The Colors of Love

by Grant, Vanessa

  The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of red over the harbor. On the water, a sailboat floated, motionless, its sail slack, blood-red from the sun.

  "We could go to my place," he said. When she turned her head, he couldn't stop himself reaching to touch the smooth pale curve of her cheek.

  "No," she breathed. "Not tonight. I need—can we go slowly?"

  "Yes, I think we should." He took her arm and felt flesh under his fingers, wondered how he could touch without taking, kiss without drowning. He stepped down onto the pavement. "Let's drive."

  "Yes." She sounded muted, as if she'd moved away from him in her mind.

  He pulled her around to see her eyes, her mouth. "A drive along the ocean shore, and then I'll take you home."

  Her smile flashed and was gone.

  Suddenly his heart was pounding hard and he had to force himself to walk slowly, not to hurry her as they crossed the parking lot to his car.

  Slow. It was exactly what he'd planned, but in the dark intimacy of his car he could hear her breath, shallow, disturbed, as if she felt the same turbulence that had thrown him off balance. Of course they should go slowly.

  He sorted through his CDs, rejected the moody music for something lighter, hoping the notes would seep into him and ease the pressure against his chest.

  Perhaps they did, or perhaps it was the beauty of the sunset that lingered as he drove north. She didn't speak. Whenever he glanced at her, he saw her head leaned back against the headrest, her eyes staring forward through the window. She was silent, and her breathing softened with each mile.

  He should do this more often, get in the car and just drive, chase the sunset along the water's edge. Jamila's silent presence created warmth in his mind, and he wondered how she would paint the two of them together, driving north in silence.

  On impulse, he signaled and turned into a small side road leading to the water's edge. As the car slowed, the pavement gave way to uneven, hard-packed earth. The road forked near the water's edge. To the left, a gravel drive swept past a large Victorian-style house placed to give every room an ocean view. Alex took the right fork, pulling into a small ragged parking lot.

  He parked, got out of the car, and opened the door for Jamila. She stood slowly, rising into the curve of his arm, her bare upper arm brushing his jacket.

  "Are you cold?"

  She shook her head.

  They walked hand in hand over uneven ground toward the water. Driving, he hadn't seen the moon that hung low over the water in the southwest, but now it dominated the sky. Harvest moon, bigger than real, bathing the world in pearly light.

  They needed no words. When she shivered, he turned her into his arms and held her gently while he studied the moonlight on her face, the dark mystery of her shadowed eyes, the deep invitation of her lips.

  "I'm going to kiss you."

  Her lips parted at his words, and her tongue touched moisture to her bottom lip. He brushed her cheek with the side of his index finger. Soft, satin skin. "I'm telling you because you said you wanted to go slowly, but when I kiss you..."

  He drew in her scent, spread his hand open on her back, each finger touching the naked warmth of her flesh. She shifted, lifted her mouth, touched.

  His mouth settled onto hers, lips savoring in slow motion. He drew her closer, gently, carefully, because now it seemed that she must be fragile, spun glass in his hands.

  He expected madness, the driving hunger he'd experienced previously in her arms. Instead, the world stopped. The woman in his arms trembled, and he drew back, needing her eyes, finding them dark and filled with a woman's secrets.

  "What do you want?" he asked. He felt dizzy, disoriented, standing on the edge of a cliff that dropped off into unknown dangers. "Tell me what you want."

  Her lips parted and he saw her throat flex as she swallowed. "I want you to make love to me."

  "Now?" he asked, needing certainty. Just under the surface of his calm, lust waited, willing him to set it free, to ravish and possess. He feared that once started, he might not be able to stop. "Here?"

  Her hands trembled as they framed his face. He felt the pulse in his jaw beat against her fingers. "Here," she said, "in the moonlight, at Evensong House."

  "Evensong House?" he echoed.

  He felt something tear as she left his arms. "It's a hotel, that old house on the point. I stayed here last year." Her voice sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. "I thought—"

  "Yes," he said, and reached for her hand.

  He led her toward the hotel, rather than back to his car. He knew it would have been sensible to move his car to the Victorian hotel's parking lot, at the very least to lock the car before he walked away from it. But he feared that climbing into the car, shutting doors, moving out of her touch would somehow destroy the connection, that it would shatter and he'd be alone, watching her walk away.

  Somewhere, deep inside, he knew his fear was a danger signal, that he should escape this woman before he lost himself. He gripped her hand harder and forced himself to walk slowly over the uneven ground, to fight the need to pull her faster, to run toward the welcoming lights shining from the windows of Evensong House.

  On the edge of the drive, he stopped. As if driven by the same impulse, she turned to him.

  Fear, he thought, the kind of fear he hadn't felt since he was a sixteen-year-old kid, trembling as he slid his palm inside Wendy Usher's sweater.

  "You're sure?" he asked, knowing he could no more walk away from this woman than he could stop breathing.

  Her hand tightened on his. "Let's go in," she said, a whisper that sounded no more confident than his own thoughts.

  * * *

  Warm, fragrant air swept over Jamie when Alex opened the door to Evensong House. She stepped inside and was immediately drawn to the log fire burning in the stone fireplace.

  Sometime in the last year, the management had replaced the aging brocade sofa and easy chair with two sofas wearing a bright colonial print. She stepped past the empty sofas to the fire, reaching her hands toward the warmth.

  Twenty-eight years old, and she stood with her back to the registration desk, her heart beating because she was afraid to walk up to the desk with Alex. Afraid the elderly woman who'd taken her registration last year would stare at her, asking why they wanted a room, why they had no luggage. Would know the answers.

  When Jamie heard voices, she forced herself to turn and look. This desk clerk was Jamie's age, a stranger, not the motherly woman who had taken Jamie's registration last year, asking questions about Jamie's being an artist, asking if she intended to paint the hotel.

  How on earth should a woman behave in this situation? Should she walk up to Alex and take his arm, or remain here, waiting for him to turn away from the registration desk?

  This was the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. She should be up there offering her own credit card to split the hotel bill.

  Alex would love that, she thought with an inner laugh. A very conventional man, he opened doors for her and generally behaved as if being female meant she wasn't capable of making her own decisions. Next time, she decided, next time she would produce her credit card for the clerk.

  Tonight, she needed all her energy just to get through this.

  He probably believed she'd had other lovers, that she knew what to do. She'd read books, of course, and she'd watched movies. She knew there would probably be pain, but that it should be brief, and probably not unbearable. She didn't think she was afraid of the natural pain of losing her virginity, but—would he expect her to undress when they got to the room? Should she take her own clothes off, or would he? Could she undress herself with him watching?

  She shivered and jerked her head back to the fire.

  "...a double," she heard Alex's voice say clearly.

  She clasped her hands together and stared at the flames licking the big log in the fireplace. She should have done this before, but she had never wanted to make love with a man before
—oh, she'd fantasized making love with some theoretical man, but the real ones had all seemed less interesting than her paintings and her dreams.

  Until Alex.

  She hadn't realized that when the time came, now that she ached to be with Alex, she'd wish for confidence and experience.

  Something touched her shoulder. She gasped.

  "Sorry I startled you. Shall we go upstairs?"

  Turning slowly, she found his face as quietly calm as his voice. "Yes," she said, "of course," surprised to hear steadiness in her own voice. She tried a smile and it seemed to work because he smiled back. Was this his automatic smile? Bedside manner?

  Oh, lord! Bedside manner! She choked on a wild urge to laugh.

  She would pretend this was a painting, herself a woman in oils... a woman who had just entered a country hotel, planning to go to bed with the doctor.

  "Which way?" Are we upstairs, or downstairs?"

  Alex's eyes narrowed and he gestured to the stairs beside the registration desk.

  She decided that the Jamie in her painting would not reach for Alexander's hand. She would walk ahead of him up the stairs. The only problem was, three steps up, she became abruptly conscious of her own body's movements, aware that he was behind her, watching.

  You're only an image on canvas, she told herself, and finished climbing the stairs in a rush. At the top, she had no idea which way to turn, so was forced to wait for him.

  Had she actually run up those stairs? What on earth could he think?

  "Are you okay?"

  "Of course," she replied brightly.

  He gestured to the left and she walked beside him, her heart hammering with each step. In his arms, she'd felt passion surge up, hunger sweeping over doubts and hesitation. Here, in the hotel corridor, she felt no passion, no hunger, nothing but awkwardness and embarrassment.

  A man and a woman in a hotel corridor, painted in colors of apprehension. Greens and yellows, she decided, with the rose flush of desire caressing faces and hands.

  Alex unlocked the door to a room, opened it, and turned to let her enter.

  "Your mother trained you to have good manners. All that opening doors and ladies first stuff."

  "My Aunt Stella."

  "Does Aunt Stella live in Seattle?"

  "San Francisco." He closed the door behind her and she heard the bolt snap home.

  "Do you see her much?" She threw the question back as she walked past the massive bed to the window where heavy drapes stood open to the moonlight. She slid the patio door open and stepped onto the balcony. The bed was safely behind her now, out of sight. "I didn't have a balcony when I was here last year."

  "Alone? Were you here alone?"

  She turned and leaned back against the balcony rail. "I'm—I didn't know I'd be so nervous. I—you look so serious, all frowns and shadows."

  He stepped closer and his face came alive in moonlight, eyes intense, lips unsmiling. He took her hand and closed both his around it, his thumb pressed to her inner wrist. "What is it that you expect to happen? What frightens you?"

  "It's—I'm not frightened, just—" She tried a laugh, but it didn't come off. "I've never done this before."

  "You've never been to a hotel with a man?"

  "Not that—never had sex before."

  His hands jerked. "You're a virgin?"

  "I've been busy, and—well, I haven't wanted to. A little, maybe, once or twice, but not so much that—I don't know. I just haven't! I wasn't going to tell you."

  She saw his throat flex as he swallowed. "It's all right. You—I didn't expect it, that's all." He brushed his lips to her forehead. "We'll take it easy, Jamie, as slow as you want."

  She turned her face and found his lips only inches from hers. "That's the first time you've called me Jamie."

  "Why don't I get us a drink, see about some music."

  She wanted to follow him when he stepped inside, told herself to snap out of it, to relax. It was easier when he touched her—not easier to relax, but easier to forget the awkwardness, to feel that she was with him. Without his touch, the gulf between them seemed endless. When the soft moody music begin to play, she wondered if there'd been a stereo in her room last year. She didn't know, couldn't remember. There had been television, of course, but radio?

  On the water, moonlight streaked jaggedly toward them. She heard Alex behind her, but didn't turn to face him. "Do you remember the other night we went out to dinner, when you kissed me before you went home?"

  "I remember." His low voice came from close behind her.

  "I wish we'd made love that night."

  His hand brushed her shoulder. "Let's dance, Jamie... Jamila."

  She turned and he took her loosely in his arms.

  "Just dance," he murmured as they began to move. "Don't worry about the rest." His hand touched lightly on her back, guiding her.

  She moved in his arms, staring at the water, at the way moonbeams shifted with the music, with each step they took. She ached for Alex to touch her, to really touch her, to smooth her restless clothes away and satisfy the ache that wouldn't let her be still.

  When he turned, her eyes found the dark shadow of the waiting bed. She wanted to tell him to kiss her now, and then carry her to that deep blue quilt and strip every barrier away. She wanted to stare deeply into his eyes, touch his face, draw his head down, and lose herself in his hard sensual mouth.

  She wanted... yet only her legs could move, matching his dance steps. How could she want so much, yet feel so paralyzed?

  "I love your hair," he murmured, his fingers threading through the curls.

  "I..."

  "Hush," he said softly. "Close your eyes."

  She felt his lips press gently on her eyelids, his hands moving in her hair, and she stood, immobile, waiting. Her hair brushed over her shoulders, her back. On her scalp, it felt as if each hair responded to his touch as he softly massaged her temples. Then lightly, so lightly, he brushed a kiss on her lips, left her mouth parted and empty when he stopped. He drew her closer then, moving them with the music, their feet moving slowly, so slowly, to soft lover's notes.

  His shoulder was here, right here, the hard curve welcoming her head as she turned her face into it. Then she was tangled somehow... arms... body parts... until she realized that her arms needed to reach up, to allow her hands to rest against his shoulders, to explore the short curling hair at the back of his neck.

  He shifted and they danced more intimately, her leg slipping between his as they moved. She turned her head, lips brushing his throat, breathing his scent.

  "I'm dizzy," she whispered.

  "I won't let you fall," he breathed back. His hand slid over the sensitive flesh of her upper back and into her hair. She felt her head arch back into the cradle of his palm. Staring up, up into his face, his brows drawn together, eyes dark mysteries as they gazed down at her.

  I love you. The words welled up inside her, filled her, and left her breathless.

  "I want to kiss you," he said soberly.

  She stared at his lips; warm, tingling fantasies of his mouth playing on the edges of her consciousness... dizzy, falling-into-Alex sensations of her mouth opening, her blood pulsing, the world spinning away.

  Now, please.

  Her eyelids grew heavy and she let vision go, allowing herself to feel only the strong cradle of his fingers under her hair, the involuntary arching of her own body as her head pressed back against his hand, her mouth reaching, opening.

  She felt, heard the low sound in her throat as his lips settled so slowly onto hers. Her mouth opened, inviting him deeper, but he concentrated on her lips, brushing his mouth over the sensitive skin, nipping her bottom lip gently with his teeth. She was aching, pulsing, hungry, couldn't stop the sound of frustration in her throat.

  "Let go, Jamila."

  She didn't know what he meant, yet somewhere inside, a tight spring suddenly released and she felt her lips grow passive under his, felt sensation multiply in the slow caress
of her mouth.

  She'd never known a kiss could be so slow and so hot all at once, hadn't realized sensation could flow outward from her mouth, filling every part of her body with sweet, heavy lethargy. How could she feel his kiss there, in her fingers, and there, deep in the pit of her stomach?

  Her lips began to move, sliding out of lethargy with their own energy, possessing now the full tautness of his lower lip, now the inside of his upper lip with wondrous small touches from her tongue. Strength drained even as sensation built, her head falling back, his lips tasting her jaw, his hot mouth on her throat; her deep, slow pulse waking against his lips.

  Slow, so slow she would die... stretching her body under his lips, twisting to taste, to feel his flesh with her mouth. Madness, sweet slow madness. His mouth sought deeper against her throat; then they met, open and seeking, his tongue tangled with hers deep inside.

  Something snapped and the drugging lethargy ignited into desperation, and then she was twisting in his arms, his hands hauling her hard against him, her hands clenched in his hair.

  "Slow," he said raggedly, holding her immobile for his kiss. "I meant it to be slow." He groaned, burying his mouth in hers so deeply that she convulsed and shuddered in his arms.

  She floated deep in his kiss, dizzy with the sensation of his arms lifting her, carrying her... then softness, sinking down, his face above hers... reaching up, wrapping her arms around his neck and feeling his length against her as their mouths found each other again. His hand covered her breast and sensation shot through her body.

  "Jamila?"

  She couldn't speak, but the sound she made must have told him, because he caressed her shoulders, gentle now. Throbbing breath tangled in her throat until he found a way to free her of the fabric and the air went out of her lungs in a dizzying moan when he found her naked breasts.

  "I didn't know," she moaned, and the heat burned slow as she lost contact with anything related to time. The world became his mouth on her breast, his hands shaping, touching, caressing her body. She heard her own sounds and madness pulsed in her veins.

  He pleasured her, drawing deep purple sensations as he kissed the full underside of her breast, deepening to blazing red when his mouth found the aching nipple, then hot blue when his lips lightly traced the line of her hip.