforms put a bit more force into their polishing as Lopa and Della passed them in the hallway. She trailed the judge all the way to room 27, her old room. He opened the door and handed her the key.
She walked in and stood where she and Moss had danced. She traced her shoe around the floorboard, which had since been swept and polished many times. By the time she turned to thank Judge Lopa, the door was closed behind her and she was alone.
Only then did it fully register that she had checked back in—and now that she had to support herself, she absolutely could not afford the Hotel Oriente.
Chapter 17
Spelling
Moss hauled his small suitcase the half-mile from the Pasig dock to the Oriente because he was too impatient to wait for a calesa to navigate the clogged roads. Walking also felt good after six days on a steamer: three days to Cebu, and then right back to Manila. He should have traveled with just a toothbrush and a comb—and forget the comb.
Moss walked into the tiled bottom floor of the hotel, the part that only employees, delivery people, and horses spent any real time in. He found Seb waiting for him. “Where is she?”
His friend stepped back, his nose wilting. “She is not in the stables, that much is certain.”
“I will bathe,” Moss assured him. “Presently.”
Seb waited.
“And shave.”
“Yes,” said his friend. “You will. Then I will tell you which is her room.”
“Seb, I can go upstairs and look on the register.”
“You can also throw back a gullet-full of tuba mixed with rye whiskey and attempt to sing, but that did not work so well the first time.” Seb was the picture of grooming and manners—the type who smelled faintly of mint after his morning tea. “This is a gentlewoman, Moses.”
“One who likes me already.”
“No one likes you that much.”
“Fine, I shall head to my rooms, pronto, and then—”
“And then I shall meet you at the desk.”
Fifteen minutes later, Seb met him as promised, with a bouquet of pink and orange daisies.
“What is this?” Moss asked.
“They call it a purple coneflower,” Seb said. “The second-most beautiful bloom to come from America.”
“I might use that.” Moss smiled. “You are very good.”
“Courtship is an art, hermano. Your lady friend is in her old room. She has tried to check out three times in two days, and I had to let her bargain down the weekly rate.”
“Good for her.” Moss took the flowers. “We charge too much by half.”
He had turned already when Seb called out to him. “Maybe I should chaperone,” the older man said.
“No,” Moss said, his deep voice cracking on the words. He cleared his throat. “I will stay in her room no longer than she wishes. On my word.”
He could see Seb hesitating, then look away. The owner busied himself with a guest book that was not his job to tend. Moss walked away calmly, hoping that his measured steps painted a portrait of restraint. By the time he had made it to the door of room 27, he was almost convinced of his own forgery.
There was a string tied to the door handle again, though no note. If a person did not know to tug the string, he or she would not receive an answer. Moss tugged.
And waited.
He tugged again. And waited some more.
He considered the master key in his vest pocket, next to the half-carat solitaire ring that he had chosen because its elegant stripes along the gold band looked like lines in a notebook.
Still no answer.
Della deserved her privacy. She could say no.
He tugged a third time.
What if she was ill? Hurt? It was too early in the day for her windows to be opened, and the rooms did not have open fretwork along the tops of the walls to allow air to flow freely. Would anyone hear her call out if she was hurt?
He tugged one more time, harder.
The door swung open.
“Moss!” She looked at his flowers. “Oh—how beautiful.”
He could not remember the bloom line Seb had fed him. If romance was an art, he was neither artisan nor artist. “You are beautiful.”
Fortunately, she was not watching his lips as he delivered the uninspired compliment. He could watch her, though, as she collected the flowers from his hands and went to fetch a glass of water. She was wearing a robe. Towels were strewn on the tile floor. She must have been dressing after a bath, which is why she had not seen her chandelier bouncing. He shut the door behind him and did not reset the device, but he stayed close enough to leave if she wanted him to.
She set the flowers on the table and arranged them evenly around the edge of the glass. Then she came to him, and his heart swelled.
He folded her into his arms. Only when she snorted at his possessiveness did he loosen his grip.
“You found me,” she whispered.
He held her away from him so they could talk. “I would have flagged you down in the Sibuyan Sea, had I known. I sent a half dozen cables.”
“Judge Lopa gave me the receipts.”
“I would have sent them to Hong Kong, San Francisco, or even Washington, D.C. No matter how many newspaper subscriptions I needed to buy to do it, I would have found you.”
“You only needed one.”
“This time,” he said. It was just the beginning of what he expected to be a multi-paper career.
He had so much to say but had forgotten it all. “I am no writer, and certainly no poet. The flowers were Seb’s idea.” He would have shown up here unwashed, with a week’s beard. “Sometimes I am hopeless, Della, but I am hopeless for you.”
She leaned in and, too close for talking, kissed him. Her eagerness matched his. He pulled the small of her back flat against him. His hands registered the thinness of the fabric before his brain remembered.
He pulled back. “You are not dressed.” He stared at her thin robe that now hung half open. Underneath, she wore white cotton drawers with a pink satin ribbon woven around each thigh, the lace barely skirting her knee. Her chemise had narrower lace along the wide neckline.
“Is that a problem?” she asked.
“There is one thing I wish you to wear.” He reached for his vest pocket, but she stopped him. His heart bounced in his chest.
She smiled. “I have one request first.”
“Anything.”
“Do you remember what I asked you for the last time? Right here in this room?” She walked to the window and closed it the last inch so that the room fell into eclipse.
A thousand times during t
heir separation, he had thought about what she had asked for. She kissed him, but he took control of their movement, pushing her against the tall post of the bed frame. He kissed down her neck, occasionally grazing her skin with his teeth. She rested her cheek against his collarbone and sighed as he worked his way back up to her ear. He found a ticklish spot, and she jerked away playfully. He let her.
Dammit, he needed light again. He walked to the wall by the door and pushed the switch. She stood flush against the wood post, eyes on him.
“You wanted to know what it was like—a bedding,” he added to be clear. “You said you were a grown woman and that you chose me to show you.”
She kept staring at him.
“I have a ring in my pocket. I bought it two weeks ago. But I will put it next to those flowers and forget about it, for now.”
This started as her test, but it tested them both. She wanted to keep her own conscience, even as they merged bodies and lives. He wanted the same.
“For now,” she agreed.
“Does that mean . . . ?”
“I shall not say it—yet.”
“Good enough.” He turned off the light, but her smile burned well into the dark. He placed a hand on her cheek, thinking to reassure her. When she turned into it and kissed his palm, he found he was reassured.
He slipped the robe off her shoulders and slowly unbuttoned her chemise. Her breasts tented from her chest in soft triangles. He pushed aside the chemise and brushed a nipple with his thumb. Della closed her eyes and gave a breathy exhale. Encouraged, he leaned down and took it into his mouth. She cried out and leaned against his shoulder.
He righted her before continuing to peel off her chemise and nudge down her drawers. Della let them fall to her feet.
He kissed her mouth again, holding her against him with an arm around her waist. He drew the other hand through her curls below. She sighed into his kiss and whispered him on. “Please.”
She wanted to feel, and so she would. He led her over to the sillon in front of the table. The planter chair was a deep recliner made of wood and rattan, and it had long, wide arms that stretched out in front of the seat. It was built for napping, but he had other plans.
He sat her down and gently lifted one of her legs to rest on the extended arm. She relaxed there, wanton, ready for him. He started with a gentle kiss to her knee and then moved his lips up her inner thigh. Della gave a deep moan.
“I love you,” he mouthed against her skin. He said it a second time. And a third.
The words earned him a soft giggle. “I understood you the first time. I love you too.”
It was good that he would not need to repeat himself because he was running out of room on her leg. But he did not ease her into the loving; he licked his way straight to her opening. When he flicked his tongue against her sensitive center, she pressed back into him.
His fingers joined the effort, and she grew louder. Her moans became grunts and whines, the most glorious noises he had ever heard.
But he leaned over and pressed one dry finger against her lips. “I am not sorry,” she whispered.
He kissed her thigh with his smile and resumed his worship. He sucked harder at her clitoris until he felt, heard, and smelled her pleasure. He did not stop until her body no longer squeezed and pulled at him. By that time, they were both out of breath.
She rested in the chair, leg raised, worn out. He picked up her hand and drew letters on her palm: more?
“Yes,” she blurted. “More.”
He began removing his clothes, and she watched in the dim café-au-lait light that came through the oyster shell windows. By the time he pulled down his drawers, Della’s attention riveted on one spot. She held out a hand but was too low in the chair to reach. Moss helped by walking into her grasp.
The touch of her hands gave him a little jolt. He stood as still as he could while she fumbled and explored. And then she leaned into his pelvis and took a deep, long sniff.
He chuckled, which she felt. “This smells like you,” she explained. “Not your cooking, not your laundry, just you.”
Just his need.
She sat up to kiss him. She served him as he had her, and he ran his hand through her hair as she did. When she sucked hard, he gripped a handful. As an apology, he tried to draw away, but she reached up and held his rear in place.
“Della,” he whispered vainly, but then he remembered to trust.
When he felt the warm tickle start in his heavy sac, he knew he was close. He pulled out of her reach, firmly this time. He reached down to his discarded vest and searched the other pocket for a waxed paper envelope. He opened it and carefully unfolded the rubber sheath. Managers of bachelor “resorts” made sure to know compliant pharmacists.
“It was not that I was planning on—”
She squeezed his thigh, probably because she could not read his lips well. “I trust you.” It was a wholesale statement that covered more of him than the condom.
She stepped out of the chair and tilted her head to kiss him—but stopped an inch from his lips. He let her give him a quick, investigative peck. Bolder, she flicked her tongue against his soiled lips. He welcomed the deeper kiss, his erection pressing impatiently against her stomach.
“Do you need help?” she whispered.
He handed her the animal-gut protective because he wanted her touch, but he was not sure that both of them fumbling would make the job easier. She was gentler than he would have been, but her occasional kisses along his chest ensured there was something firm onto which to work the sheath.
Moss walked Della to the bed. He lifted the mosquito net for her, and she crawled in first.
He nudged her legs wide so that he could settle in between—skin to skin, covered cock to cunny, mouth to mouth. She would be a little sensitive yet, so he kissed her from her ears to her nipples as his hips gently rubbed against her. Soon he had her moaning again.
“Will this feel as good as your mouth?” she asked.
He was sure that it would not—not right away—but she could help him. He placed her hand over her clitoris, and she pulled away, self-conscious. How could she choose this moment to be shy? Because he had no soothing words for her, he put her fingers back and pressed. When she kept going of her own accord, he rewarded her with more kisses.
He pushed inside. It was easy for the first inch or two. The warmth of her body was almost too tempting, and the rutting animal in him wanted to spear her through. He needed to distract them both. He worked at her nipple with his tongue and teeth, reading her noises as she relaxed underneath him.
He bit just a little—not hard, but not soft—and thrust the rest of the way in. He stayed fully inside her and began gently tonguing her abraded breast by way of apology. He felt her push up against him, drawing him in even deeper.
He repeated the motion. In and out. He began kissing her neck, her ear, her temple, whatever he could concentrate on while he felt the pleasure coil in his bollocks. She rocked her hips in counterpoint, making the thrusts faster and harder than he could do alone.
Moss reached down and helped her apply pressure with her fingers. He bent his head back, eyes shut, concentrating, his buttocks bouncing and squeezing. He gritted his teeth and held on until her walls pulsed around him.
She reached for his face with both hands, and he could smell the sex all around them. She kissed him, and he snapped. He thrust hard once, then twice. He bucked inside her as his body wanted to move but couldn’t. He mumbled against her mouth, and she let him.
After he caught his breath, he eased out of her body. He carefully gathered the used sheath and pinched it closed. The maids would not say a word about they found on the sheet or floor, but he did not want them to even suspect. He climbed out of the bed and pressed the light on. He turned to see her sitting at the edge of the bed, parting the net, watching him. “One minute,” he promised.
When he returned, he knew he could fetch the ring for her finger. She had made her point, and he had
made his. But they had time yet, maybe enough for her to make her point again.
Though the light was on, she took his hand and laid it back-to-palm on hers. Her finger traced three letters into his sensitive skin: y . . . e . . . s. Those three letters were no one else’s but his, and together they were the best thing he never heard in his life.
Epilogue
Clippings
AMERICAN WEDDING IN MANILA: WEST VIRGINIA CONGRESSMAN’S GRANDDAUGHTER WEDS ORIENTE MANAGER
Manila Freedom, March 9, 1901
Della Berget and Moss North were joined under an arch of sampaguita and purple coneflowers in the conservatory bar of the Hotel Oriente. At the wedding breakfast afterward, Representative Hughes Holt praised the match as his own doing: “The fact that I entrust my granddaughter to married life in these islands proves how successfully the Philippines have been brought under a stable and secure American government.” Colonel Isaac De Russy then toasted the congressman, saying that if Mr. Holt meddled in the affairs of state as successfully as he did in love, he and his soldiers would soon return home.
Judge Eusebio Lopa, owner of the Oriente and friend of the groom, and Mr. Frederick Dorr, editor and proprietor of this paper, served as social sponsors of the wedding. As a tribute to their international lives, the bride wore a gown of French silk and local piña. The couple will honeymoon in the hotel’s finest suite before taking up residence downstairs.
The bride will continue to report for the Freedom, and her friends in the newspaper profession extend their heartiest congratulations.
TALK AROUND TOWN
Manila Freedom, September 30, 1902
They say . . . that a correspondent of this very newspaper gave birth to her first child, a boy, at home in the Hotel Oriente, this past weekend.
They say . . . that the correspondent had just returned home from reporting on a cholera fire in Binondo when her husband called for the doctor.
They say . . . that the correspondent’s husband, the manager of the Oriente, named the child Aidan, which means fire, in appreciation of his son not being born in one.
