A Kiss of a Different Color

by Bettye Griffin

  Nina Lindbergh’s first thought as she descended the stairs and noticed a glow of light coming from the adjoining family room was that Jon had forgotten to turn off the tree lights. It was so quiet, although not that late, only nine o’clock. But he and Miranda were setting out for the drive to Racine in just a few hours.

  She felt proud of Jon for insisting Miranda come to their home after that terrifying experience on the plane, and that he drive with her over the winter roads to see her family rather than letting her go alone, but yet she was disappointed. Nina had met a charming young woman, the mother of one of her dance students, a gifted six-year-old who showed great potential. Nina had grown quite fond of the child. Her mother, a pediatrician the same age as Jon, had tragically lost her husband in a motorcycle accident several years back, and Nina thought she might be a good match for her son. Nina had accepted an invitation to drop by their home on Christmas evening for dessert, with plans of bringing Jon along and hoping sparks would fly between the two of them. The child’s mother was quite attractive, and while she undoubtedly earned more than Jon, he wasn’t the type to be put off by that. Besides, he didn’t do badly in the salary department himself. And Nina, unlike some of her friends, had no problem with Jon marrying a woman who had a child. He was getting a little old to be playing musical beds. She knew that their family history had soured him on the idea of settling down for life with one special woman, but she felt that if he met the right woman he’d stop tomcatting around, and maybe be the one to break that unhappy chain of divorces.

  The episode on the flight between Bismarck and Minneapolis had put a kink in her plans, for it meant that Jon would be in Wisconsin on Christmas night. She’d just have to wait until his next visit. Holiday visiting wouldn’t fit into the equation, but she could arrange to have Jon come to the studio on some pretext at the same time the child and her mother would be there.

  Nina heard the music as she neared the break in the wall that put the kitchen on her left and the family room on her right and slowed her steps. She’d been fully prepared to unplug the tree, now she considered that perhaps Jon was still up; surely he wouldn’t have left the stereo on.

  She advanced tentatively, and as she expected, its lights still twinkled. A fire also blazed in the fireplace. Jazz artist Michael Franks was singing a dreamy holiday composition about his Christmas present, and Nina’s shoulders jerked, for there in front of the fire sat her son, ardently kissing Miranda.

  That was the last thing she expected to see, for nothing in their interactions with each other suggested they were a couple, nor had Jon said anything about Miranda other than that they were dance partners and both new in the city. Nina had taken that at face value, so it stunned her to see them in a clinch.

  Actually, what her eyes saw was more romantic than sexual. Jon’s right hand appeared to be at his side, and with his left he cupped Miranda’s throat, his fingers stretched upward to caress her jaw, his pinky finger tilting her chin—and her mouth—toward him.

  Nina knew she was violating her son’s privacy, but she stood transfixed, watching him kiss a woman he was obviously enamored with, and showing a tenderness she hadn’t known he was capable of.

  As she watched, Jon reached up with his right hand and removed a pin from Miranda’s hair, which cascaded down in a black flood, over shoulders that had been demurely covered at church by a cardigan that had been removed, revealing an off-the-shoulder angora sweater. Miranda’s lips moved under his, and he murmured something in response, then moved to nuzzle her neck as Miranda thrust her head backward and released a pleasured sigh. Even in the dim light Nina could see the look of pure bliss on her face.

  She realized they were about to break apart, and she didn’t want them to see her standing in the shadows. She quietly retreated. Her empty glass with its streaks of eggnog could wait to be washed out until morning. Making her presence known would only embarrass Jon and Miranda...or at least Miranda. Sometimes she thought her son was incapable of being discomfited.

  Nina certainly had no doubts about what would be unfolding in her basement.

  Upstairs, she knocked on her mother’s bedroom door. “Mor, are you still up?” she called out as she opened the door.

  Birgitta’s head had leaned to the left on her pillow. She straightened at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “I was just drifting off. What is it?”

  “Mor…I just stumbled onto something downstairs.”

  “What?” Birgitta asked.

  “Jon and Miranda. They’re doing more together than just dancing.”

  Birgitta frowned. “Don’t tell me you walked in while they were—”

  “No, of course not. They were making out in front of the fire.”

  The older woman chuckled. “Well, I guess that puts a kink in your plans.”

  Nina sighed. “You never liked the idea of me trying to set Jon up.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it, Nina. But he’s got his own life. Your plans for him aren’t necessarily going to mesh with his.”

  “Mor, I’ve just got this gut feeling that they would be perfect for each other.”

  Birgitta reached for her cigarettes, put one in her mouth and lit it. “I remember many years ago you had a gut feeling about Jeffrey Lindbergh being your perfect man. And I’m not saying that to be mean,” Birgitta added at the stricken look Nina flashed her. “I had the same feeling about your father when I first met him. What I’m saying is simply, let it go, Nina. This thing with Miranda will likely blow over, just like all his other relationships, and provided Jon doesn’t bring whoever he’s dating with him the next time he visits, you can proceed with your little matchmaking scheme then.” She yawned. “But I wouldn’t hold out much hope for that one to stick, either. Your son is made of Teflon as far as women are concerned. Now I think you should go to sleep. We’ll have to get up early if we want to see Jon off.”

  Miranda finally found her voice. “Jon, are you forgetting where we are?”

  “Nice and cozy, in front of the fire,” he whispered as he nuzzled her neck.

  “Come on, Jon. Your mother or grandmother could come walking in at any moment.”

  He planted a series of kisses on her warm skin. “I doubt either of them will come down here. They plan on getting up to see us off, so they’re probably already asleep.” His hand reached under her skirt and stroked her bare thigh. She squealed in delight, and even with her eyes closed she could feel his eyes on her, watching as she struggled to resist his touch.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.

  “Jon, we can’t!” Was he crazy? This was his mother’s house, for heaven’s sake. She would be mortified if Nina or Birgitta were to wander in and see Jon feeling her up.

  “But I want to finish unwrapping my present.”

  “I am not your present, Jon!”

  “Miranda, are you telling me you don’t want to go to bed with me?”

  “Not here,” she replied firmly.

  He moved his face close to hers. “You’re lying.”

  Having him so close made her nipples tighten in her strapless bra. She tried to talk, but it came out as an unrecognizable syllable.

  “You mean you don’t want me to do this...?” He squeezed her breast through her sweater.

  Ahhh. “Jon,” she warned.

  “And you don’t want me to touch you here?” His hand caressed her inner thighs.

  “Jon!”

  “Tell me you don’t want me to do any of that.”

  “I don’t want you to do any of that.” Her voice sounded unconvincing to her own ears.

  “Tell me like you mean it.”

  Miranda made the mistake of looking at him, and right away she felt her resolve weakening like the trusses of an eighty-year-old bridge. In an act of self-preservation, she slid her rear backward on the plush carpeting, away from him, and pulled her sweater back up to cover her shoulders.

  Jon sighed heavily. “I think I need another glass of wine. Can I freshen yo
ur eggnog?”

  “Yes, please, but skip the bourbon.” She’d have to keep her wits about her if she expected to continue resisting him.

  She sensed his frustration, even as she looked at his retreating back. But what else could she do? If they were at home in Bismarck it would be different, but she didn’t want to have sex with Jon here in his mother’s home, to leave behind a lingering scent of what transpired in those sheets for Nina to whiff when she stripped the bed. No, tonight she would sleep chastely alone, in Sara’s old room. That way Nina wouldn’t sense anything amiss.

  The fireplace snapped, and Miranda glared at it. It was almost as if it were laughing at her.

  Jon wasn’t the only one feeling frustrated. She wanted him desperately; her skin was on fire where he touched her. They wouldn’t be back in Bismarck for another three days. How on earth would she last that long?

  Miranda blew out an irritated breath as she reclined on the floor, her head resting on an oversize pillow, her clasped hands resting over her ribcage. She stared at the ceiling, then closed her eyes. She’d meant it when she told her mother how well she’d been treated. Jon’s mother, grandmother, and sister had made her feel welcomed, in spite of the two older women’s obvious surprise to see her accompanying Jon. Of course, Sara had the benefit of advance warning from Nina.

  Still, they all believed she and Jon were nothing more than dance partners, a friend of his who’d taken the same flight and who planned to continue on to Milwaukee when weather forced a change in plan. Having friends of different races was one thing. Having a lover was something else entirely, a horse of a different color, as Miranda’s grandmother had been fond of saying. Nina and Birgitta might not be so gracious if they knew she and Jon were having an affair.

  The sound of movement nearby prompted Miranda to open her eyes. She caught her breath in her throat, because all she saw was Jon’s face looming over hers upside down. She held her breath as he moved closer still, closing her eyes just seconds before his lips connected with her eyelids. Her lips parted in anticipation, but Jon took his time working his way down her face, planting kisses on the bridge of her nose, tickling the tip of her nose with his tongue, and then the sides of her mouth. By the time he pressed his lips flush against hers, her breaths were coming out in a noisy staccato rhythm. She eagerly accepted his tongue and intertwined it with her own in an erotic mating dance. When he pulled away she felt betrayed.

  “I’m trying very hard to honor your wishes, Miranda, but you’re going to tempt me into a lack of control if you don’t sit up,” he said roughly. “Why don’t we just sit like friends on the sofa and have our drinks, listen to the music, and watch the fire and the lights blink on the tr—”

  The rest of his words were lost as Miranda reached up and pulled his head down to resume their kiss.

  “Have I gotten you to change your mind?” Jon whispered when he raised his head. His dark blue eyes looked even darker in the dim light.

  “I guess I’m just weak when it comes to you.” She shook her head sheepishly. “What else can I say?”

  “I’ll say it. Let’s go to bed and finish what we started.”

  She nodded, and he pulled her into a sitting position.

  “You go ahead and takes the drinks downstairs,” he said. “I’ll put the fire out.”

  “Put it out?” she asked innocently.

  “Put this fire out,” he clarified. He took a step toward her and clamped his palms over her upper arms. “Then I’ve got another fire to attend to, the one that’s burning here.” He took her hand and guided it to the bulge in front of his trousers.

  Miranda’s knees nearly gave out. “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” she said in a throaty voice.

  She used her time alone to slip out of her clothes and brush her hair becomingly around her shoulders. By the time Jon entered the room she had turned on the night light at the base of the bedside lamp, illuminating the room in a soft glow, and waited for him with the sheets pulled up to her chest.

  He simply stared at her, and her body tingled in anticipation. Without a word he pulled his sweater, shirt, and undershirt off in one motion, revealing a muscled, well-developed chest with silky dark blond hair. In an instant he was kneeling before her on the bed, and his fingertips stroked her cheek before reaching for the edge of the sheets and blankets and folding them down, exposing her nude body.

  Jon marveled at the perfection of her form, bathed in soft light. How could he have missed out on such a marvelous sight? Her hair draped over slim shoulders, the round swells of her breasts with incredibly dark areolae, the tapered waist and taut belly, and the dark tendrils that concealed the feminine secrets he was about to expose.

  He reached out and lightly ran his hand down her body from her throat to her abdomen, saying simply, “You’re perfection.”

  “And you’re making me feel like I’m about to burst,” she said breathlessly. “Make love to me, Jon.”

  He quickly stood up and, after removing his wallet from his pants pocket, stripped off the rest of his clothes. His penis jutted out proudly, long and thick, and Miranda eagerly reached out to touch it. It surged against her hand, the vein bulging, and in the dim light it had a purplish glow.

  Jon groaned as she gently but firmly stroked him, her hand squeezing him enough to make him heave against her. He had dreamed of her touching him this way, but even as he reveled in it he cursed the timing. It was already going on ten, and Miranda said they needed to be in Racine by eight-thirty a.m. to allow enough time for the traditional family brunch, the gift exchange, plus time to clean up and get to church by eleven. That meant they had precious little time for intimacy if they wanted to get to Racine without falling asleep at the wheel; they would have to leave in just a few hours. He intended to make it memorable, and to look forward to the day when there would be no demands on their time to prevent their enjoying all they had to offer each other.

  Miranda turned on her side to face him as he joined her on the bed. She felt his hardened sex against her thigh, felt his silky chest hair against her breasts, and she lost herself in his kiss and all the wonderful sensations that went with it. Even before he reached to stroke her core, she knew she was damp with wanting. She quickly went from damp to saturated as the fingers she had dreamed about for nearly two months reacquainted themselves with her moist flesh.

  Their lips broke apart, and Miranda moaned in earnest as he alternatively nibbled and sucked at her nipples as his hand explored her wet cave, one finger deep inside her and the other massaging that nub from which all her pleasure originated. Then he pushed her onto her back and moved down her body, and her excitement accelerated to the point where she didn’t think she could breathe.

  She thrashed from side to side as his tongue licked her sensitive belly button, and his strong hands gripped her hips and held her in place. He moved lower, even kissing her hair-covered mound before he flicked his tongue repeatedly over her swollen bud. Miranda reached down and wantonly held open her lower lips.

  Jon knew she was impatient, and he deliberately held back, licking various areas of her groin, loving her scent and noting she was pretty even down there. The pungent aroma coming from between her thighs intoxicated him, and finally he slipped his tongue where they both wanted it to be.

  She threw back her head, raised her legs, arched her back, and moaned with unadulterated ecstasy. Jon Lindbergh personified her ideal sexual partner. He knew what she wanted and delivered it expertly, so well that she could weep from sheer joy. How could she—how could any woman—bear to let him go?

  He slipped his hands beneath her buttocks and tilted her at a comfortable angle while he feasted on her. She erupted in a crest of pleasure, simultaneously struggling to catch her breath. After a minute or two she propped herself up on her elbows as he made his way back up her body, his tongue moist against her skin. He knelt before her and treated her to the sight of him applying a condom to his powerful erection, then inched closer to her so that his pen
is loomed over her before bending his upper body over hers in an unspoken invitation. Miranda took the powerful sheepskin-sheathed muscle into her mouth, her eyes meeting his as she greedily took it in, remaining propped on her elbows and keeping her hands out of the equation, as if she were bobbing for apples on Halloween with them tied behind her back. The rapturous look on his face told her he liked what she was doing to him, and she felt him swell in her mouth.