by Iris Astres
Carl opened up the door. She used the sun as an excuse to hide her eyes while she beat down another rush of tears. Eventually, she got her courage up and looked around her. They were on a hill that overlooked a valley filled with groves of trees. Citrus, avocado, maybe almonds too. Or were they olives? It was hard to tell from where she stood.
The car had driven through an iron gate. A small house with a roof terrace was behind her, near the road. She saw a larger house a little farther up the drive. Beyond that, there was mostly nothing. Some wild lavender and other forms of chaparral gave scattered shape to the dry dirt.
Jason passed her, carrying her suitcase. Dinah followed him, frowning at the house. There were big arched windows underneath a sort of portico revealing empty walls. Eventually she saw the shadow of a man who was sitting on the floor, his back pressed to the wall.
Something in him quickened Dinah’s pace until she’d passed Jason and pulled open the door.
“Malcolm?” She’d seen him, and even if she hadn’t, she could feel him with her.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Something in his voice slowed Dinah’s steps.
“What is it?” She got down on the tiled floor beside him and ran her hands along his face and limbs to find the wrong thing that was making him seem strange. He felt limp. Flat. Like someone had let too much air out of him. “What happened to you? Are you sick?”
“I missed you,” Malcolm said.
She pulled away to look at him. His eyes were still a sparkling blue. The rest of him looked like the hollow crust of something eaten from the inside out. He shifted toward her, winced.
“Does it hurt?”
“To miss you? Yes.”
“Well, I’m here now, so you can stop.” She sat beside him, hip to hip and face-to-face.
“Sorry,” Jason said behind them. “Carl and I are going to the front house. We’ll wait for the delivery van.”
“When are they coming?” Malcolm’s voice was weak. Dinah noticed Jason didn’t move so he could hear him speak.
“They said they were about an hour behind us.”
Jason set the suitcase down and left. She settled her head back on Malcolm’s chest. “Where are we?”
“Home,” he said.
“Your home?” She pulled away to look at him.
“Our home, if you’ll have me.”
“Why wouldn’t I have you?”
“You said good-bye.”
And that was true.
“It hurt too much to lose my house, my garden. It hurt so much I couldn’t even bear the thought of being touched or seen. Or even loved.”
“I know,” he said. “And now?”
“Now, what?”
“Can you stand to be loved?”
Could she? Inside she was still a tattered mess, still months or even years away from feeling whole. But there were still the strings, pulling her toward him. And this new desire she’d conceived to let him feel and care the way he wanted to and listen. And what was love if it were only possible when things were steady, on an even keel? This love would always be too much in one way or another, and she welcomed the shock of it. Let it tear her up.
She straddled his lap and kissed him. Hunger for his body gradually resurfaced, alive and hot like summer afternoons. She pulled his shirt up, one hand reaching for his belt. He stopped her hand.
“I’m sorry you lost your lovely home.”
I’m not. That’s what she should have said. I’m not, because I love you more. Instead she sobbed, still choked with grief at the idea of her house empty. Food rotting in the kitchen. Her garden overrun by weeds. It was such a lonely thought. She should be out of tears, but there seemed to be an endless supply. This time, Malcolm held her while she cried, and that made it seem better. His arms were tight, like safety straps keeping her from drowning in her grief. If she got lost in sorrow and regret, he’d yank her up and out into the light and air again.
With time the feel of him distracted her from painful memory. In the present, he was with her, and his body was so hard and hot and good. She stroked her hands over his arms and gazed at him.
“I loved that place with all my heart.” Her eyes welled one last time. “I wouldn’t take it back if it meant losing you.”
He took that in, then looked around him.
“What about this place? Can you and nature get back to your conversation here?”
She too glanced around her at the empty house, then peered through the large window onto the gentle slope of untamed earth outside.
“Can you walk?” she asked, brightening with what seemed a very good idea.
He nodded. “If I have to.”
“Will you come with me outside?”
“Of course.” She helped him to his feet and would have helped him walk except he smiled at her in a way that let her know he’d manage better on his own.
They walked outside. The air was clean, a little brisk; the sun was traveling to her left. West. She took due note. She stopped at just the spot where she would plant her roses. White ones. Pink ones. Grandifloras, troublesome and worth the effort. “Sit down.” She pointed to a shady patch of dirt, and Malcolm sat unquestioningly and waited. Dinah took her shirt off, rolled it into a ball, and handed it to him. “Use this as a pillow and lie down.” Again he gave her his compliance.
“The ancients did this,” she explained. “Had sex out in the fields before they planted crops.” She stripped out of her pants and dropped them on his lap. “Slide those underneath your butt,” she said. His eyebrows rose. “So I can fuck you without tearing up my knees.”
“Ah.” He obeyed her. She slipped out of her bra and panties, naked in the sun and air and possibility around her. She looked at Malcolm and felt almost sick with love. On the limits of what she could bear again, but it was so much nicer this time, a love as all consuming as her grief. She straddled him and kissed his mouth and then his cheek and chin. “Maybe you should get a little naked too,” she said, gazing down at him.
MALCOLM SMILED UP into her face, haloed by trees and sunlight. Her spirit had come back to her. And all was right again. Still dangerous, of course. Nothing with Earth First had been resolved. And now he was another murderous alien, along with Raj. There were battles yet to win. His adopted world would no doubt tilt more precariously before it set itself right again. But if Dinah had her spirit, if she loved and knew that she was loved, he’d face the dangers, and they’d weather anything that came their way.
“You don’t want to?”
“What?” The question startled him out of his musings. Her palm was pressing on his hardening cock, a puzzled expression on her face.
“Are you too sick?”
He smiled. Shook his head. “Come here. I want to make you wet.”
Her body seemed to melt like butter in the sun. She pressed her breasts against his chest and kissed him while he got one hand between her legs and stroked her pussy. Dinah moaned; her body rolled against him. She reared upward, and he got his cock out like she’d asked him too.
“Slowly,” he admonished.
She slid down on his shaft and shut her eyes. Beautiful. Her nipples pink and gathering, her hair wild, her eyes made brighter by the tears—a resurrected self, new and vibrant in the shimmering daylight.
“Do you feel better?” Dinah asked, melting over him again.
“Better than I ever have before.”
There was still a question in her eyes.
“What is it?” Malcolm ran his fingers slowly up her body till he touched her cheek
“Will you be happy?” she asked, glancing at the raw, unvarnished earth.
“Not will be,” he corrected. “I am happy now.”
“Now. Oh God. I’m happy too.” Again she folded over him, rocking with more urgency. He clasped her hips and surged inside her until he had her there and she was moaning, panting, tightening on his cock.
“That’s right,” he said. “Fuck me, sweetheart.”
Dinah�
�s passion flowered. She licked her fingers, put them in his mouth. “Read my mind,” she whispered.
Malcolm shook his head.
“I don’t read minds.”
“Please.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her heart, her nipples tightening at his touch.
Love. That’s what she’d wanted him to see. The depth of feeling she displayed was no more than his—raw and overwhelming, enough to take both of them down.
“Come,” he said. The movers would be with them soon. There was a full day’s work to do. And a whole lifetime to be shattered by their love.
He pushed more deeply into her, stroking her and wanting her. She let go, shaking with her orgasm, beautiful and free.
He declared the age-old words, “You and no one else. You above all else,” and spilled his seed inside her, satisfying all the ancient rites. Let them both be rooted to this place and to each other. Always.
Loose Id Titles by Iris Astres
Alien Terrain
Body Hopping
The Body House
The Safety of Nowhere
Iris Astres
A native Californian, Iris managed to misspend most of her youth in Paris, France, where she learned to parlez-vous with the best of them. Now she leads a bilingual, bi-coastal, and frequently bi-continental life saying yes to desire whenever she can.