‘Yes,’ she pleads.
‘Stop ruining your new hair.’ Jeanne’s laughing command is choked, the sound of it bitten off. Her left hand works quickly, pushing and pulling on the brush with rough momentum. She licks the fingers of her right and rubs them with equal speed across the shiny swell of her clit.
It feels so good to have the thick length inside her … all Jeanne.
This time her orgasm is effortless; it flows over her, leaving her instantly limp.
‘Oh, oh,’ she hears Jeanne groaning in sympathy. ‘Take more –’
She lets her body go, giving it all up to her. Her eyes open again to find Jeanne looking somewhere between satisfied and starving.
‘You were right,’ Lila says when she’s breathing evenly again. She lowers her shaky feet to the ground and urges Jeanne up into her lap. She grins at the other woman, holding her tightly. ‘You did know exactly what to do with me. How is that?’
‘We gingers need to stick together.’ Jeanne’s hair is dishevelled, as devil-red as her swollen lips.
Lila explores her own hair. It feels good. Light and immediately comfortable. ‘So … how often will I need a cut and, ah, blow?’
‘Often.’ Jeanne’s cat’s eyes gleam. ‘High-maintenance, that style.’
‘Good,’ Lila tells her, because it’s very good. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
I met her at a party. She was … lovely, so perfect, like one of those cakes with butter crème icing so lush and pretty that you want to dip your finger in for a taste, but the tip of your finger hovers just above it because you don’t want to mar its beauty. She had that look: confident, chin high, eyes cool, untouchable. Made me want to touch her all the more. Long smooth legs, I wanted to stroke them. I wondered if she was strictly straight, or if she might be more adventurous.
I liked the way she moved, the delicate bend of her wrist, the way she shrugged and tilted her head when she laughed. Although nearly model-thin, she was easily a C cup and her ass was peach-ripe; made drool gather in my mouth and my teeth clench. I’d watched as she made her way around the room once before finding a spot to rest. Her café con leche skin was just a shade deeper than the pale olive most Americans attribute to Latinas, and her hair was a mass of dark, loose curls that fell to the middle of her back.
The night was a purple sky, stars, and a sweep of skyscrapers that framed her as she leaned into the right side of the nearly floor-to-ceiling window casing. Her dress, a slip of raw rose-coloured silk, barely covered the necessities. When she occasionally shifted from one leg to the other, the slippery fabric dipped into the crevice the movement created between her legs. A neglected spaghetti strap slid down her arm as she raised a tall frosty glass to her lips.
She’d hardly paused before they’d begun paying homage. I stood on the other side of the room sipping a beer and watching her hold court. Men and women stopped before her, smiling and offering eager conversation, their eyes wide, faces animated. Her face remained unaffected: a nod, a word, a brief shake of her head. Rejection. They moved on. I imagined she saw me, looked at me from across the room. Her eyes assessing, probing, measuring my worth. I smiled. She didn’t.
A man approached her. He wore a dark, very nice Hugo Boss, and a haircut that allowed a swatch to fall over his eye in just the right way. He leaned against the wall, towering over her. He spoke to her, but he didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. She said something that made him stop and look down at her, long. Then, smiling, he turned his back to her, but he didn’t move away as his eyes scanned the crowd again. He spoke again as though addressing air before turning back to her. Extending a large slow hand, he touched the hem of her dress. Finally, the tips of his broad fingers touched her inner thigh and slid slowly up up up until his wrist was suspended just under the slip of rose silk, his hand completely hidden. She didn’t move. I held my breath. I could feel my nipples straining against the fabric of my blouse. After what seemed minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, he pulled his hand away, brought his fingers to his nose and breathed in her scent. He leaned in and whispered something into her ear, his mouth pressed to the dark curls that fell around her neck. She shook her head, and he straightened, returned to his post on the wall near her. The fabric of his expensive suit fell flawlessly back into place as did the bored look on his aristocratic face, but he didn’t move on.
The heat rose in my groin and, although I held myself still, I couldn’t help squirming a bit as I leaned against the wall on my side of the room. The man in the Hugo Boss pulled his phone out of an inside pocket and called someone. He spoke quickly, still scanning the room. He turned to her again. She listened for a moment and nodded. He held his hand out to her and she took it. I watched as they crossed the room, he acting as navigator and she floating close behind as they waded through the crowd. I sipped my beer. As they drew nearer, I dropped my eyes, not wanting her to see me gawking. Her feet were smooth, a lean line that ended in a slanted plane of glistening crimson-blush-coloured toenails and strappy spiked heels. They were so near I could smell her perfume, something soft and clean like spring. I breathed her in. She stopped, the sway of the crowd pressing her closer.
‘Come along.’ Her voice was a breath of something distant like mangoes, citrus and a breeze off the Atlantic.
I looked up and she was there in front of me, all dark eyes and sweet breath aimed at me. My lower lip dropped before I could catch it. Another moment passed before I snapped my mouth shut. She nodded and took my hand. I followed.
* * *
The Hugo Boss guy, who I later found out was a stockbroker named Adam Cruz, took us back to his place, a good-sized apartment off Central Park. She was Lira Sands, a model. Up close, when I could see her eyes, I remembered her from a Max Factor eyeshadow campaign a couple of years ago. There had been a very memorable billboard in which she’d worn a veil over her mouth and all you could see was a pair of haunting hazel eyes. The eyes were just as spectacular up close.
Adam poured drinks, wine for Lira, another beer for me, and what appeared to be Scotch neat for himself. Drinks in hand we followed him over to a huge, richly upholstered play pit. He sank onto one of the thickly cushioned units, sprawling with his back to the incredible view of the Park below as Lira slid in next to him. I sat across from the two where I could enjoy the view. Adam pointed a remote control at a series of panels on the wall and jazz, something interwoven with muted horns and an occasional Mingus bass, deep and throaty, began to play. After about twenty minutes, there was a knock at the door and he came back with what must have been a couple of ounces of coke. This was apparently why she’d come because the smile that she beamed up at Adam was large and genuine when he sat down next to her and began to prepare the lines.
He handed the sheet of clear plastic with its rows of white lines and the tightly rolled twenty-dollar bill to her and the lines disappeared. She pinched her nose, swiped at it a bit and smiled over at me. I smiled back, I think. Adam and I did a few lines while she took her little beaded bag to the bathroom. When she came back, she sat between Adam and me. She had already slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders; they hung just beneath her arms. She pushed the dress down, pressing it beneath her breasts so that the rose-coloured silk framed the succulent cream-coloured globes. A slight movement and they bounced free of their confinement. They were buoyant and eager, the tips tight and brown. The neck of my beer bottle halted, poised on my lower lip waiting. She had my attention. Leaning forward, she trailed a finger down a line of white powder, rubbed the finger over her nipples, and turned towards me.
I put the bottle down and lowered