Deaths of Jocasta (43 page)

“All right,” she answered, laughing. She pulled out and drove us to her apartment.

We were greeted by a yellow kitten rampaging about.

“Rook,” Cordelia said as the kitten went for my sneaker laces. Rook skittered away.

We looked at each other awkwardly for a minute or two, then Cordelia said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, no thanks,” I replied. “Well, maybe water.”

She went into the kitchen and got me a glass of water. I drank half of it trying to think of something to say.

“I guess I was thirsty.” I put the glass down.

Another awkward silence.

“I’m not very good at this,” Cordelia said.

“No one’s grading.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever really seduced a woman. I’ve never had a one-night stand.”

“Well, first time for everything.” I shrugged.

Again a pause.

“What do we do now?” she finally asked.

“Do you want me?” I countered, wondering at her reticence.

“That…should be obvious.”

“Then take me.”

I took off my jacket and gun and put them on a chair. Then I stood still, waiting for her to move. I realized I needed her to want me enough to come to me.

She came, standing very close, our bodies almost touching.

“Yes, I want you,” she said.

She took my face in her hands and started kissing me. I stood where I was, not yet putting my arms around her, concentrating on feeling her without worrying about my response. Her stroking my cheek, her fingers in my hair, her lips moving against mine.

Then she hesitated, waiting for me. I led one of her hands to my breast. The other one I took and pressed it slowly down my body over a breast, across my stomach until her fingers were inside my pants. Then I put my arms around her, under her shirt, feeling the broad expanse of her back and shoulders.

I felt my nipple get hard under the motion of her hand. Her other hand dipped into my pants, playing at the fringes of my hair.

“I want to take your shirt off,” she murmured.

“Please.”

She slowly pulled off my shirt, kissing my breasts as they were uncovered. I took off her shirt, then unhooked her bra and took it off.

“I like your breasts,” she said, her hands completely covering them.

“If you can find them.”

“I like your breasts,” she repeated. “A lot.”

She ran her tongue around my nipples. I didn’t argue with her taste in breasts anymore. She was unzipping my shorts. She didn’t take them off, instead running her hand inside the zipper.

I allowed it for a moment, then I shoved my cut-offs over my hips, letting them fall to the floor. I wanted to be naked. Cordelia helped me pull off my underpants. I kicked out of my shoes.

I started undoing her pants. She put her hand between my legs, a finger spreading my lips, making it hard to concentrate on getting her pants off. I managed to get them far enough down for her to step out of them.

“You’re very wet,” she said as her finger found the opening of my vagina.

I wanted to spread my legs, to open myself up to her. Putting my weight on one foot, I wrapped my other leg around her.

“In me. Please.”

She pleased me. I felt her finger slowly enter me until her palm was pressing against me. I shuddered as her finger started to move in and out.

Then her other arm gripped my waist firmly and she picked me up, shifting back slightly so my weight rested on her chest. I accepted the invitation and put my other leg around her waist, locking my feet against each other.

She carried me a few steps until my back was against a wall. With the aid of the wall, she easily held my weight.

This woman is strong, I marveled. Her thighs, I had noticed, were very muscled. And I wanted to explore them.

Then her finger started moving inside me again and I stopped thinking about what I was going to do to her. I became preoccupied with what she was doing to me. And doing. Her thumb (I think, I doubt anything else was anatomically possible) began playing with the skin just underneath my clit, pulling and rubbing it.

“Oh, yes,” I moaned, my breath becoming short and shallow.

“Should we go to bed?” Cordelia asked.

“No, I’m about to…” I trailed into inarticulateness.

The press of her body, the confinement of the wall, and the insistence of her fingers converged into one mounting pressure. I buried my head into her neck because I knew I was going to be noisy. Her fingers slipped rapidly up and back, a hot, wet press of flesh on flesh until the pressure mounted, crested, and I came in a shuddering wave.

There were red finger marks on her back where I had grabbed her. I wondered how Cordelia had managed to hold me up as I convulsed. Still embracing, Cordelia walked us over to the couch. She is strong, I thought again, as she set me down, not dropping my weight as she bent over like most people would have.

She knelt on the floor in front of me, resting her head against my stomach, my arms still around her neck.

We remained like that for several minutes while I caught my breath. I finally remembered how much I wanted to feel those thighs.

I slid off the couch, kneeling in front of her. She kissed me deeply. I responded. I wanted her. I pushed back on her shoulders, laying her down on the floor. Then I ran my hands along those wondrous thighs. Bicycle thighs. (She had one parked next to the door.)

I was on my knees, between her legs. I ran a finger through her pubic hair, then pushed on those thighs and spread her legs as wide as they would go. She was glistening and wet. I went down on her. She didn’t seem like she could stand much more suspense.

Cordelia gasped as my tongue touched her, then again as my lips pressed in, encompassing her. She jerked again as my fingers entered her.

I ran my free hand down one of Cordelia’s powerful thighs, entranced by their solid strength. Too heavy and muscled, perhaps, to be conventionally beautiful, but I reveled in them. I put my finger in her hair, wet and slick, between my spit and her juice. When it was dry, it was the same burnt umber as the dark strands of her hair.

“Micky…there,” she gasped.

I kept my mouth on the spot she requested, holding her thighs tightly as they shook.

Her body arched up and twisted back down. Several spasms shot through her, then quieted to tremors and finally only heavy breathing, her hands in my hair stopping my tongue and mouth. I softly kissed her, her swollen lips, the slick hair, then I lay my head gently on her, my cheek on the wet edge of her hair. I left my finger in her. Her thighs pressed against my shoulders, embracing me.

Finally I took my fingers out and slid up to lie beside her. She trembled slightly as I did and put her arms around me, hugging me tightly, then she abruptly let go.

“Your bruises,” she said. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“I forgot, too,” I replied. “Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s hard not to worry about you.”

She put her arms around me, carefully avoiding my bruised shoulder. We kissed softly.

“I meant to take a shower,” Cordelia said as she tasted herself on my lips.

I laughed, then replied, “You were wonderful. To me. Don’t bother with decorum when I’m eating you.”

“All right, I won’t,” she said, smiling.

I put my head on her shoulder and lay quietly in her arms, feeling the gentle rhythm of her breathing.

It was all okay, I suddenly realized. Not that the world had gone away. But here was a place where I was safe from it for a moment.

We kissed again, then she said, “I’m starving. How about you?”

I was. We agreed on pizza and she got up to phone in our order.

I stood awkwardly. I didn’t want to sit down and leave wet spots on her furniture, nor did I want to go to the bathroom and wipe off the evidence of our lovemaking so quickly.

Cordelia wasn’t as concerned. She flopped down on her couch, then patted the place next to her for me.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she said as I started to sit down. She pulled me into her lap.

“I like the way you think,” I commented as I put my arms around her shoulders.

It was comforting being in the circle of her arms. A lot of women didn’t care to touch after sex. Consummation left no room for kindness, gentle closeness. Cordelia stroked my arm, shoulder to wrist.

Danny, of all my lovers (the ones I remembered), had most liked to touch. She would hold me after we’d made love, talking quietly, sometimes giggling and teasing, other times we just lay silently in one another’s arms. It was those moments I had been most afraid of.

Cordelia kissed me on the forehead, then the cheek.

Why wasn’t I afraid of her, I wondered. But, then, hadn’t she said this was a one-night stand? Maybe that was the difference. And if it was just one night, I wanted to make the most of it.

I kissed her forcefully, taking her head between my hands, entwining my fingers in her hair.

“Micky…” she gasped, breaking off. “I have to get dressed…to open the door.”

She slid me off her lap and got up, then changing her mind, put her knee between my legs and was on top of me, kissing me fiercely.

“Oh, hell,” she said, breaking off again. “We don’t have to eat it, but I do have to answer the door.”

She started looking for her clothes. She had gotten her pants on and was still hunting for her shirt when the delivery person rang.

“Where’s my shirt?” she cried.

“Here, take mine.” I threw her my T-shirt.

“Kitchen,” she pointed, indicating that I should take my naked body in there.

I got plates and silverware while she procured our food. After the door was safely closed, I went out into the living room and put my shorts back on. I was hungry. We might as well eat while the pizza was hot. Having my shorts on would increase our chances. I couldn’t put my shirt back on since Cordelia was wearing it.

Halfway through our dinner Cordelia took it off and tossed it to me.

“Here,” she said. “Turnabout’s fair play. Now you can cover up and stare at me while I’m half naked.”

“Equality,” I answered, throwing the shirt over my shoulder. “Let’s both be half naked.”

We finished dinner that way. As I got up to clear the table, she glanced at the kitchen clock.

“How’d it get to be so late?” she asked.

“Eating took a long time.”

“I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“I know. I’m taking the clinic in the morning and I’m doing rounds at the hospital before that. I have to be there at seven.”

“Ouch.”

“So I need to take my shower and get to bed.”

“Okay. Well…” I said. I picked up my T-shirt from where I had thrown it, then went into the living room to find my shoes.

“What are you doing?” Cordelia asked.

“Getting dressed.”

“I didn’t mean you had to leave. Unless you want to,” she said.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Well…yes. I kind of thought you would.”

I nodded and kicked my shoes back off. I wanted to stay.

“Make yourself comfortable. I have to take a shower. My co-workers may not be as understanding as you are. Watch TV if you want.”

“But Cordelia,” I said, following her as she headed for the bathroom. “I am the world’s foremost expert on back washing. I think you should take advantage of my expertise.”

She grinned at me, then motioned me to follow her. I left my shorts and shirt draped across a chair. I had no intention of putting them back on tonight.

I don’t know how much back washing I did. I do know I spent a long time under the cascading water kissing her.

“You’re very good at this,” she commented as I disrupted her drying off by kissing her nipples. “Experience must count for something.”

“Yeah?” I replied, lifting my head. “What’s your excuse? Beginner’s luck? You’re more than very good.”

“You’re kind. I don’t have much of a reputation as a great lover.”

“Not yet,” I responded.

She gave a short laugh. “You are…I don’t know. I’ve slept with five different women, including you, and three men. And I’m thirty-two years old.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve slept with more men than I have.”

“Really?” She looked surprised.

“Really. I’ve had sex with one man in my entire life. If…” If I didn’t count my cousin. “If…and he was gay. We just did it for the hell of it. Ned, my friend Ned.”

She led the way to her bedroom.

“But…” she said, turning to look at me, “you led me to believe, that day in my office, that you had…”

“I…exaggerated,” I replied, abashed at my behavior that day. “I…guess I wanted to shock you.”

“Why?” she asked as she set her alarm clock.

“I’m not sure. I was angry. I think you hit a sore spot,” I fumbled.