Love Takes Your Breath Away

by Caleigh Hernandez

  Diego releases a hiss into our kiss as he discovers my lack of panties. It’s his turn to pull away.

  “Izzy.” It’s just my name, barely above a whisper, but it’s not what he said, it’s how he said it. A plea, asking for permission. A command, demanding my submission.

  He scans me from head to toe and back, the only garment left is the lacy bra pushing up my breasts, holding them center stage. I watch as Diego’s eyes linger at certain parts, my bare sex a bit longer than the rest. He runs his tongue over his top lip and follows up over his bottom one.

  Alfred has pulled us out onto what looks like a freeway. I feel Diego’s stare before I see it. It’s a predatory look. I’m the lamb to his lion. And I want him to devour me.

  Diego has me on my back in a whoosh, a deft maneuver of hands and strength. The action has me dizzy, lacing me with a knot of euphoria. He’s on me with urgent lips. I’m fighting for the air robbed by his consuming passion.

  I gasp—breaking free, and let out a low moan that cuts the final thread to his self-control. My head tipped back, I don’t see him move south. My mind numb to the dip in the bench seat as he adjusts his position.

  I’m barely recovering from his deft hands and consuming kiss when the heat of his breath is on my sex. An act that has my pussy pooling, aching for his tongue, begging for his touch. The anticipation is mind shattering. The severed self-control—that sent him to his knees--is back, taunting me with his focus to drive me insane with pleasure. I buck up with my hips, desperate to get just the slightest bit of contact.

  He pulls up and away. Matching my thrust; staying just out of my reach. He releases another hot breath, a direct hit on my aching clit. It’s a live wire that can only be grounded by his touch. Every second that passes is an exponential supercharge to my imminent release. A likely result to his much anticipated, first touch.

  A shocked moan drowns the pounding rhythm of “Glory Box” by Portishead as he licks his tongue up my dripping seam. Give me a reason to love you. My prediction proving true. Give me a reason to be a woman. I’m bucking and wiggling to increase the contact. The speed.

  His one-track mind giving him the focus to stay at the task at hand. Slow and steady. No air. Replete.

  So don’t you stop being a man. My next orgasm makes the first feel like a fleeting breeze when he plunges his tongue into my now sopping pussy. “Ohhhhh, Diego!” He stills his tongue, letting me ride out the euphoric orgasm charging every nerve in my body.

  Recovering from his mind-numbing linguistics, he continues his oral assault on my sex, nipping and pulling on my over-sensitized clit. He’s added fingers to his ministrations. My walls closing around him, a sense of fullness ensues. I’m breathless and overwhelmed.

  As if sensing my over stimulation, Diego slows his pace and switches to massaging the apex of my mound with the palm of his hand. Dispersing some of the building charge his every move and astute attention generates.

  Relief floods through me as it feels like I’ve taken a breath for the first time since this began.

  The reprieve is short-lived as Diego swipes up one side of my sex and then the other. Working his way to my trigger, but not quite getting there. Kicking my need for that which he is denying me into first gear. He’s circling my sweet spot in alternating quick and slow swipes. Eager for his tongue on my clit, I buck up. Fully expecting to be met with a warm breath and a light chuckle, I’m shocked when he closes his mouth around the detonator to my climax. Capturing my lifted ass in the air, he slowly drags his tongue up my seam, dipping his tongue into my pussy as he makes his way to my clit. He follows his tongue with his bottom lip, closing down on my sweet spot at the top, branding himself the master of my orgasm as another is ripped from my deprived body.

  With this orgasm, my body is set to overload. Every touch of his fingers, the gentle sweep of his tongue feels like I’m being shocked with a high-voltage live wire.

  I’m lost in the sensations…my eyes are open, but the passing London cityscape is beyond my focus. I’m drifting. Just beyond this orgasm-induced haze, I make out the loss of his touch.

  Spellbound.

  The lyrics couldn’t be more true. Love me some him. Toni Braxton is crooning about how another man will never do. I’m adrift on her words, my heart keeping time with her profession to love him.

  “Ahhh,” I’m rocked by an out-of-body whiplash into the here and now. Diego has sunk the length of himself into my aching pussy. My eyes find his. His stare is practically feral.

  He doesn’t move.

  The pressure of his weight on my button makes me hyperaware. With each passing, motionless second, a slow chill runs up and down my spine, a new ache builds. My eyes flutter shut.

  “Izzy,” he demands, “look at me.”

  The pull on my nerve endings to sink into the sensations make the simple task an insurmountable challenge. With a grind of his hips, my eyes flash open and land on his waiting gaze.

  “Diego.” It’s a plea. His name is a request for more. Less. I’m a bundle of contradictions headed for an eruption of epic proportions.

  His hips begin to rock and sway. There’s a steady rhythm to his pace, an understanding that less is more right now. Keeping time with the crooning of Ne-yo, his tempo is both punishing and rewarding. “…she’s the sweetest drug.” His sexy love.

  With my eyes focused on his, I see the moment Diego’s control is cracked. I take the opportunity to match his movements, increasing our speed and allowing him to increase his tempo switching from a blissfully agonizing and crushing grind to a pulsing in and out stroke, our breaths creating a euphoric crescendo in our symphony of sweat, longing, and lust.

  In a culmination of nerves, we’re peaking at our release. The surging collision between us a bridge to a never-ending fade back to the here and now.

  Diego’s cocky grin is the first thing I register as the veil of lust drops to half-lidded eyes of post-climactic bliss.

  “If it’s possible, you’re even more beautiful sporting the “just fucked” look,” he’s aiming for impassive, but the hitch in his voice and the quirk of his mouth tells me he’s going to be up for round two sooner than later. He pulls away and breaks the last of his hold on my nerves.

  From the bench seat across from us, he pulls out a cable knit throw blanket. He’s lifting me and wrapping me in the blanket. The act so intimate I’m overwhelmed. The emotions from earlier flooding me come crashing to the surface. I can’t blink back the tears before they’re cascading down my cheeks as Diego nestles me into his lap.

  A swipe of his thumb tells me the tears didn’t go unnoticed. He patiently waits for me to say something. Where normally he would rush to make me feel better, I’m grateful he gives me this opportunity to work through whatever this is on my own.

  The moment the grip my emotions have on me lets up, Diego’s squeezing me. His hug a vice around the cracking pieces, the bonding agent to stick them back together.

  “Thank you,” I peek up at him through my bangs. “And I think you owe me an apology.”

  The look on his face is priceless. He doesn’t know that he overwhelms me. From his careful and thorough attention to my body—my needs—to his pounding punishment and reward, he makes me feel.

  Everything.

  I raise my hand to his cheek. “You have no idea just how much you and everything you do affects me.

  “So, when I lose it, it’s your fault. Only logical explanation. You can apologize with a Snickers bar,” I deadpan with a double pat to his face.

  He grabs my hand, bringing it up to his mouth palm up. “Let me get this straight. You want me to apologize for leading you on a tour of London, of which you’ve failed to appreciate,” he can’t hold back his amusement in the ridiculousness of his statement. “For giving you,” he continues, “by my calculations, three glorious orgasms?”

  “You forgot the part where you made cry,” I pout.

  He doesn’t buy my feigned unhappiness. Instead, he bites down on t
he edge to the center of my palm, dragging his teeth across the highly sensitive area of flesh. The sensation ripples through my body on a drawn out, “ah.”

  “Izabella Santo, I will not apologize for being awesome, and don’t think this gets you out of telling me what caused those tears, but in just a few minutes we’re going to be at our only stop of the tour. So, unless you want to see it in the nude, may I, under protest, suggest you cover that which is mine?” He drops my hand and is gathering our strewn about clothing.

  His sinewy body of corded muscle a feast for the eyes, but before I’m done with my slow appraisal, he’s slipped on his jersey shorts and I’m snapped back to the reality that I need to get dressed.

  I fumble my way to presentable and am thankful I had the foresight to bring my makeup and brush in my purse. The simplest of things is to brush my hair back and pull it up into a ponytail. The limousine is slowing to a stop, but with the dividing window still up and the garden-variety buildings on either side of the back windows of no help, I can’t discern where we are.

  I do my best to dab the “just fucked” look from my skin, but the glow of post sex is too much for my translucent powder and before I can worry myself over it too much Alfred has stepped out of the car and rounded the front to open my door.

  It’s a chilly August morning in London. Unlike the brisk August mornings in Southern California, I find myself chilled and reaching for my black zip up hoodie. Reaching for Alfred’s waiting helpful hand, I emerge onto a street, still not certain of our whereabouts.

  “Thank you, Alfred,” I hear Diego say. I’m taking in the traffic on the street, there’s not much, some couples walking their dog, a family posing in front of a fenced off building. A shiver races up my spine. I turn to discover an amused Diego staring at me. His expression tells me he’s waiting for me to get it.

  I continue my scan of the area and then it hits me. I’m sure if I were looking in a mirror right now, I’d see the twinkling in my eyes as well as the tears pooling at the corners. My lower lid can no longer maintain the hold on my tears, as they fall freely down my cheeks.

  There before me is the infamous “zebra crossing” from the cover of the Beatles’ 1969 album “Abbey Road.” I’m dumbfounded. Not that anything this man does should take me by surprise anymore, but the fact that we’re standing where my dad always swore he’d take me, but never got the chance to because he was taken from me too soon, has me overcome and speechless.

  “Izzy, I know that your dad wanted to bring you here. In fact, I know he had plans to surprise you with a trip for Spring Break the year they passed.” He hands me a folder with an itinerary and two plane tickets. It would seem that my dad planned a special trip for just the two of us, but fate ripped him from me before it could happen.

  Reigning in the urge to curse fate, the heavens, the gods, I just stare at everything. “Wait,” I startle, “where did you find this? How can this be? How did I not know about this?” I ramble out more questions and statements of confusion. The situation so unexpected and inexplicable.

  “Well,” Diego starts, “since going through your dad’s office was not something you ever managed to do after his passing, when it was time to pack up, I decided to do a little research. Tucked away, in a spot I’m certain your dad thought you’d never look, was this folder and another like it.” I don’t have to say the words, the look on my face is asking for the rest.

  With a chuckle, he continues. “Not so fast, Izzy Pop. Your dad had some surprise adventures planned for you and since he never got the chance, I’m going to carry them out to the best of my ability.”

  I let out a huff, feeling both excited and exasperated.

  “First up, we have a private tour there,” Diego says, pointing to the Abbey Road Studios.

  Practically jumping out of my skin, I can hardly contain the excitement his latest reveal has caused. Swept up in the moment of where we were, I didn’t fully register where we were.

  Standing across from us is the infamous Abbey Road Studios where legends like the Beatles, Ella Fitzgerald, and Mick Jagger recorded some of their songs. It was this location where Paul McCartney had the idea for the cover of the album Abbey Road.

  Chapter Ten:

  Home Sweet Home

  At the end of the tour of Abbey Road Studios, I was thoroughly elated with what I was able to see and discuss with the studio engineer. Even more elated to secure a sit in for a recording session in the near future.

  Back in the limo, I found myself yammering on and on. I can hear how crazy I sound; the silly grin on Diego’s face only confirms it. The sudden and startling sound of Diego’s phone ringing, interrupts my ramblings.

  “Izzy, I have to take this,” he states with his words as much as with his hand telling me to hold a minute.

  Yet another conversation of agreeableness, but then the unexpected. “No, if it’s okay with you I’d like to do it this morning.” In my ability to only hear one side of this conversation, Diego continues, “I understand. I look forward to it. We’ll see you in about twenty minutes.” He pauses for the person on the other line to respond. “Yes, it should be,” with those last few words he hangs up.

  Imploring Diego to spill the beans, I stare, fixated on his profile. I swear he’s ignoring my unspoken question. The slow smirk spreading up the side of his beautiful face tells me he’s very aware of my increasing state of agitation.

  “GAH!” I let out with a loud breath. “Are you seriously not going to tell me what’s up?”

  I knew what was coming the moment those words escaped my mouth.

  “I’d tell ya, but then I’d have to kill ya,” he declares simply. It’s his go-to answer to my attempts of removing myself from the dark where his surprises are concerned.

  Yeah, yeah. I’m insane. I love surprises, but I hate not knowing. I’m a walking, talking, breathing, pouting enigma. Why if I were prone to riddles, I’d suggest you call me, Mrs. Riddler.

  I can’t help the tight lips and furrowed brow his insistence on denying me enlightenment. I know I should trust that he’s never failed me on a surprise, but I’m a mess of emotions and nerves, completely unlike myself and thoroughly annoyed with my husband’s ability to see me so frustrated and carry-on like all is right. Can you say ‘melodramatic much”?

  Rolling down the privacy glass, Diego informs Alfred, that he “just got the call. The meeting we discussed earlier is back on.”

  “Seriously? I’m in the dark and you’re going to rub it in that Alfred knows more than me?” It’s a less than hushed whisper, hoping Alfred either doesn’t hear me or takes no offense to my rudeness. I’m hoping it’s the former. I really don’t know what’s come over me.

  “Untwist yourself my love,” Diego coos, mixing my words with his gooey ones. “Remember, you like surprises.” He’s still unaffected by my ridiculous outbursts and my not-so-temporary bad attitude.

  He’s right. I do love a good surprise. I take some measured breaths to level my racing heart, but the warm limo is increasingly suffocating. I gasp at the fresh air as I roll down a window. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As quickly as it appeared, the nausea disappeared. Oh great! I’m working myself into a nauseated frenzy.

  I continue to suck in the crisp morning air. Before I’ve managed to get my breathing back to normal, Diego reaches for my hand. Placing it in his, he strokes the back of it with his thumb. His touch and the slow caresses are a soothing wash, cleansing me of the rather embarrassing and out of character outbursts and antics.

  We continue this act of unhurried breathing and calming touches. It could have been just a few minutes, fifteen or twenty. Time passed without me noticing. Where my mind was occupied with staying calm and the mollifying connection between us, my eyes were being treated to a whole new city and country.

  Alfred has slowed us down right in front of a large residential building that appears a cross between a brownstone and a hotel.

  Turning to face Diego, “I thought we were
going to a meeting?” the misunderstanding written all over my face.

  With a simple smile, Diego confirms that indeed we were headed to a meeting. It’s a bit weird having a meeting at a residence at such an early hour on a Sunday morning.

  “Thank you, Alfred,” I graciously address our driver.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Santo. Enjoy,” there’s a twinkle in his eyes that has piqued my curiosity exponentially.

  Diego grabs Alfred’s hand in a firm shake and thanks him before sending him on his way. So focused on the grand building in front of us, the fact that our driver is leaving eludes me. It takes Diego’s hand wrapping around my waist to break the daydream the magnificent building has conjured.

  I’m not speechless, but the new-to-me and uniquely not American architecture has captured my eye. From the rather posh and antique décor to the exquisite interior design of the building, I’m mesmerized.

  Then, it dawns on me. We’re in an empty home and Diego just let us right in. I can feel Diego watching me. A quick glance tells me he’s waiting for me to say something.

  “What? Did I grow a second head?”

  He just chuckles and that brings out the full-figured, unnaturally blonde Red Hat Society-aged woman from around a corner. “Oh, good. You’re here!” reaching for Diego with open arms and wrapping him with a hug. They finish their greetings and exchange a few words thus bringing their attention back to me.

  With an unexpected swiftness, Ms. Nameless is wrapping me in a similar hug and subsequently holding me at arm’s length with a beaming smile. “And you must me Izabella. Diego here has rambled on and on about his beautiful wife for weeks now. He showed me a photo from your wedding. While you were stunning, it doesn’t capture the glow your beauty emits.”

  “Izzy, this is Mrs. Pettinger. She used to own this house,” he says with a sweeping gesture of his hand. The two exchange a look.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Pettinger. You have a lovely home.”