Her Body of Work

by Marie Donovan

  Five minutes later he laid paper towels in the sink and plugged in the clippers he’d found in a closet. He flicked on the switch, the raspy hum reverberating off the tiny bathroom’s tile walls. He stared at his reflection and ran the clipper right down the middle of his head. No turning back with only an inch of hair left. He made quick work of the rest of his curls, shaving his head like a penitent about to ask forgiveness for his sins.

  A familiar face stared at him. This was the Marco Flores he really knew. The Marco who had never helped ship drugs into his adopted country. The Marco who had never held a man down while thugs beat him. The Marco who had never witnessed the murder of a drug rival and had been powerless to stop it for risk of blowing his cover.

  With most of his hair lying in the sink, his head felt lighter, but his heart grew heavy. He was about to leave the only woman he had ever loved without knowing when he would be back. But he knew one thing. If he had breath in his body, he would return to her.

  REY LET OUT A CURSE AS her German-steel paring knife got stuck in a mango for the third time. What kind of huge pit did that fruit have anyway? The buzzer sounded, and she wiped her hands on a linen dish towel before pressing the button. “Yes?”

  “Rey, it’s me.” It was Marco.

  “I’ll be right there.” She jumped from the kitchen bar stool, eager to see him.

  She yanked the door open and closed it behind him. “Are you all right?” She anxiously examined what she could see of him. Now she understood why he’d always covered his entire face outdoors, even on relatively mild days.

  “I’m fine.” He shed his scarf, coat and sunglasses, leaving his hat for last.

  When he finally pulled it off, a sick pain shot through her stomach. “My God. What did you do?”

  “My hair?” He gave her a sheepish look. A sheep shorn to within an inch of its life.

  “Yes, your hair!” His beautiful black curls were gone. The inch-long stubble was slicked back with some gel, outlining the perfect oval shape of his skull.

  “I needed a change.” His voice was uncompromising. “I couldn’t stand that long hair anymore.”

  Rey realized he wasn’t a professional model, but she never thought he would cut his hair like a Marine going into boot camp. “I’m just glad I finished the sketches of your head.”

  He looked surprised. “I’m sorry, Reina. I never thought of that.” He came closer. “Did I ruin it for you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I have just a few sketches of your arms and legs left.” She ran her hand over his scalp. “But oh, your beautiful hair.”

  “If you like my hair longer, I can grow it. But no more Shirley Temple ringlets.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Mmm. You smell sweet and juicy.”

  Rey’s knees almost buckled as he sucked her index finger into his mouth and circled his tongue around it. He steadied her and moved his tongue to her middle finger. He released her finger. “Delicious. Do you have any more juicy, succulent fruit for me to suck on?”

  Her breasts grew heavy and warm, her nipples pressing painfully against her lacy bra. “I’m fixing some mangoes for after dinner, but they’re ruining my good knife.” She walked into the kitchen to get the fruit pulp off her hands before she smeared it all over him.

  “Mangoes?” He pronounced it the Spanish way—mahn-goes. “I didn’t know you liked mangoes.”

  “I’ve never had them before. Do you like mangoes?” She displayed the two unmangled mangoes for his inspection.

  “Of course.” He covered her hands with his. “Especially the plump ones that overflow your palms. The flesh is firm but resilient when you squeeze it.”

  Rey withdrew her hands and set the fruit on the counter. “You must be quite the connoisseur.”

  “Most Cuban men love mangoes—practically from birth. What else did you buy?”

  “Some little red bananas and some larger bananas that had yellow peels but were too tough to eat.”

  He looked at the bowl of fruit. “Those are plantains. You need to fry them first to soften them.”

  “Oh.”

  He hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. It was nice of you to buy this.”

  “I also bought a papaya.”

  “Papaya?” A naughty gleam sparked in his eyes. “Now that is my favorite.”

  She looked at him. He must be more homesick than she thought. Or maybe he was vitamin C deficient.

  “Here, let me finish slicing those for you,” he offered, hefting the knife. “Good balance.” He tossed the knife end-over-end above his head, blade flashing.

  Rey shrieked.

  He caught the knife handle neatly and peeled a mango. “What?”

  “What are you trying to do, cut off your fingers?” Her heart was pounding out of her chest. She’d never seen him be so reckless before, as if he didn’t care what happened to him.

  “Now why would I do that? My fingers have very important work to do first.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled away, self-conscious of the splotches of fruit pulp covering her rumpled white shirt.

  “Don’t go, Reina. I promise not to throw knives anymore.”

  “No, I’ll let you finish slicing the fruit while I change. Besides, where did you learn to throw knives? Secret-agent school?” She tried to make a joke.

  “Defending myself from Miami cockroaches. Those cucarachas grow as big as grapefruits.”

  Rey shuddered. “No, seriously.”

  His expression darkened briefly and then he smiled at her with some effort. “I am serious.” He cut the mango into cubes and separated them off the big flat seed. “Miami can be a very dangerous city.”

  After his revelations the past few days she understood that very well.

  He speared a cube of mango with the knife tip and ate it off the blade, scooping the fruit into a cobalt-blue stoneware bowl. “Now go change your clothes before I strip them off you right here in the kitchen.” He rinsed the much-vaunted papaya with her brushed-nickel sink sprayer.

  Rey slipped into her bedroom and stared unseeing into her closet. His haircut had emphasized a different side of his personality, one that she had glimpsed when he’d manhandled Stefan and when he’d rushed her into hiding at the salsa club.

  Pulling off her top and jeans, she frowned. The fruit juice had soaked through her white cotton shirt, sticking her bra to her breasts. She unhooked the clasp and peeled the white satin from her skin, rummaging through her low-slung pale maple dresser for a clean bra. She picked up a black lace demicup bra and admired the effect in the mirror above her dresser. Looking good in dark colors was probably the only advantage of having skin the color of a Norwegian cod’s belly.

  “Knock, knock.” Rey’s gaze flew to the mirror. Marco stood behind her in the open doorway.

  “I didn’t hear you.” She felt strangely vulnerable, exposed back and front by the mirror. Her nipples hardened under his intense gaze and scraped against the black lace.

  He set a tray on her nightstand and came up behind her. “You don’t need this.” He plucked the bra out of her hands and tossed it aside.

  Her breasts hung free for a brief moment until he covered them with his hands. His fingers plucked at her nipples, twanging sensations to her wet center.

  She leaned on his hard chest, letting his hands mold and cup her breasts, her greedy flesh overflowing his palms. His wet mouth nipped hungrily at her neck, and she wiggled her bottom against his swelling cock.

  “Open your eyes,” he commanded. She dragged her lids open, staring hazily at their entwined reflection. “You remind me of a beach in the Florida Keys, deserted except for the birds and dolphins. See how blue your eyes become when I touch you, like the sky above. Your hair is soft and golden like the sand. And here—” he ran a finger across the silk of her panties “—is the sea, warm, wet and salty.”

  She widened her stance, allowing him access to her throbbing center. He released her breasts and scooped her into his arms, setting her on the soft goose-d
own duvet.

  The plump coverlet cradled her body. She reached for Marco to pull him down next to her, but he sat at the edge of the bed. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Not for food.”

  “Oh, you’ll be full when I finish.”

  She shivered, imagining how he could fill her.

  “Lie down, Rey.” He kicked off his Italian-leather loafers and turned to sit cross-legged on the bed. He ignored the erection tenting the zipper of his khakis and reached for a cloth-covered plate. “I brought you some mango.”

  She propped herself on her elbows and he slipped a pale orange cube of fruit into her mouth. “Mmm, that’s good.” It tasted exotic and fresh.

  He selected another piece of mango and brushed it over her lips. She licked a drop of nectar, but he didn’t let her eat the mango. Instead he rubbed it over her chin and traced it along the column of her neck. His hot tongue lapped the juice that pooled at the hollow of her throat.

  “Did I ever tell you why Cuban men love mangoes?” He had a devilish look on his face.

  “Don’t Cuban women?”

  He smiled slyly. “Mangoes are Cuban slang for breasts.” Rey’s gasp of outrage turned into a gasp of a different kind as he slid another cube of mango over her breast and swirled it around her turgid nipple.

  “You men. Are breasts all you think about?” It was difficult to manufacture indignation when the slick fruit was sending jolts of pleasure from her nipples to her pulsing cleft.

  “Why not? You don’t seem to mind my attentions.” A sweet, exotic scent filled her bedroom as he crushed the mango in his palm. Juice oozed between his fingers and she watched the peach-colored rivulets run over her throbbing pink nipples and the pale skin of her breasts. He opened his hand and spread the pulp over her left breast. Rey arched as his wet, sticky hand slipped over her hot skin. He bent his head and nipped her breast with his teeth, making her squeal. He lifted his head and licked his lips.

  “Mangoes are ripe and juicy like your breasts. Tender flesh that I can nibble on.” He squeezed another fistful of mango cubes and smeared them over her other breast. He rubbed his open mouth over her skin, sipping the fruit juice. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and fastened his mouth over one of her pulp-strewn nipples. Rey moaned as his clever tongue swirled around her areola, licking her clean. He spread more crushed pulp on the aching tip and nibbled at her with his teeth. She squirmed frantically, trying to get him to touch the needy ache between her thighs, but he ignored her pleas and moved his teasing mouth to her other nipple, sucking and lapping at her swollen flesh.

  He sat on his heels and she gasped in protest as his mouth left her breasts. Heedless of his sticky hands, he yanked the silk crewneck sweater over his head, exposing his tight pecs and lean abs. Although she’d photographed and sketched every inch of him, she still grew weak at the sight of his chest, lightly sprinkled with black hair. His erection was even larger, bulging against the front of his pants. She tried to reach for his belt buckle, heedless of anything but freeing his cock to plunge deep inside her aching center.

  “I told you to lie down.” His tone was stern, but his touch was gentle as he pushed her onto the pillows. He grabbed two big linen napkins off the tray, and she thought he would wipe the mango off her breasts. Instead he rolled them into long cylinders and looped them around her wrists.

  Was he doing what she thought he was doing? “Marco, I don’t have any fruit on my arms.”

  He tugged one wrist up and tied it to the headboard. “Marco!” She tugged at the knot, trying to ignore the fresh flush of desire as he tied up her other wrist. She lay flat, her vulnerable breasts tipped up and swinging free. “Don’t you want me to touch you?”

  “No. I haven’t finished eating your mangoes.” He lowered himself on top of her and rubbed his chest against her breasts, up and down, side to side. Her sticky nipples caught and rasped against the crisp black hair sprinkling his pecs.

  He nuzzled the undersides of her breasts and dipped his tongue in the hollow under her sternum. He traced a line down to her belly button and dipped his tongue in. “Yum. Sweet.” She scooted her body higher on her bed, trying to get his mouth on top of her throbbing core. Her tiny thong panties were unbearably tight, her swollen lower folds and clitoris pressing against the black lace. He rubbed his long finger against her seam, circling briefly around the knot of nerves at the top.

  He raised his head and grinned. “I’m still hungry.” He stood up off the bed.

  Rey cursed a particularly vile Swedish epithet and kicked at him.

  “I don’t understand what you said, but I got the gist of it.” He pulled two more napkins off the tray. Rey watched him warily. Her breasts were still sticky, and she thought he had other plans rather than wiping her off.

  He grabbed one ankle and tied it to the foot of her bed. Rey twisted and tried to kick at him with her other foot, but she got no leverage and he ducked her easily, fastening her other ankle to the other bedpost. “And this is the thanks I get for slaving away in a hot kitchen to fix you a snack.”

  “You’re the only one eating anything.”

  He leered at her. “And aren’t you lucky?”

  Rey squirmed but she couldn’t get free. “Untie me, Marco. I’ve never done this before.” She’d had a few weird bondage offers from people on the fringe element of the art scene but had always refused them.

  His fruit-sweetened breath scorched her cheek. “I think you like being tied up, Reina.”

  A hot flush rose from her bare, sticky breasts all the way to her tousled hair, and she looked away from his knowing glance.

  “You always have the position of power with men, not only in your artwork but because you’re so beautiful.”

  “I don’t think I’m that beautiful.”

  “Rey, querida, you almost made me come when I first auditioned for you. Always looking, never touching. God, you must have had nerves of steel.”

  “No, I could hardly keep myself from kneeling down and licking you,” she admitted, the memory bringing a rush through her overheated body.

  He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “You’re trying to drive me crazy, but I won’t let you. Not yet. Now it’s time for me to drive you crazy.”

  It was really sexy being spread wide open, the cool air swirling around her exposed thighs and teasing her hot cleft. She wiggled her hips, the thong riding deep into her dripping folds. It didn’t help. She needed him to touch her.

  He stretched out one muscular arm to grab another plate of sliced fruit.

  “Is that more mango?” Rey tugged on her linen bonds, but she was trussed like a Swedish Christmas goose. She stifled a laugh. Mother had insisted on giving her the table linens, saying Rey’s reliance on paper napkins was tacky. At least Marco couldn’t have tied her up with paper napkins.

  “No. This is papaya. Another Cuban favorite.” He held a slice of papaya to her lips and she took a bite. The soft fruit smashed on her tongue, bathing it with exotic juices.

  “That’s delicious. Now untie me and take off your pants.”

  He stood and loosened his slim black leather belt. As he undid his zipper, the hot bulge of his erection pushed against the straining waistband of his briefs. “I’ll untie you but not yet. I haven’t even made you come screaming my name.” Rey’s stomach jumped half from nerves and half from excitement. What would it be like to be totally vulnerable to this darker, more dangerous Marco, to let him do whatever he wanted to her while she couldn’t touch him?

  He took her silence for acquiescence and ate a slice of papaya. “Delicious.” He licked each one of his long fingers, sucking the juice off every fingertip. “Have you ever seen what a papaya looks like on the inside, Reina?”

  “No, I’ve never opened one.”

  “Most women haven’t. You’re lucky I’m here to take care of your papaya, Rey. Cuban men are the best in the world.” He picked up a papaya half, pear-shaped but a tiny bit bigger. The narrow neck of its glistening
rosy-orange flesh was divided in two by its core, opening into an oval hollow below.

  Rey stared at his wicked grin. “Oh, my God. Papaya is some sort of slang for…for…” Her voice trailed off as she searched for words.

  “Want some?” he offered. “It’s really juicy and sweet.” He held the papaya to his face and licked the center of the fruit, his eyes never leaving hers.

  She felt that lick as if his tongue had been on her instead of the fruit. Moisture trickled between her thighs like the papaya juice dripping down Marco’s chin. She squirmed to ease the pressure between her legs, but her ankles were spread too far apart. She still wasn’t sure about been tied up, so she took refuge in sarcasm. “What is it with Cuban men and fruit? Do you get a boner shopping in the produce department?”

  “No fruit is as sweet as you, Reina. I’d rather eat your papaya.”

  He laid the half papaya on the plate and chose a slice. “But I think the combination would be very tasty.” He knelt between her widespread legs and pulled aside her thong, murmuring in Spanish.

  “What did you say?” It was hard for her to breathe, watching him gaze at her innermost secrets.

  “You have a beautiful papaya, mi amor.”

  She gasped as he traced her folds with the slice of fruit, painting her liberally with its juice. All of the blood in her body had flowed to her center, swelling and throbbing there while she got dizzy and light-headed. Up and down, back and forth, he slid the papaya around her sex, coming close to her aching bud but never touching it. Rey tossed her head on her luxurious nest of pillows, the heat and pressure building. He finally rubbed the fruit on her clitoris, causing her hips to thrust wildly against his hand.

  He groaned and tossed the fruit away. Rey heard it splat against the hardwood floor but didn’t care.

  “Let me taste your sweetness, querida.” With a sharp tug he snapped the black lace pressing against her clit and shoved the fabric away. He dipped his newly shorn black head, the short hair rasping against the tender skin of her thighs. The heat of his tongue scorched the pulsing knot of nerves and she screamed his name.