by L. B. Dunbar
Her voice shook and the words were low, but the emotion was real. She loved him as much as he loved her, and I was happy for them. My own heart ached, as well. I could have shared similar vows with Guinie. She had refused to marry me before the tour, but we were engaged, a promise to be wed when I returned.
I had returned, but at present we were no longer promised to one another. Her fourth finger remained bare. I hadn’t seen the ring, nor did I question where it was. I assumed she still had it, just refused to wear it. I wondered briefly when she had decided to remove it. Was it before or after Lansing? Had she had it on when she was with him? My insides roiled with the thought. I’d worked hard not to imagine them together. It haunted my dreams until two nights ago, when I held her in my arms while we slept. Last night, without her, they returned like a vengeance.
I’d hurt her the night before. While it had been my intent to do so, I hadn’t meant to act on it. There was a line between desiring to harm someone and actually doing so. I believed I’d physically hurt her when I touched her. I was rough, and she whimpered more than once. Then I callously refused her the second opportunity. Finally, she’d shut me out when she locked the bathroom. I heard her sob, and I couldn’t get to her. While my temper said barge down the door, my thoughts said to give her time. When she left the room, I thought time was up, for good.
She was reserved this evening, but hesitant smiles encouraged me to touch her gently as we lounged on our cushions through dinner. The atmosphere was relaxed, and the food fit for kings. It was rich in fresh seafood, potatoes and fruit mixed with greens. The wine poured easily for those of us who could partake, and we laughed. It felt good to laugh. At one point, Guinie’s hand touched my arm. I didn’t flinch but the tenderness startled me. I didn’t move for fear she would. She didn’t. It was an absentminded motion. She continued to talk to Hollister unaware that she was holding onto me.
Tristan started off the dancing. He had hired a string quartet, which reminded me of the 4Gs. I didn’t know how that was going for Guinie, other than she was still a part of the group. It was the first question I asked to stall from dancing. As couples broke off to enjoy the music, it was awkward that we remained seated with Kaye.
“You should dance,” he encouraged, looking from Guinie to me.
“I can’t,” I muttered. I couldn’t be close to Guinevere like that, plus I used my hand as an excuse to hold me back. I’d had the prosthetic on, but the heat made it uncomfortable. Kaye asked Guinie to dance instead, but after watching him touch her, I knew I’d been tricked to man up and dance with her. I cut in after the first spin.
We stood like teenagers. Her arms were around my neck and my wrists balanced at her hips, as if I was afraid to touch her. We had space between us, like a high school dance. Guinie looked down at us. She stepped closer so her body brushed mine. Removing my right arm, she guided it upward, holding onto my false hand. It was the opposite of how we should be positioned. It was evident that Guinie was taking the lead. She curled her hand into mine, but I couldn’t feel her. I didn’t like that I sensed her presence, but could not feel her touch. I tugged back, hoping she would release me, but she held tighter.
“I can’t feel you,” I growled low in her ear. Her fingers examined mine, stroking the material.
“If it bothers you, take it off,” she suggested. It wasn’t quite that simple. We were at a wedding, but then I realized it was dark and we were amongst friends. I excused myself, allowing Kaye to dance with her again.
When I returned to cut in the second time, she wrapped her fingers over the puckered skin, closing them down to hold me, as if my hand were present. We stood in reverse of the natural dance pose. She was in the lead and we swayed slowly. I was distracted by her fingers over my wrist. When the song ended, she lowered her head and kissed the end of the stump.
“Thank you for the dance, Arturo,” she spoke quietly as she stepped back. I reached for her and pulled her close to me. I couldn’t allow her to get away.
“I’m sorry again about last night.”
She stared at me; bright blue eyes alight from the fiery torches.
“Me too, but then again, I’m not,” she said quietly, and that impish smile rose again. The music had started.
“May I have another turn?” I asked, implying the dance, but somehow my words meant even more.
“Yes, you may.” This time I held her properly. My forearm wrapped around her back, holding her against me, as I cradled her right hand over my heart. We danced in silence. This was our apology. I was sorry for the night before: my actions and my attitude. I needed her to feel that sorrow, not just hear my idle words. When that song ended, I kissed her quickly on the cheek, thanking her for a second chance.
The night continued in those soft flirtations. By the time we returned to the house, I was wound so tight, a swift breeze would have ended me. My heart raced as we stood inside her room. I was not returning to Kaye’s room again. I also did not plan to sleep alone.
“I have something I’d like to ask you,” I began, tugging the linen shirt over my head. It had been warm, despite the late hour and the dark sky, and my shirt was damp from nervous perspiration.
“Yes,” she said. It was such a definitive answer; I blinked in confusion.
“Yes, what?” I laughed.
“Yes, I think we should sleep together.”
I cocked my head to the side uncertain I understood her meaning. She explained, “I think if we have sex, it might relieve us of the awkward tension. One last time to reconnect and then disconnect.” She took a deep breath then rushed out a final statement. “Get it out of our systems, so to speak.” Her hands were open as her arms dangled at her sides. She shook them like she needed that movement for confidence.
“Are you asking me to have sex with you?” I smiled slowly, still puzzled.
“Yes.”
“So we can get it over with and move on?” My tone changed as I slowly realized what she was asking. What she was saying. She implied that if we had sex, it would allow us to bring closure and we could be finished.
“I…” Fuck it, I thought. If she wanted to have sex with me, I wasn’t going to deny her. I longed to be inside her again, to have one more chance with her. If she believed one final time would be enough, I would play along.
My hand covered one cheek and I pulled her to me. That was my contribution. I would capture her mouth with mine. I would battle those lips and conquer her tongue, but the rest of the war was lost to me. Guinevere had my heart. She could stomp it or steal it. It made no difference. If I was only getting one more chance, I wanted it. Her terms seemed straightforward: sex. Nothing more. I could do this. I had done it before to tons of women. What I hadn’t done was love them. That’s what I intended to do with her. I would show her I still loved her.
Her dress had a small clasp at the back of her neck and my fingers fumbled with it. Internally, I cursed, as I did not wish to be awkward. Her fingers slipped over mine and stilled me. She stepped back, unlatched the catch, and let the dress fall forward to bare her breasts to me. Subtle tan lines accentuated the whiteness of her more sensitive skin. With a shaky hand, I reached out and kneaded one. Her eyes closed in pleasure, and then opened instantly when I pinched her nipple. She bit her lip in response. I moved to the other and favored it as well.
A small zipper on the hip released the remainder of the material. The dress fell like a slow waterfall, trickling down long legs. I watched the display in wonder. Her shapely legs were tanned; those glorious toenails a light purple color. She stepped out of the dress, and my eyes drew a path up her body. I left no inch unturned as I traced her, committing it to memory. Rather, refreshing my memory of each curve, each dip, even a scar on her knee. My mouth watered to lick her, taste her, and suck her into me, but that would have to wait. There was one goal at the moment.
Her hands came to my waist. While I knew she could tremble with excitement or shiver with the unknown, this was the confident woman who had
blossomed from our first sexual experiences. Guinevere knew what she wanted of me. Her mission was clear. I was disrobed of my briefs and shorts in one move. She knelt before me, head bending to take me in.
“Not tonight,” I stopped her. “Not yet. Tonight it’s my turn.”
I escorted her to the bed, holding her hand while she lay down on her back. I examined the contours of her body once again as she lay still, waiting for me. Her eyes sparkled in the dim moonlight cascading in the room. It was my turn to kneel before her. I did so, then placed my lips over her and licked. She instantly purred. Hands came to my hair and her hips bucked. I spread her fast with my tongue and she moaned again. Delving into folds, my lips devoured her with practiced measure. I recalled what she liked, where, and took extended care to torture that spot. Her fingers tightened in my hair and I sensed she was getting close. I pulled back.
“No,” she whimpered loudly.
“If I’m only getting one chance, I want to feel it around me,” I said, wrapping my arm around her and moving her farther to the center of the bed. I was positioned outside her, the tip of me moist from her wetness. I rested there, while she squirmed trying to keep the sensation alive within her. I did not plan to torment her. I slid into her quickly, plunging to the full extent. We both grunted loudly with the connection. The house might be full of others, but I didn’t care if they heard. I dragged to the end of her and rammed forward in response. She let out a loud sigh of pleasure. Again, I didn’t care who listened. I wanted to sing from the rooftops: Let the universe know that I was inside Guinevere. It felt like I’d finally come home.
I’d fallen asleep almost instantly afterward; spent from the power of one of the most incredible orgasms I had with Arturo. I hadn’t even finished the first wave, when another took me harder. Arturo worked me deep. I was like the great ocean outside my window, pouring on the sands with pleasure, crashing home over and over I was so relaxed, I didn’t even move when we finished. Arturo collapsed on top of me and I let him cover me. Warm and content, I slipped into a sweet oblivion.
I was awakened with a sharp nip of my nipple. I woke to find Arturo’s head over my chest, his mouth tugging a breast into him. I whimpered at the rough pleasure as he sucked on me hard. His tongue circled the nipple to stand erect then he blew on it to seal the torture. He moved to the other and my hands found his thick hair. I watched him work my upper body, and my hips rolled over the leg between my thighs.
Instantly he was between me. He released my breast with a pop and knelt back, taking my thighs with him. He raised them up to cover his then plunged into me without foreplay. I grunted, but he didn’t still. He delved onward, stroking my insides. Fingers on his left hand gripped my hip hard. The wrist of his right pressed into my skin.
“One time would be enough to rid us of each other?” he growled in question, as he hammered into me with erratic rhythm. His eyes watched where he entered and withdrew from me. He did not release me, though. He kept us connected as one.
“If you thought that we could be together just once, you were mistaken. Once would not be enough. I plan to never rid you of my body,” he argued. My hips were raised, resting on his flexed thighs. My upper back was all that held me to the bed. Arturo was clearly sweating, as he struggled to regulate the force of rhythm within me.
“You are my castle. No one else is allowed to enter.” His words hit home. This was not the retreat I believed we would have, once we completed the first act. This was a second coming: a resurgence, a rebellion. His words implied that someone else had been here, and he refused to let me be the conquest again. His intent was to purge me of anyone else’s presence and reclaim his throne. He fumbled my hips, but immediately righted me, shoving deeper into me. I grunted again as a sharp pain pierced my insides, but thrilled me all the same. His eyes met mine. He knew what he had done. He’d found a weakness and repeated the attack.
His eyes remained focused on me as he spoke with strained determination.
“No one shall grace these walls again, but me,” he groaned, emphasizing his words with earnest rhythm. I could only shake my head to agree: no one. My eyes closed, but he demanded I open them.
“This is us,” he said. “Us. King and his queen.”
“Yes,” I whispered harshly.
“We belong together,” he stressed, plowing forward internally.
“We. Go. Together,” he strained, and we did. I screamed in release as he stilled. My hips were raised high; he was so deep inside. Every pulsed movement of him caused a reaction inside me. We held tight as we rode the tide, together.
We had one last day on the Island. Tristan and his bride had already disappeared to the private resort, where they would be pampered in seclusion. Perkins was anxious to get back home, knowing the baby was coming soon. Lansing and Lila needed to return to Fleur. There was no rush for Arturo and I to return to reality. We’d been in a bubble before. It was how our relationship started. We were alone often in his upstate New York home, but reality gnawed at me.
The morning after a new flood of questions drowned my mind, the first of which was: What next? Were we over? Did it work to be with him once, or rather twice, to rid me of my desire for him? After a morning shower that involved me against the tile wall, I knew I’d never recover from the ache in my body to have Arturo complete me. It was my heart that drew my concern. I didn’t know how I could walk away from him, once we went back to the States.
I was over Lansing Lotte. No feelings lingered. My guilt was heavy but no longer weighed me down. What remained uncertain for me, was where Ana stood with Arturo. He’d said they were friends. He said they’d had an argument but worked things out. I didn’t see that contract being upheld by Ana. The connection between them was permanent, through Morte.
While Arturo and I had only briefly mentioned the loss of our child, the fact remained he already had one with another woman, and he needed to honor that relationship. Morte was also a visible part of Arturo’s life with Kaye’s announcement at Elaine’s party. Ana wanted to claim her right to be by Arturo’s side, which left me uncertain where I stood. Arturo mentioned that I could be his right hand, but that was literally. I wasn’t certain he meant for me to reenter his life and stand by him permanently.
In the presence of the others, the questioning glares turned to looks of concern. There was no hiding what we’d done. We’d been too loud to pretend that we hadn’t been together. Surprisingly, it was Lila who looked the most worried. Her inquiring stares questioned if what I’d done was the right thing to do. She’d been the one to hold me while I cried over Arturo two nights ago then last night I took him to my bed. What did this say about me? Just looking at Arturo sent my body aflutter, but thinking about Arturo had me all kinds of confused.
I didn’t have a sense that he’d forgiven me. He wanted to reclaim me, but that made me an object lost, not a person loved. He wanted to strip my memory of another, which meant he wanted to refill me with thoughts of him, not love me in return. As the day wore on, my body began to feel dirty. I ached where I had been abused in a place that had not been used by another for over six months. By evening, my arms were wrapped around me, as they’d been most recently. I felt sick with my behavior. I had fooled myself to think I could sleep with Arturo once, let alone three times, and walk away. I was at his mercy again. He held the power to destroy me, by walking away from me instead.
We had one final night alone. Arturo’s oral skills professed his worship of my body. His tenderness was markedly impressive, a reminder of his former nickname, The Chivalrous Lover. I returned the favor. We had agreed that our romp the night before had abused my body, but after delicate touches and flirtatious kisses in all sorts of places, I gave in to the suggestion of a warm place to soothe any potential sting. I straddled him in the large tub, and we kissed for long periods of time, joined together as man and woman can be. I worried that we weren’t moving fast enough to keep him firm, but he assured me as he lingered that he was perfectly content. Wh
en he could take it no longer, he let me know by a slow tormenting roll of his hips. Forcing delicately inside me, he drew to the edge then proceeded with care to fill me again. It was restrained and temperate, a slow dance of control, until desire won out once again and the need to shatter won over. Arturo continued to hold me as the water cooled. It came to me, that while the night before he didn’t believe once was enough, in the light of a new day, he was ready to say goodbye.
The return home plane ride was quiet. I purposely sat on Guinie’s right so I could hold her hand. We exited the plane and I reached for her again. Each time I did she looked down at our joined hands confused.
I reflected through most of our trip back to the States. While Guinie had wanted only once, I stole as many times as her body would allow. If she wished to walk away, I would have no choice in the matter. She would go, fulfilled with her decision that once would be enough. I, however, was thinking of the future. What would I do if she decided to leave? I immediately knew that I would fight for her the entire way of her retreat. I wanted Guinevere, despite our wrongs, our hurts, and harms. I had always wanted her; from the moment I opened my eyes and noticed her on the pit floor of The Round Table last May. I might have known in that instant that she would be the end of me, but I knew I would not live without one taste of her.
Had I had my fill of her? Sampled her enough and found nothing left to tempt me? Absolutely not. If anything, I wanted her more. A greedy child in a candy store, I found no end to my desire to savor her sweetness and lavish her tartness.