by Shayne Ford
“You are more mature than women your age. You see through things with ease, and you run deep, and that scares the shit out of people. For the most part, not many men understand you, so you have to hide that part of you.”
My lips part in surprise.
He glances at me and registers the puzzlement in my eyes.
“Go on.”
“The picture that I took last night portrays the essence of you. If life unfolded in full splendor outside that window, you were the lonely soul watching it from the sidelines. You looked at it mesmerized. You took it in and loved it and dreamed about it, and yet you couldn’t live it. Inches away from you, it wasn’t in your grasp.”
I close my mouth.
“What do you write?” I ask after a moment.
He whips his gaze in my direction, grinning.
“Why?”
“I want to read something written by you.”
He runs a long-fingered hand through his hair, rock hard muscles shifting beneath his skin.
“I haven’t written in a while. I used to write a lot as a teenager, but I don’t think you’d like those stories.”
“I’d love to read them anyway.”
He pulls the car to a stop before he turns off the ignition and looks at me.
“Please,” I say.
“You should know me better before you read what I wrote. It was a dark time in my life, and it was captured in my writings. I don’t want to scare you off.”
Seconds tick by as I search his eyes.
“Okay,” I murmur.
“All right,” he says with a different voice. “I can’t wait to see your moves,” he adds, grabbing a camera and motioning to me to climb out.
“A camera?”
“Yes, baby. I want to take good quality snapshots of you.”
“Is this another hobby of yours?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Do you photograph people?”
“Nope. I photograph you.”
“Why me?” I ask flirtatiously.
“Because I like what I see in real life and I want to have you in my pictures.”
“What do you see?”
“A special woman.”
I look at him breathlessly.
“Let’s go,” he says, pointing at the door for the second time.
One foot on the ground and hand on the door, I glance at him over my shoulder.
“I hope you’ll find good things in me.”
“I hope that too,” he says, giving me a soft wink.
17
Christian
Central Park
They say people look good in pictures because the camera loves them. I’d say people look good in pictures if the people behind the camera love them.
Frame after frame, the woman with eyes carved out of the sea, and long obsidian hair smiles at me and my camera as she rediscovers the pleasure of gliding onto the ice.
Her cheeks are crimson like her sweater, her hair sprinkled with a few specks of snow, catching the glow of the lights gleaming around the ice rink.
She twirls for me.
“How does it look?”
“What?”
“My pirouette.”
“Good.”
“Seriously?”
I press the shutter before I lift my gaze.
“Are the pictures any good?” she says as she slides closer and comes to a short stop in front of me.
“They look good,” I say, showing her a few samples.
“You’re good at this,” she mutters, smiling and panting, her cheeks flushed.
A white mist lifts from her lips, her eyes sparkling like two gemstones.
I lift my camera again, take a step backward, and lean back a little to get a better angle before I adjust my lens and take a snapshot.
It’s a perfect close up.
She has no time to pose for me, so I capture her just the way she is. Beautiful and full of life, her heart pulsing in her eyes, her warm breath billowing in the air.
She laughs at me as I take another snapshot. I’ve never seen someone like her.
She’s like a book with a pretty cover that catches your eye.
She’s smart and fun and sexy, just like the cover. You read the first lines of the book, and something grabs you. And then you read a little more, and you’re immersed in a different world.
As she twirls on ice, surrounded by the swirling flurries, flashbacks from the night we met, come back to me.
I never thought that someone like her would find her way to me, stir my curiosity, and tempt me to read the first chapters of her book.
I take a few more pictures.
As I study her and her photos, I see no trace of the woman I found in her office–– proper and a bit stiff. Or the nervous temptress who had a rendezvous with a male escort, not knowing what she was getting herself into.
That was a cry for help if I’ve ever seen one.
I’m surprised, no man has read her before. She is so easy to figure out.
Why? Because I see her transformation.
All it took for her to come into herself were a few moments of attention, and here she is spinning on ice, without a care in the world.
She forgot about her high octane career, the fact that she didn’t get laid in a while and the boring suitors who were dragging her toward an even more boring life.
Luckily, she is here with me–– a collector’s item.
And she wants to be mine. And like a real collector, I want to enjoy her, bit by bit, without rushing or letting anything steer her away from her true nature.
Eve.
The first woman.
My first story.
“Why don’t you want to skate with me?”
“I will, but not today.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask, motioning to the snack bar.
She closes the space between us, slides her hands onto the wood border that separates us, her lips curving into a smile.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask, grinning.
Her eyelids flutter for a moment, her face beaming with sheer joy.
“The way you said a cup of tea. It sounded so British.”
I bite my lip.
“It did, didn’t it?” I ask, smirking.
“Uh-huh.”
Her gloved hand curls around my forearm in a tender gesture.
“Let’s say that I am a well-traveled guy,” I say, drinking in her eyes.
She melts.
“What other languages do you speak?” she asks.
I study her for a moment.
Sparkling with light, they harbor a smile.
“Portuguese... Italian.”
More fire comes to her eyes.
“Say something to me.”
“Why?”
The corners of her lips turn up into a playful smile.
“Because your voice is so sexy.”
“Are you trying to flatter me so that you can get what you want?”
She nods.
“Yes, I am. But it’s also the truth. Did you learn to speak other languages because of your work?”
The meaning of her words escapes me completely.
I look at her puzzled.
“The female clientele?”
“Oh. That... No. It has nothing to do with them. I grew up in a multilingual family, so I had to learn.
She leans forward a little, her hands slowly kneading my forearms.
“Say it for me, Christian. I want to hear it.”
She’s only inches away from me–– her face tipped up, her eyes holding mine, her smile sleepy on her lips.
Her breath is so warm, it turns into little clouds of mist.
She smells like winter–– not the falling snow but the fire wrapped around the logs.
“Say it... Please.”
I part my lips. Her eyes dip.
“Eu te amo linda mulher,” I say softly, my gaze on her face as I read her reaction.
Her smile fades away,
her eyelids slowly sliding down as she stares at my lips.
“What does that mean?” she asks quietly as if she knows exactly what it means.
“I love you, beautiful woman,” I say, surprise and pleasure pouring into her eyes.
***
Eve
His words still echo in my ears, vibrating in the sultriest, most sensual voice I’ve ever heard.
For a moment, I stare at the edge of his teeth scraping his bottom lip before he gives me a lazy smile.
Elbows propped against the border, he looks at me, his stare making my pulse surge.
Slowly, he slides his fingers into my hair as I push up on my blades, and wind my arms around his neck.
Our lips touch.
So, so tenderly.
Flesh on flesh, fire on fire, softness on softness. I feel his warmth and scent–– a mix of mint, exotic spices, and sandalwood.
His mouth captures mine in a slow, sensual kiss that envelopes me and captivates me. It feels as if a door opens between us, and he invites me in.
Inside him.
His world.
His mind.
His body.
I hop higher on the tip of my blades to get more contact with him, his grip on me hardening as well.
This is the most sexual kiss I’ve ever experienced, and yet our tongues barely touch. As our bodies heat up, we breathe shallower.
His lips break away from mine, yet we keep kissing, his lips trailing the corner of my mouth, my cheek, and jawline. My lips do just the same, leaving a trail of passionate kisses.
The moment he peels the scarf away from my neck and presses his lips on the small patch of skin below my jawline, my whole body gets swept by an electric current.
His fingers dig deep into my neck as if he tries to hold himself back.
He finally leaves a small kiss on my lips, and straightens his back, his hand leaving my neck.
“Tea, you said,” his breath warm and rushed, blowing clouds of white mist in the air.
Grinning, he takes a step backward.
My blades land flat on the ice.
“Yes...” I say, breathing fast too. “ With honey and cream.”
He grins.
“A girl of my taste.”
With that, he pivots and walks away while I stare at his back all the way to the snack bar.
“You two should get a room,” a female voice resonates not far from me.
I turn around.
“Oh. Hi, Stephanie.”
My eyes fall on my co-worker’s skates.
“I didn’t know you were into skating,” I say.
The woman who works in the Human Resources Department and is a few years older than me points at my skates as well.
“I didn’t know you were either.”
“I used to skate a lot in high school. I grew up in Colorado. You?”
“I come here regularly. It helps me clear my mind.”
She points in the direction of the snack bar.
“Who is he?”
“A friend of mine.”
“He’s handsome. A good kisser too.”
The heat of a blush rolls on my cheeks.
“He is interesting,” I say, downplaying everything.
“Would you like to skate with me?” she asks.
I glance in Christian’s direction.
“Until he comes back.”
“Yeah... Okay.”
We start sliding onto the ice, joining the other skaters, quiet for a few good minutes.
“So how did you two meet?”
I look at her.
“By chance.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hired him to, um... To redecorate my place. That’s how we got to know each other.”
“That’s great. I want to redecorate my studio too. If it’s not too much, can you ask him if he’d like another client?” she asks seriously.
“Sure,” I say as we stop at the point where we started off.
“All right. Thank you so much,” she says before she gives me a quick hug.
I wave her goodbye and watch her glide away.
As if that is going to happen.
“Hey.”
I spin around.
Christian hands me my cup of tea. I wrap my fingers around my drink.
“Who was that?” he asks.
“Someone from work.”
“What happened?” he asks, noticing the slight change in my voice.
I take a sip of tea, relishing the heat traveling down my throat.
“She asked me how we met,” I say.
He breathes out a sexy chuckle.
“What did you say?”
“That you are an interior designer, and I hired you to help me decorate my place.”
“Hmmm. Really?”
“Yeah... And then she said that she needed someone like you for her studio.”
His eyes glint with mischief.
“What exactly did she have in mind?’
“Decorating her place. What do you have in mind?”
Curling his lips into a crooked smile, he props his elbows against the wooden brim.
“Are you jealous?” he asks quietly.
“Mmm-hmm,” I mutter as my lips meet the rim of my cup.
“If you are so jealous... How do you feel about my ‘day job’?”
“I hate it. If I had a say, I wouldn’t want you to do that,” I say, setting the cup down.
A secret smile creeps on his lips.
“What would you like me to do for a living instead?”
“Anything but that.”
His eyebrows push up, in surprise.
“Seriously?”
“Mmm-hmm. Anything that doesn’t involve other women.”
“And if you don’t have a say?”
I feel crushed inside.
“I don’t want to think about it.”
He shoots me a questioning look, studying me for a moment.
“What would you like me to do for a living... If you had a say?” I ask.
He laughs.
“There’s nothing wrong with your work, but if I had a say... I’d like you to do me.”
I push back a smile. I have a feeling it spilled on my face.
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m very serious,” he says with a flirtatious voice.
“You want me to do ‘you’ for a living?”
“The sentence lacks finesses, so I’ll rephrase it.”
He leans closer to me, cuffs the back my neck, brings his lips to my ear and murmurs, “I want you to live for me.”
His voice courses through me like a snake of fire.
He tilts his head up, his hand still on me.
“That’s a lot to ask,” I say with a trembling voice.
“I have a lot to offer,” he mutters, his eyes on my lips.
“You have to prove it to me.”
“I will. If you give me a chance.”
He slants his gaze again to my mouth, his bottom lip rolled beneath his teeth.
“I think, I’m done skating,” I murmur distracted.
“Me, too... Taking pictures of you.”
He stretches a playful smile before he speaks again.
“Let’s find a place to eat.”
18
EVE
We find a nice French restaurant with cozy tables and live music, not far from my place and his hotel.
It’s Friday evening, and the place is packed.
“Would you mind if we order takeout?” I ask as the hostess greets us.
“Not at all,” he says, swinging his gaze over the crowd.
Within moments, we place the order–– grilled fish and salads. He pays for the food and tells the woman where he wants our food delivered.
I slide my hand onto his forearm.
“Can we go to my place?”
His eyes linger on my face for a second.
“Sure.”
He talks to the hostess for a few more
moments before he takes my hand and walks me out of the restaurant.
We stop to pick up a bottle of wine, fruit, and a tray of cheese from a gourmet store not far from my place.
Back on the street, I look at him.
“There’s a bakery around the block. We can get something sweet. My treat,” I say.
He doesn’t comment or let me pay a few minutes later when we fill a box with small lemon curd tarts, topped with whipped cream and drizzled with blueberry sauce.
“Wait,” he says to the woman behind the counter as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket ready to pay. “Pack a Tarta de Santiago for us as well.”
“Sure.”
The woman slides a tart covered with powder sugar into another box, the aroma of almonds, vanilla and lemon zest drifting through the air.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Almond cake. A traditional dessert recipe from Galicia, the northwest area of Spain. It’s good. You’re gonna like it.”
“You seem to know everything about me.”
He chuckles amused.
“Trust me.”
We spend a few more moments in the small bakery before we step out and face the cold weather again.
He checks his phone.
“The food will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
We have plenty of time to get to my place, find a parking spot, enter the building, and take the elevator up.
I slide the key into the lock, shift it, and open the door. I turn on the lights and invite him in.
He takes a few steps in.
I close the door behind us, kick off my boots, and shed my jacket and my sweater.
“Let me take this.”
I scoop up the dessert boxes when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” he says, turning around and taking his winter jacket off as well before he heads to the door.
I hear him talking with the delivery guy before he retrieves cash from his pocket and tips the man.
He takes the food, closes the door, and walks my way.
“We can eat in the living room,” I suggest.
“Kitchen is good,” he says, walking in and setting the brown bags on the table.
He nears the cupboard, swings the door open, and looks on the shelves.
Within moments, he produces a couple of plates, glasses, and napkins–– cutlery from a drawer.
He sets the table before I have the chance to put the lemon curd tarts in the fridge.
“You are very good at this,” I say watching him move with ease.