A taste of Summer

 

The sky falling slowly in the late afternoon, in the distant a train bell sounds at a crossing warning pedestrians, closer to home a bird calls. It's nearly dusk. Day is almost ended. Rebecca can hear tell-tale, heavy footfalls coming up the path. He walks in an oil skin jacket. Today it is too hot, thought it sits across his broad shoulders as though it was born there; nailed to him. The leather is dark and worn. His blue faded shirt is tucked in at the waist, into jeans, too dark with dirt and a history of being favoured and worn.

Patrick opens the gate for the first time in a long time, savoring the sound as it swings and creaks, cast iron embellishment moving uneasily. It's nothing that a bit of WD 40 couldn't fix but nobody's done it and perhaps it sounds better that way. At the door, he takes off his droving hat, rakes a hard, calloused hand through his hair and his unruly hair disobeys. It clearly bears signs of being under a hat too long despite Pat's best intentions. It falls over his eyes. He doesn't notice.

Walking towards him along the lino, Rebecca can be heard coming towards him. As always, daylight on his side means she'll be able to see him long before he can see her. He grins onto the fly wire front door, blind, hoping she can make out his face. Rebecca watches, her heart twisting as a smile transforms his face. The door is a friend, her lover. It's all she can do not to run.

He scoops her up and the feel of his muscled shoulders under her palms is exquisite. Life is rockmelon, cinders and canvas. Rebecca's lips aren't overly full but her pretty smile lights up her face. It makes her green eyes twinkle and it makes Pat think of his time as a kid, fishing, looking into a sea of the same colour. He shifts his heavy arms and embraces her.

Though tall for a woman, Becky is eaten up by the size and the enthusiasm of her lover's embrace. He strokes big palms over the rough cotton of her shirt; likes the sound and so does it again. Becky can't breathe. It might be impossible to want to be any closer. She folds her arms around his neck and drinks in the smell of him.

Pat smells like blue skies, dirt and summer. Burying her nose in his neck she feels the old leather against her ear, the cotton of his shirt against her cheek, rom the corner of her eye she notes the coarse, fine hairs that struggle free from his top button. She smiles, kissing him lightly. Her face tickles neck.

“Bec?”

Pat sets her aside. The tiny woman looks up, flashing fire at him, an offended cat.

“I got you a present”

“I don't want that kind of present.”

Her face feels cool now, her hands light and lonely. She steps back into his embrace and he cups her bottom through the various materials of her skirts.

“When did you get so damn trendy?”

“It's a new dress, is all. Do you like it?”

“I dunno, let me take it off and get a better look at it.”

Finally, Pat's mouth descends on hers in a kiss. 

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Bursting at the biblioteca

At the library, we're sitting so close together I can feel his breath on my neck. I stare at a page of letters, grouped and typed in small neat rows. Already whole paragraphs of Times New Roman have become gibberish. His hand slides further up my thigh. My pussy anticipates his touch, a dull ache begins on my insides as desire starts to form. 

Our row of desks are nine flights above street level, facing the window. At night the view of blackness from these floor-to-ceiling glass panels reflects seriously studying students back onto themselves. Right now though, the sun is shining, corrugated campus roofs littered with air conditioning units look like over sized suitcases of 1960's space junk. The bricked path yawns away below us. 

Beside me, Jack licks his lips without looking up. One hand holds a pencil but he's not working on his notes anymore than I am. His fingers continue to trace a path up the smooth flesh of my thigh, working their way unhurriedly towards my skirt's hemline. It's summer, my legs are bare and I kicked off my Havanas half an hour ago. I can feel my own hands beginning to shake. A warm palm presses down on my skin. I glance across at him and he's staring at me. Behind us, the shuffle of shoes indicates we are not alone. Someone is making their way in and out of the shelving, searching. I turn my head.

A dark skinned man stops close by, he wears wire rimmed glasses and an expression of concentration. He searches on a top shelf, retrieves a book, leaves. Jack curls his fingers in between my legs. I'm lush, waiting. He pushes a finger into my slit and languidly strokes all the way upward, missing the nub of my clit. I ache, unfulfilled. He pushes two fingers into my sopping folds, past my lips, into my vagina. Once again he curls his digits, only this time they are inside me, searching. It works, I jerk forward, impaled on his probing hand. He rubs and thrusts.

It's delicious.