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Our main course consisted of Cordero Asado—roast lamb—and my favorite, Caldereta de Langosta. The lobster stew originated on Mallorca. As we ate, I told her about Christmas at Palacio de la Zarzuela with my aunt and uncle, Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand.
We
rested before our dessert arrived; I stood and walked over to the Christmas tree.
“I have a gift for you,” I said, handing her the package I’d had delivered here earlier.
She put her hand on her heart. “Cortez, I—”
“Allow me, Kensington. It would bring me great pleasure for you to have this.” Her eyes lit up.
She carefully unwrapped the heavy paper and gasped when she saw the image that lay beneath. “Miró’s Petit Univers.” Kensington looked up at me in awe. “It’s one of my favorites.”
I watched as she studied the painting, turning her head to take in the vibrant colors. “Miró once said that he tried to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music.”
Her fingers traced the shapes depicted in the painting without touching it. To me, it represented the woman sitting across from me, her thin form by the sea, with the moon and stars shining on her, and the creatures from the ocean that frolicked with her.
She raised her head suddenly. “Cortez…”
I smiled. “Yes?”
“It can’t be.”
“It is.”
“The original?” Her eyes filled with tears when I nodded. “It’s the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.” She looked down at the painting and up at me again. “I’ve nothing for you,” she murmured.
Ah, but she had given me so much already. Her smile and the way her eyes met mine. Her laughter in times of uncertainty. Her mouth, her tongue, the nipples that hardened from my gaze alone. Her wetness, and above all, the gift of falling apart from my hands and mouth.
“Cortez,” she murmured, her cheeks flush.
I reached across the table and held my hand out. She placed her palm on mine. “Can you feel what I’m thinking, Kensington?”
She lowered her eyes.
“Look at me, sweetheart. Can you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Now?”
“I think so.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m never shy, Cortez. I never have been, but with you…”
“Shall I tell you, then?”
“Please,” she murmured.
“I liked having your body next to mine last night. Very much, in fact.”
Her eyes closed, and I watched as a shudder coursed through her. I closed my eyes too, remembering her legs spread for me, the taste of her on my lips, my tongue. She squeezed my hand tightly, and I knew she was remembering too.
Our dessert of almond candy and cookies and Spanish crumble cakes arrived along with two glasses of Moscatel. As I sipped the smoky, sweet wine, I knew what I had to do.
I brought her hand to my mouth and kissed her palm. “There is something we must talk about, Kensington.”
