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“Hello,” I say. “How are you?”
“I am good,” she says, stretching like a cat.
I cannot resist drawing my finger down the valley that runs between her breasts to her navel.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper.
She squeezes my hand.
“You’re right,” I say. “This is a magical place. You go to sleep and wake to this ocean.”
“You know there is a deck just outside. This is the only room that doesn’t have double doors leading outside. You have to climb out the windows to get to the deck.
She rolls off the bed, utterly void of self-consciousness, and opens the closet door. She plucks a massive navy robe and tosses it my way.
“That’s for you,” she says, then reaches for a pink gingham coverlet. “This is for me.”
I admire the garment.
“It’s vintage,” she says. “I take care of everything, so it’s all in pretty good condition. Your robe was recently cleaned.”
“Was it your uncle’s?” I asked, momentarily creeped out.
“No,” she says with a light laugh. “Just a piece I restored.
I put it on and sat at the edge of her four-poster bed.
“You look like a housewife from the thirties,” I say of her flowered robe, detailed with a petaled collar and puffy sleeves. I grasp her waist as she wanders near me. I look her up and down. “This is adorable.”
“It’s my favorite,” she says.
“Do you have lots of robes?” I smile, finding her irresistible.
“Not too many,” she says. “But yes, more than one.”
I lift my eyes to her. “You don’t share yourself with people much, do you?” I ask.
“Are you asking if I sleep around?” she smirks in horror.
“No,” I assure her. “No, not at all. And I don’t either, in case you’re curious for some reason.”
I continue, “No, I mean all this. Your treasures. These clothes. They are not just stuff. They’re part of who you are; what you find special is what makes you special.”
“Yes,” she says plainly.
We are quiet, lying in bed, lingering close to one another, warming in each other's body heat. A particularly loud wave pounds against the rocks.
“Sometimes they sound like drums,” she says. “They can sound like they’re going to wash the Calypso away. I never get tired of them. They keep me from feeling totally alone.”
I kiss her brow tenderly for that comment. But as for the waves, I only sense them in the background. I am fixed on her as the heat between us rises again. Without a word, she reaches for the bedpost, balancing herself as she climbs onto my lap.
Her sex brushes mine, which is rigid and eager. She lowers herself, impaling herself on me. I grip her hips and rock herfuriously, back and forth. She cups her jiggling breasts. We are going for it hard. This is just a quickie; both of us lost in the throes of our reignited passion, our climaxes brought back to life and consuming us.
This time, Brynne releases in full-throated wails. I cry out like I am weeping. We have exhausted ourselves, and we can move no more. She gracefully dismounts.
“I wanna shower,” she whispers.
This might be one of those times when I wished I did partake in the occasional alcoholic beverage. If ever a memory called for champagne, this might be it.
