“How long before dinner?” I ask Mort.
“It should be ten minutes, sir,” he responds and thinking that I’m suggesting he get to it, he downs his own drink and disappears inside. I give Aunt Olivia the look we had agreed upon.” She scoots to the end of her lounge chair, lifting the bottom of her skirt for clearance, and begins an exaggerated heave-ho motion, trying to get to her feet.
“Aunt Olivia, here, allow me to help you.” I spring up and offer my hand which she takes and waits for me to pull her up. It appears she’s not interested in helping herself.
“I’ll leave the two of you alone now,” Aunt Olivia says in her Hepburn accent. I’ll have a tray in my room tonight. I have a bit of a headache,” she finishes as her ruby-tipped fingers meet to gently massage the bridge of her nose.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped you would join us for dinner,” Mac says, although I’m not able to tell whether she is serious or not.
“Thank you, my dear, but I’d rather eat in my room. I’m sure you will understand. Don’t let Michael keep you out too late. The food here’s not bad unless Mort has been drinking,” she adds just as Mort enters with a cart filled with covered dishes. He pretends to not have heard her but manages to run over the toe of her slipper with the cart.
“Watch out, you fool! I hope you’ve got good insurance,” she adds and then disappears indoors.
Mort’s face is passive, but I know him well enough by now to recognize that he thinks he just scored a point. I’m making another mental note to deal with this later and watch as Mort sets the patio table with white linen, napkins, flatware, and the covered dishes. “Sir, dinner is served.”
I hold out a hand to Mac, gratefully pulling her to her feet, and we go to the table and take our seats. Mort returns with two wine glasses and a bottle wrapped in linen from which he pours. He seats the bottle in a bucket filled with ice, and my eyebrows rise. “Do you like your wine iced?” I ask Mac.
“To tell you the truth, I prefer room temperature,” she says, “but this is fine.”
I recognize what Mort is doing. He is paying me back, much like a terrier that leaves little presents when it isn’t petted enough. What had I done to put myself in this position?
Mort disappears.
“Is everything okay?” Mac asks. I should have known she would pick up on the odd energy.
“I think Aunt Olivia and Mort have had words. They’re both old codgers, and each one wants to have the final say-so. I get caught in the middle sometimes.”
“I could tell something was off. But you stay somewhere else?” She sips her wine, warming the glass first between her hands. I make plans to strangle Mort.
I point down the hill using my salad fork. “Yes, there in the guesthouse.” Mort is quickly forgotten as I look into her huge green eyes. “You’ve got stunning eyes,” I tell her softly.
“Awww … aren’t you sweet? Actually, I was thinking the same thing about yours.”
Mort makes an appearance once again, this time ceremonially removing the covers from the dinner and salad plates. At least he’s had the good grace to make a nice dinner. There is lobster, a filet mignon and mixed salad with spring greens. “This looks delicious, Mort,” I compliment him.
“If you need anything else, sir, I’ll be inside.” He emphasizes the last word as a reminder that he’s been banned to the kitchen and won’t be checking on me. I’m feeling as though finally I might get a few minutes alone with Mac.
Mac chatters on about her new job, and I’m content to just listen and watch her animated face. She does a little characterization of her new co-workers, and she’s so descriptive I feel like I know them personally. I can only imagine what she’ll tell someone about my setup.
“My best friend, Abby, she and I went to school together. She’s very bright, a genius, I wouldn’t be surprised. She works in a lab and is my rock. She’s always telling me to slow down and think before I do something. Ever have someone like that in your life?”
I’m thinking of Mort. “Sort of, but that can be a pretty controlling situation.”
“I think it feels that way because they’re acting as your conscience. You don’t want to take their advice because the little voice in your head is agreeing with them, and you feel outnumbered. At least, that’s the case with me. I want to feel like I can make anything I want to happen, practical or not.”
“I can relate.”
We finish our meal, and I push my chair back and take her hand, inviting her down to the guesthouse.
“Are you sure I’ll be safe?”
“You don’t have to come.”
“What about the dishes?”
“Mort will collect them.” I notice that she completely bypasses my offer to let her refuse to come down. She is a whimsical, green-eyed nymph.
We take our time strolling down to the guesthouse and watch the sun set over the water as we talk. Our voices grow softer, almost in reverence to the fading light, but maybe because it feels more intimate.
I take her inside and show her around.
“But this is huge,” she says. “More than a guesthouse. This is bigger than most people’s houses! And yet, you’ve got it quite cozy.”
“I was thinking that just the other day. The main house is too big for me.” As soon as the words are out, I know I’m in trouble.
She smiles. “Huh, thank goodness you don’t have to live there then, right?”
I nod but wonder whether she noticed and is giving me the benefit of the doubt, or whether she’s waiting for another slip-up.
“How long has your Aunt Olivia lived here?”
“Oh, a long time. I was still in grade school, I think, when she bought the place.”
“Huh. Didn’t realize it was built back then.”
I hardly know what to say. Every answer is getting me deeper and deeper into trouble.
I pull her into the great room and turn on some music. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Uhm, maybe just some iced water? I have to go to work tomorrow.”
Nodding, I get each of us a glass and slide down onto the sofa next to her as I put it on the end table. “So, Mac, you’ve got a lot going on in your life. Your new job, now I hear you have a new house—is there room in there to be dating?”
Jesus, I am so good at offering up negatives. It’s a wonder she’s even here.
“I know. But, the house is there, and I’m in no hurry to get it finished. Don’t even have plans for it yet, except for a few rooms. Enough to sleep, eat, and shower, you know?”
I nod. “Yes, I was that way at first. Too much to take on.” Shit! I did it again!
She looks around the room and at the doorways leading to the bedrooms and baths. “Yes, it does take time, doesn’t it?”
“I guess what I’m asking is, are you looking to date or are you looking for a more permanent relationship?”
She’s looking at me and saying nothing.
I flounder. It’s now or nothing. “I mean, I think it’s a good idea to get these things discussed right at the beginning, don’t you?” She nods but doesn’t look convinced. “I guess I should just say that I had a bad experience with someone, and I feel stung. I like you, but, I’m not marriage material. How does that make you feel?”
She bursts into a grin. “It makes me feel wonderful! I know you don’t really know much about me, and I don’t want to go into needless details, but like you, I’m not looking for marriage anytime soon. Once stung, forever suspicious, you know?”
I exhale with relief. “Boy, do I. So, can we date and be exclusive eventually without planning beyond that?”
She’s nodding and suddenly leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. I can’t let this go and pull her completely on top of my lap. I kiss her hard, on her mouth, her forehead, down the open neck of her shirt, and I want more. She’s sitting on my lap and can feel it.
I put my hand under the hem of her mini skirt and begin rubbing the inside of her th
igh. She stiffens at first, but the circular motion seems to relax her, and she scoots enough to push my hand higher. I’m so hard I’m not sure I’ll make it to the logical conclusion.
“Will you stay?”
She pulls back, her eyes wide with consideration as I’m working on the buttons of her top. My index finger slides into the valley between her breasts, and then I’m able to reach her nipple. It’s hard and protruding. It needs to be sucked.
“Michael?”
“Hmmm …?” I’ve got my hand full of her round, firm breast and squirming with the chills it’s sending to my groin.
She doesn’t answer, and I look up. “Is something wrong?” I pray she doesn’t back away. I’m floating somewhere in a stratus that’s made of excitement without regrets.
With a sigh, she finally says, “No, nothing’s wrong. Wouldn’t this be better on a bed?”
No sooner do I hear her words but I’ve lifted her easily and am holding her against me, headed for my room. I lay her on the bed. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper and quickly lock the doors and turn out the lights in the rest of the house. When I come back, she’s lying across my bed on her tummy. Her top is half unbuttoned, the fabric gaping low, and I see her breast overflowing her bra. She is exactly how I left her.
My throat is dry with wanting her. I place my hand on her ankle, feeling her smooth skin beneath. She isn’t wearing nylons. Sitting down next to her, I begin to run my hand up each of her legs, stopping briefly at the apex to let the suspense build. I want to make love to her in a way she’ll never forget, but my ability to hold back is rapidly diminishing. “You’re so beautiful, Mac,” I whisper, and she utters a little kitten moan of pleasure.
I take this as a sign, and the next time my hand goes beneath her skirt, I continue upward, and my finger finds the slender fabric of her thong. I ease it aside, and it’s easy entry to feel the soft flesh of her swollen pussy.
“Oh, God. I want you.”
Pushing her legs apart, I reach upward and tug her panties downward until they’re on the floor. She’s not resisting. I want all of her, though. I roll her onto her back and ease her breasts from their silken cups, stopping only long enough to peel off my clothes and push the covers to the floor as she lies atop them. Her nipples are hard and fit into my mouth perfectly. As I suck, I’m massaging the apex of her legs, pushing a finger into her gently. Impatient, I unbutton the rest of her blouse, and between us, we get her clothing off and onto the floor.
The sun has totally set now, and the moon has taken its place. A shaft of light is streaming downward from the skylight overhead, and the creature it falls upon is so perfectly proportioned that I’m stunned my prayers could have been overheard. She is exactly the woman I’ve always dreamed of.
Two delicate arms reach upward for me, trailing fingertips down my chest until I feel goose bumps on my back. They slide over my hips and then slowly join together to hold my burgeoning penis. Her touch nearly sets me off, and then something primal within me knows there is only one place I want to be … inside her.
She’s reading my mind, and her legs part as her hips rise to invite me in. I slowly lower myself into her, each incremental inch a heightened sensation. She seals around me perfectly, and then I can’t help it, but my hips pull back, only to enter her again. I’m not content to stay in one place but consumed with the mindless need to cover, to touch, to explore her every feminine crevice. Sensations of erotic electricity drive me faster and faster, and I feel her meet my every thrust.
The primal is taking over now, for her as well as for me. I cannot drive hard enough to quench the overwhelming need for her. Her beautiful hips buck and roll from side to side. We both struggle to find a position where we can lock onto one another, never to be separated. I feel her begin to quiver and see her head toss back, her waist-long curls falling about her as did Venus’ when she rose from the sea. I know she is about to peak and give in to my own.
It is simultaneous and as all-consuming as if the earth has opened into great fractures around us. We cling to one another as the spasms envelop us, unable to break away until they subside and leave us breathless and lying in one another’s arms. There is a sheen upon her skin, and again, the vision of Venus comes to my mind. I seal our lovemaking into her skin with kisses, as she does to me.
Exhausted, I roll to my knees and retrieve the blankets from the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling them over us and tucking her in against me. She wriggles her sweet bottom against me, and I wrap my arms around her, just in case she changes her mind and runs away in the night.
With supreme contentment, I watch her fall asleep. I, however, am not so lucky. I’m completely rocked to my core with what has taken place. I’d been with enough women to know what to expect, and yet nothing prepared me for what just transpired. It defies words but at its base is a knowing. It must be what people refer to as finding their kindred spirit. I tend to joke at those references; that’s what you put in a greeting card or in wedding vows. It’s the kind of thing a woman wants to hear to be reassured that she hasn’t just given herself to a cad for nothing more than a sex act. I’ve heard women refer to their kindred spirit three or four times in their lifetime—which totally mocked the meaning. Not anymore. Like it or not, I’ve just experienced an unearthly place where only Mac and I existed. It’s shaking me up – this isn’t what I expected and certainly not what we discussed.
I’m not willing to let her go. The very idea of her doing anything even remotely like that with someone else makes me burn red inside. I’ve never been a possessive man, but this has changed now. She belongs to me.
Chapter 9
MacKenzie
Every time I think of being with Michael like that, I get a little breathless. I tell myself I’m just having nerves about starting my new job, but Margaret is hardly imposing enough to generate this set of jitters. I know it’s the memory of his hands, his lips, and his masterful strokes that have my heart beating so hard. I wish I could tell Abby about it, but she’s not getting any action of her own, so it seems sort of cruel. I make a mental note to see if I can find someone with whom she might hook up. I know she won’t have the confidence to put herself out there on her own. I’ll have to walk her through it.
I’m pulling up to the gallery, and I’m ten minutes early. I knew where I was going but wanted to make sure the traffic was cooperative. The odd, eclectic building is the perfect wrapping for the art inside. I’m anxious to get acquainted.
A car is pulling into the parking lot, and it takes one of the back spots. I guess that’s where employees are supposed to park, so I put my car back in gear and pull in next to her.
“Good morning!” Margaret says in a cheery voice. “I see you’re early.”
I give her a little wave and pull out my clutch and laptop bag. I’m not really sure if I’ll need the computer, but it’s with me, just in case. “I like to get acclimated to the surroundings, so I always give myself some extra time,” I tell her as we head to the back door.
“I’ll get you your own key later today. Let me put my things down, and then I’ll show you your workspace. It’s not much, really. We’d rather use what little space we have for display.
I’m trying to hide my disappointment when she shows me to the tiny cubby that will serve as my workspace. I think my high school gym locker was bigger. I think she senses my thoughts because she remarks, “I know it’s small, but you only need to keep your purse and lunch here, and of course, a coat or whatever. You can use the extra table in my office to work on your laptop if you like.”
“Thanks. This is fine, and I will appreciate working closely with you. I’ll get to see more of what you do.”
“We’ll spend the morning touring the exhibits, and I’ll go into some history behind each one and a little about the artist. Some pieces will be popular due to their scarcity while others will be the favorites of certain collectors. Our customers can tend to be a little eccentric, but don’t let them intimidate you
. They’re all wonderful people, but you know the creative types—a little independent. We try at least once a month to feature a particular artist with his or her own show. It gives them a chance to meet their fans and build their following. Good business all the way around.”
“I’d like to learn as much as I can about each of the pieces. I’m sure I’ll eventually learn each one’s unique style; sort of like the composers I’ve studied.”
“You know, ordinarily, MacKenzie, we would have passed on your resume because you don’t have a specific art background. But our thinking was that not only will you be a lovely hostess and, therefore, a good fundraiser, but we hoped on our exhibition evenings that you would play the piano; maybe some pieces that reflect the spirit of the artist being exhibited?”
“I’d love to do that! Be sure and let me know in advance so I can prepare.”
I am ecstatic to be in a creative atmosphere again. This is the one thing I miss since college—the opportunity to interact with people who understand and value the arts.
***
I’m amazed to see the time; this day is passing too quickly. I’m so relieved that I’m going to fit in well here, and it gives me the creative outlet that makes my heart sing. I can’t wait to tell my parents about it, so I decide to stop by their house on the way back to my own.
Mom is sitting on the Chanel replica sofa working on her cross stitch, and Dad is reading the Wall Street Journal. I know that I could come into this room at this time of the day on any given day in the year and find them locked in this tableau. Mom looks up and smiles at me. “Hello, honey. We didn’t know you were stopping by. I’m sure I can get Olga to make you something.”
“No, thanks, Mom. I’ve got a crockpot going at home.”
Dad peers over his paper at me. “When did you become Suzy Homemaker?”
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