A Veil of Glass and Rain (16 page)

steam.

“You want me,” I tell him.

“Always.”

Eagan's soapy hands knead my breasts, then

he gently rolls my nipples between his

fingertips.

I whimper and move my hips restlessly,

seeking his touch. The ache is unbearable.

I cover his hands with mine. “I can't. I have

nothing else to give.”

“I know. You look exhausted. You were

amazing tonight. I want to be your groupie for

the rest of my life,” he murmurs.

I laugh softly. “Good. I need you. You're the

only one I trust with my soul.”

Eagan cups my breasts in his palms, even as

he bends down to brush a kiss across my

forehead.

“Tomorrow I'm taking you out on a date.

Tomorrow night I'm yours, and you're mine,”

he promises.

My lips part and water pools inside my

mouth. Eagan fits his lips to mine and drinks

from me. I close my eyes, as our tongues

tangle and taste.

My tired body sways, but I'm not worried,

for if I fall, I know he will catch me.

We spend the night wrapped around each

other. When sleep separates our bodies, we

wake up and reach for one another across the

darkness.

Tomorrow our limbs will be achy and

stiffened.

We don't mind.

Rome is my home and I take it for granted.

Everyday its beauty is a precious background

for my life.

Walking across the city with Eagan,

witnessing the awe that each monument paints

on his handsome face, makes me stare at my

home with more attentive eyes.

Our day begins at
Piazza della Repubblica
,

then we walk down
Via Nazionale
, we take a

little detour to see
Piazza del Quirinale
, and

then back down
Via XX Novembre
, until we

reach
Piazza Venezia
. Ancient and new

buildings are bathed in blinding sunlight, but

we don't wear shades, for their nuances must

be savored with bare eyes.

We take our lunch-break sitting on a stone

bench that faces the
Altare della Patria
, a

huge and imposing white monument, which we

both consider quiet ugly, in agreement with

the Romans; they call it “the typing machine”,

because of its peculiar shape.

We had a quick breakfast, and Eagan didn't

notice my nonexistent appetite. At least I hope

he didn't.

While we consider the commanding

monument with critical eyes, sitting on the

bench and guarded by a few pine trees, Eagan

seems thoughtful.

After a while he unpacks the sandwiches we

prepared together before leaving the house.

Then he feeds me. I don't protest, for I enjoy

licking his fingers and looking at his eyes, as

they turn smoky and intense. I enjoy the rush

of sensual heat gathering in my core. I enjoy

how my taste buds suddenly come alive.

After each bite, Eagan grips the back of my

neck and leans toward me to stroke his tongue

across my lips. When I moan and open my

mouth, however, he pulls away. I groan in

protest and his eyes glitter mischievously in

response.

Later, we walk down
Via dei Fori Imperiali.

The long road roughly cuts the Roman Imperial

Forums in two; Benito Mussolini, the dictator,

designed it. It was meant to be his expensive

catwalk, to parade and celebrate his army.

Now it's a busy street that connects
Piazza

Venezia
to the
Colosseum.
As we stroll, I force

myself to forget about that despicable

architect that created it and I concentrate on

the art surrounding me. Wherever I turn, I

glimpse a glorious past; even if it's scattered

amidst the remains of buildings and columns,

that resemble stone limbs of broken soldiers.

As we amble, our hands clasped, I think

about the email I should have sent to professor

Tessitori and about the deadline I've missed.

Then I come to a decision. I don't want to go to

Berlin, not now that I have Eagan back in my

life. I will find a simple subject for my final

paper, something that doesn't need the

supervision of a fancy professor, who teaches

in Berlin.

I squeeze Eagan's fingers to capture his

attention. Then I tell him about my choice. His

reaction doesn't really surprise me. He wants

me to go, of course, because it's a great

opportunity, and because Berlin is vital and

vibrant. And it is not far. He will fly to me

every weekend. Our relationship is strong. I

don't have to worry.

I smile. I nod. I pretend to agree with him.

We scribble the email for professor Tessitori

on his phone; we tell her that I'm planning to

write about Italian films in the time of the two

World Wars. It's still a wide topic, yet it's

better than complete silence. But it's Eagan's

idea, not mine. While he talks and creates, all

I do is repeat, “Yes, Eagan.” The moment we

send the email, hurt burns a path from my

chest down to my stomach.

I try to ignore the pain. I hold on to Eagan

and I focus on the pleasures awaiting me.

As the door closes behind us, we reach for one

another. Our lips touch and melt, our tongues

tangle, our hands stroke and fondle.

Darkness envelops us and amplifies our

sounds of pleasure, along with the swishing of

our clothed bodies, grazing and shifting in a

sort of maddening dance.

Lust is our music.

We toe off our snickers, we unzip, we strip,

until we find naked and warm skin, then we

groan with relief.

We stumble against tables, chairs and my

luggage, but our frenzied limbs barely mind.

When we reach the bathroom, we are

naked. And then everything ceases.

Eagan brushes tender kisses across my face,

then he moves away from me to switch on the

light. For a long moment I float in a sort of

confused haze, my skin still vibrating. The

sound of sloshing water drags me back to

reality.

I stare at Eagan as he pours my lemon-

scented body-wash and then his cinnamon-

scented one into the bathtub; firm muscles

rippling, thick and veined shaft, heavy

testicles. He's aroused. And he's magnificent. I

steady myself against the cool tiles. Our

mingled fragrances rise in a steamy cloud from

the tub and invade the bathroom, regardless

my skin is cold. I link my arms around my

middle and I shiver.

Eagan notices and wraps me in his embrace.

“It's almost ready,” he says.

His erection twitches against my belly.

“I really admire your self-control,” I

mumble.

He chuckles and nuzzles my hair. “Life must

be savored, not rushed.”

He turns off the faucet and helps me step

into the hot water, then he follows and sits

behind me; his body and his strong legs cradle

me, as I lie back and rest my head against his

shoulder. My long tresses float around me like

wisps of dark smoke.

For a while we just let our limbs ease into

the scented heat. Then Eagan's hands cup my

breasts and squeeze them gently. I whimper

and writhe, but I don't close my eyes, for I'm

mesmerized by the image of my breasts

surrounded by soft foam and his strong hands.

Eagan teases my puckered nipples with the

pad of his thumbs until I cry out his name.

Then he traces the line of my jaw with his lips

and tongue, soothing my senses for a brief

moment.

He doesn't let my arousal fade, though, for

his right hand leaves my chest to caress my

navel and then my mound.

“Open for me,” he whispers, as he nibbles

at my earlobe.

I drape my legs over his, and he murmurs his

approval against the delicate shell of my ear.

His fingers delve into my intimate folds and

stroke my clitoris. My hips rock greedily. My

bucking creates soapy waves around us.

“Come,” he demands, as he pinches my

swollen nub of flesh between forefinger and

thumb.

My wail reverberates off the walls.

I let go.

Eagan folds a fluffy, yellow towel around our

wet bodies. We embrace and rock gently. I

float on a cloud that smells of cinnamon.

Then Eagan seizes the back of my neck and

tilts my face upward to receive his kiss. His

lips stroke tenderly across mine at first, then

his tongue probes and seeks entrance, and the

kiss turns more demanding.

I need to touch him and feel his muscles

shudder under my hands, but Eagan has other

plans. Once again, he breaks our kiss and he

steps away from me.

The towel slides to the floor. Eagan grasps

my shoulders and turns my trembling body

toward the sink.

“Brace yourself. I want to taste you.” His

voice is a husky rumble.

With urgent motions, he nudges my legs

apart with his knee, then he chafes his shaft

along my mound and groans my name.

I grip the sink and bow my head, letting my

hair fall over; it creates a silky curtain around

my face. I stare at the white porcelain, feeling

suddenly shy.

Eagan nuzzles my nape. He presses his body

against my back and curls his arms around my

waist.

“I love you, Brina. You smell like lemon and

pine trees. And your skin is as soft as flower

petals,” he rasps out.

I smile, remembering his phone-call; he was

really trying to seduce me, it wasn't just my

wistful imagination. I glance up at my

reflection and I picture myself as a flower with

white and inky petals, dotted with raindrops

after a storm. Eagan's strong arms wrapped

around me, are like ropy branches of a tree,

shielding me from the elements.

I have to close my eyes once more, for the

pleasure Eagan is bestowing upon my senses is

overwhelming. He kisses and tongues his way

down my spine. My back arches and my lips

part in a silent cry.

Then Eagan's body shifts. I force my eyes to

open and I turn slightly. He's kneeling behind

me and he's brushing his hands along my

behind. He kneads my cheeks, then he parts

them delicately. When his tongue soothes over

my small entrance, my limbs tense.

Our eyes meet and hold.

“Trust me, kitty-cat.” His warm breath

gusts along the roused skin.

He whispers kisses across the small of my

back until my muscles relax. My gaze returns

to the white porcelain of the sink..

Then, once again, Eagan's tongue touches

the responsive rosette; I feel it swell and

tingle. It's a dark and unexpected sort of

pleasure. My body squirms and my inner

muscles spasm around nothing. My clitoris

throbs painfully. I grip the edge of the sink

with such force, that my fingers hurt.

Within the silent walls of the bathroom,

Eagan's mouth produces sweet, suckling noises

that mingle with my mewls. Our joined sounds,

along with the scent of arousal, push my desire

higher still.

“Eagan. Please.” My voice is a desperate

moan.

Eagan slides his hands up and down my legs.

His caresses both calm me and arouse me.

All of a sudden, he pushes one, then two

fingers inside me from behind, grazing a

sensitive and secret spot over and over again.

He ignites a rush of pleasure so strong, that it

robs me of all my endurance.

I fall. He catches me.

We stumble and fall onto the king-sized bed in

a tangle of limbs, kissing, fondling, grinding.

Eagan rolls on top of me and cups my face in

his palms. He stares down at me with smoky

eyes and an expression filled with desire and

tenderness, but also sadness.

“What is it?” I breathe.

My skin is still humming with lust. I rub my

groin against his penis and I tremble when I

feel his erection pulse.

“Stop,” he says.

I obey, reluctantly. “Eagan?”

“Are you back on the pill?”

I exhale in relief, for I begin to understand

his behavior.

“Yes.”

“Good. I need to feel you all over me,” he

murmurs.

He brushes a reverent kiss across my lips,

then he rests his forehead against mine. Our