Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

by Giuliana Sica

  “Will I get the honor to take a look also?” I uncorked the Cabernet in a few practiced moves.

  “You’d like to see my work?” Gabe handed me two wine goblets and I poured.

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t think you’d have the time to bother with it.”

  I shrugged. “I might not have much time left but seeing where you work is something I’d like to do before I go back.” I raised my glass to toast his.

  “Cheers.”

  “Salute.” I leaned forward to touch his glass with mine.

  “That’s almost like ‘salut’ in French.” He sipped his wine.

  “Just add an e at the end to get the Italian version.”

  He peered at the ruby liquid and swirled it in his glass. “I have no clue if this is a good wine or not, or why it would be selected to win a prize.”

  “Do you like what it tastes like?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like the flavors it leaves in your mouth after you swallow it?”

  “What sort of question is that, Porzia?” he asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

  “A wine question, Gabe,” I replied, keeping a straight face.

  “I guess it’s not bad. It’s as if my mouth has been coated with something woodsy and earthy.”

  “I guess you’ve got your answer right there.”

  “You mean it’s as simple as that? Just a matter of personal taste?”

  “To make it easy, yes; it’s just like most things in life.”

  “You got that roight.” He set his glass down, reached for containers in the fridge, and began dinner preparations.

  We worked hand in glove, Gabe orchestrating by the stove while I set the table and refilled our glasses. By the time dinner was ready, a warm, relaxing blush lingered on my cheeks. I needed food. The steaks sizzled on the hot grill, smelling delicious. Gabe had roasted potatoes; the inviting aroma of rosemary and sage diffused through the kitchen. A colorful salad of spring vegetables waited to be dressed in an orange and ginger vinaigrette. Soft music played in the background from a hidden stereo.

  With a little effort and a pinch of pleasure, a cooking experience often turns into one of the most intimate moments a man and woman might share. The brushing of fingers when cooking tools change hands; a juicy morsel of fruit fed with teasing fingers; hips colliding in the restricted space; arms reaching; eyes locking behind raised glasses while sipping wine; kisses exchanged over mouthwatering scents and tickling aromas—these are all essential ingredients to a perfect foreplay recipe.

  We laughed and joked throughout dinner. He asked about my writing. I told him about leaving home after having won a full scholarship in journalism to a renowned college in the States and how I went back to Europe for culinary and sommelier schools during my summer breaks. I shared with him my passion for wine and gourmet cuisine, the challenge of making a career by believing in and living that passion through writing, my decision to move to Florida, never once regretting it. I got quiet for a moment, thinking about my choices and what had motivated me. He sensed my mood and held my hand, giving me the time to find a melancholy smile.

  He talked about his first car and how he melted the engine racing toward the sunset, surrounded by endless desert dunes, a reminder that we are only grains of sand against the bigger picture. He laughed as I repeated Aboriginal words he tried to teach me. I fed him a cherry tomato, our eyes locked, and I wished for time to stop right then and there.

  Gabe had grilled scrumptious steaks. He told me how years earlier, while racing in Northern Africa, a friend had shared his Japanese family’s marinade recipe with him as they talked the night away next to a warm fire with a bottle of sake under a blanket of stars.

  After dinner, he suggested I pour the rest of the Cabernet in our glasses and move to the living room.

  “I’ll clear the table and meet you there. It won’t take long.”

  “I could help,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No worries. You’re my guest. Go ahead and get comfortable. I’ll get a fire going as soon as I’m done here.” He shooed me out of the kitchen.

  Above the fireplace hung a picture of Gabe on a pristine tropical beach next to a huge fuzzy bird and a golden retriever. The dog had deep chocolate eyes, massive wet paws, and sported a blue bandanna tied around its neck. The bird felt strangely familiar and was staring at me, perched on a lower branch of a gorgeous tree, its talons twice the size of the dog’s paws. Gabe’s hair was the color of pale, sun-kissed straw in September. His body glowed with a deep tan, and his left arm held a spear. He looked like a native god.

  “That’s me up in the Northern Territory, and the bird is a Dhamala, that’s what the locals call it. It’s a white-breasted sea eagle.”

  “That’s a pretty big bird, Gabe,” I said, repeating the word Dhamala under my breath.

  “Actually, this one wasn’t quite mature yet.” He patted the sofa cushion for me to sit and crouched in front of the fireplace to start a fire. I sank in the surprisingly soft cushion and managed not to spill my wine.

  “That day, I went for a walk on the beach you see in the photo. It’s a beautiful beach with casuarina trees overhanging it. I was walking along with my dog, Tess, and carrying my ‘garra’ and ‘galpu,’ the first being an Aboriginal spear and the second a spear-thrower I took in case I saw fish. I was about fifty metres along the beach when I saw the sea eagle sitting in a lower tree branch, watching me. I whistled to it, calling it the local name, Dhamala. I set my camera on a piece of driftwood and rushed to stand as close as I dared to the bird to take the photo. Then I started walking away. Next thing I knew, she had spread her wings, tried to take off in flight, and tumbled at my feet. Right beside Tess and me. Hurt, but with no fear at all.

  “I could see she had a damaged wing, so without really thinking, I bent down and picked up this huge eagle and carried it, squawking and clutching me with its talons, back to my four-wheel drive where I found my first aid kit and tried to assess the damage. That’s when I realized she was horribly injured. Her left wing was just about to snap. I brought her back to the casuarina tree I had found her in and cowardly left her there.” He cast me a painful look. “I didn’t have the heart to—kill her.”

  “I continued walking along the beach, hoping to spear a fish to give her to eat and caught her hopping painfully. She followed us, struggling on her talons as we walked along. But I had no luck. I didn’t see any fish. When I got to the creek at the other end of the beach I gathered some shellfish called Pointy Bums. I put my spear and spear-thrower down on the sand and started shelling them to feed the eagle. She watched me with bored disinterest, and although I told her it was food for her and the best I could do, she wasn’t impressed. Instead, she picked up my garra in her claws and hopped away. She spread her wings trying to take flight, and that’s when her damaged one snapped broken.

  “So now I’m running back down the beach, yelling at this bloody Dhamala to give me back my garra, when I froze and stared into her wretched eyes.” Gabe shook his head.

  “It must have looked completely insane. I knew she’d taken the garra to show me. To put her out of her misery, Porzia.

  “I struggled with her eyes for a while. It was quite a fight. Tess kept barking encouragements to me, but every time she got too close to the eagle she’d bounce backward and run away, tail between her legs. From a safe distance she’d resume her barking until I finally freed my garra. I begged the Dhamala for forgiveness and . . .”

  A crackling fire now glowed in the fireplace.

  Gabe stood. “That’s the end of the story. I have some scars to remember her by and a couple of feathers.” He sank next to me on the couch. “Deng Ming-Dao says that ‘upon completion comes fulfillment, with fulfillment comes liberation’.”

  I offered him my glass. I hoped I’d never have to face such a task. �
�So—the Dhamala had fulfilled whatever task she’d been born for?”

  He shook his head and accepted my glass. “It was the first step I took to learn a lesson. Liberation allows one to go on. Even death is not a true ending.” Once again, he changed the subject abruptly. “Do you have any sisters? Or brothers?”

  “A younger brother, Alexander,” I told him. “And you?”

  “None, I’m an only child. Sole heir to a greeting card empire.” He looked dead serious.

  I cracked up.

  He leaned over and kissed me. “I love your laughter.”

  The laughter died in my throat. I couldn’t help it. He had this incredibly intense effect on me. He made me want to peel the world off my shoulders, to burn Prudence and her god-fearing siblings in the fire of the ancient goddess reawakening within me.

  I looked at him and caught glimpses of my own heat rising, reflecting in the deep blue of his eyes. He took my left hand in his and brought my fingers up to his lips to nibble at my thumb. Watching my reaction, his mouth, teeth, and tongue worked around my nail and . . . lower, down the sensitive curve between thumb and index finger and the inside of my palm. The slow dance of the tip of his tongue pulsing against my skin absolutely fascinated me. A surging tide of heat rose in me like madness, trying to burst my seams. My dry lips begged for moisture. I raised my eyes and met his. He was watching me with such intensity his eyes had shifted to a darker degree of liquid storm, reflecting the flames dancing wildly in the fireplace behind me. He took the tip of my index finger in his mouth and worked his teeth around it, biting. His hand, darker and stronger, held mine, lighter and thinner. His sensuous mouth worked every single one of my fingers, melting reason and resistance one teasing bite at a time. I watched through glazed eyes. He paused and turned to set my wine glass on the coffee table. Smiling just enough for me to catch a quick glimpse of teeth, he leaned back on the soft cushions and pulled me down with him. I hesitated and braced myself. His hands slid slowly across my back, caressed my hips, melting me, molding me against his legs. I felt the roughness of his jeans through the soft suede of my trousers and lifted myself up with my hands on his strong chest. Mistaking my move for retreat, he quickly blocked my legs against his, moved his left hand to the nape of my neck, and drew my face to his. Unleashed need spilled from his eyes, and I sank in it, willingly surrendering.

  I felt his breath on my mouth. “We stop whenever you want, luv, but not yet,” he whispered, kissing me. “Not yet . . .”

  I raked my hands through his thick hair, parting my lips to welcome his teasing. His tongue ran along my lower lip, searching, exploring, tasting. His right hand found the bare skin of my waist, and I moaned against his mouth, helpless against the surging pleasure my body yearned toward. Giving in to the pressure of his fingers, I arched my back and felt him hard against my thighs. His hands found the round swelling of my hips and pressed. I plunged over the edge, crazy to know I had stirred such desire in him and met it with mine. I pulled his hair with my hand, turning his head, exposing his neck. I trailed soft kisses all the way to his right ear. With the tip of my tongue, I traced the shape of his ear; his fingers sank into the round softness of my butt.

  My teeth found his earlobe. “I love the way your skin tastes,” I murmured in a breath. Oddio, I was melting between my legs. The shadow of a pleased smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head and kissed me. My right hand blindly inched down his waist, my fingers twisted cotton, pulling, tugging his T-shirt clear of his jeans until the ripples of his taut stomach flexed beneath my fingers. He responded, shifting us on the sofa. With his hands guiding my hips, he leaned me against the pillows. With a lithe push, he got up to add more wood to the fireplace’s scorching embers. Through a sexually infused fog, I watched him; his shirt untucked, his hair a tousled mess, his scent an irresistible spell. Without a word, he sat back on the sofa, lifted my feet on his lap, and took my boots off. His shirt followed, and I bit my lips, fighting the urge to lean forward and dig my nails along his chest. In the firelight his skin flexed like smooth ancient gold. His arms were strong and chiseled with fine honey-colored hair combing the dark tan of his skin. He sealed the distance between us by sliding on top of me. I couldn’t resist anymore and trailed a hand along the sculpture of his chest; from his navel, my fingers traced a thin path of dewy hair that disappeared below his belt. He brushed a lock of hair off my face.

  “Stay the night, luv.” He held my gaze from behind dark lashes. “I just want to sleep with you in my arms again.” He lowered his mouth to my forehead and lust bled into tenderness. The fire had warmed his skin to the point it released an intoxicating blend of male power and animal energy I found irresistible. I thought about spending hours licking every inch of his body, feeding off his scent.

  Insidious rising mist dissolved reality.

  His knee parted my legs, his mouth kissed, nibbled, sucked the pulsing vein at the base of my throat, making me forget what surrounded us. His strong hands reached behind my back, cupped my thighs, and squeezed me against him. His mouth found the plunging neckline of my lace shirt; his teeth pulled, exposing the curve of my breast. I tilted my head back and inhaled the hot scent our tangled bodies exuded. His left hand found my waist once again and, slowly moving up my burning skin, unfastened the trail of pearly buttons, exposing my navel to his warm breath. I sank into the soft cushions, a captive of sensation as his tongue ran along the edge of my bra. His hands brushed the thin straps down my arms. My body became a tangle of violin chords; liquid melodies begged silently for release. The budding tips of my breasts ached with exasperated anticipation.

  “Gabe, please—,” I whispered, pulling his head, parting my legs under the pressure of his. I felt moistness spilling, wetting me.

  “Please what, luv?” he asked, unfastening my bra in one expert snap of fingers. He cupped my breasts in his hands and rubbed the hardening tips with his thumbs, sending pure pleasure shocks coursing down my spine. My hidden button began throbbing between the wetness of my inner lips; the first pulses of climax lapped, drummed between my legs.

  “Please don’t—stop—,” I begged. Oh! My body tensed, inching slowly through his skilled touch. I became hot honey in his hands, a slave addicted to the pleasure his mouth inflicted on my body. A tide of lust swept through me, drowned me, possessed me, and I sank, surrendering. Not for one single instant did I doubt the power of the feelings washing over me.

  “Tell me what you want—”

  “Kiss me—,” I moaned, an instant before he lowered his mouth to replace his thumb. Sucking and biting me, he teased until pleasure became ache, and the ache became an agony of emptiness, and I wished him deep inside me as a spasm of ecstasy shook my entire being.

  He lifted his head, slid on top of me, and kissed my throbbing mouth. I ran my fingertips along his back, feeling the sinuous strength of his muscles tapering at the waist. I felt his belt.

  I opened my eyes and met his about to melt into liquid silver. He reached for my throat. My speeding pulse barely veiled by transparent skin beckoned his fingers; his right hand traced the base of my collarbone. “You’ve got this bloody power over me. It’s almost absurd.” Yearning choked his voice.

  “Yeah? Well that makes two of us,” I whispered, running my hand through his hair. “I love your hair, Gabe.” A multitude of golden highlights spilled through my fingertips.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, worried.

  “No,” I laughed. “I’m everything but cold.”

  “That you are.” He leaned on his right elbow.

  “About spending the night—,” I began.

  He put a finger to my mouth. “No worries. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  I felt his pang of disappointment pierce my own core.

  I surprised myself by whispering against his finger, “I was going to say that I don’t have my jammies with me and if I could borrow yours . . .” />
  His wicked smile interrupted my rambling. “I have no clue what these jammies are, but if it means you’re staying, hell, you can have my firstborn son.”

  “At the rate things are going, Gabe, I just might.” I lifted myself up, laughing.

  I called the Jourdains and spoke to a sleepy Nicolas, who mumbled a drowsy “no worries” and hung up the phone on me.

  I sat the phone down and noticed Gabe busy rekindling the dying fire. I took a moment to observe him from a distance and wondered if it was such a good idea to stay the night. Never before in my life had I moved so quickly into a relationship, but with him I crossed the river, barely brushing the stepping stones, finding my feet confident and sure on each pause in the crossing, neither wondering how I got there nor worrying how I would get to the next one. You’re learning to live in the present, a whisper told me. It faded in the moment as Gabe got up and caught me gazing at him.

  “What’s the matter, luv?” he asked softly.

  “I just had one of those timeless moments—,” I told him, refocusing my eyes. How am I going to know? Are you Xavier or not? I need a sign! I yelled silently, but continued on with words, “The moment after the blow, when time dissolves but we know the pain will flare any given instant now. One of those times when you’re afraid if it lasts a second longer you might end up trapped in the wastelands forever. But it might not be so bad there after all, if all you’ve got to look forward to—is pain.”

  “Yes, I’ve been there.” His response penetrated my entire being. I couldn’t believe he understood.

  CHAPTER 12

  I told Gabe that “jammies” were slang for pajamas. He answered with a puzzled look that made me believe his indigenous bunch slept au naturel. He offered me a makeshift camisole from a loud selection of T-shirts touting his off-road business. I turned them down. I couldn’t imagine the sort of dreams one might conjure slipping into Morpheus’s embrace wearing such abysmal fashion statements. I finally settled for one of his plain white T-shirts. I brushed my hair and rinsed my face of any trace of makeup and slipped the T-shirt on. I took my trousers off and was thankful the shirt reached below my hips. Sort of a way-too-late chaste behavior, considering how I had responded to him earlier, I blushed. I folded my clothes into a neat pile and, holding the bundle against my chest, walked barefoot on the plush rugs back to the bedroom. My shadows danced a wild gypsy reel as I crossed the room in the flickering light.