“No, I still want you wet in every thinkable way.”
He was fiddling with something on a counter. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Of course not, silly.”
“What about the lights?”
“They’ll be off soon. Now, tell me what you think this smell is.”
He uncorked the bottle and let the aroma fill the room.
Justine sniffed the air. “Sage?”
“Good. It’s desert sage, one of the essential oils of my…our people. I’m giving you a massage, but first I have to show something else to you.”
He turned on a little lamp by the bed that cast a lazy low glow around the room.
She looked up and saw on the back wall a large oil painting of a Koshari clown in a rhythmic dance, his long dark hair swirling around him. The rugged black paint clumped in parts, indicating musculature of the insatiable dancer. Justine sat up and pointed. “My God! This is the best one I’ve seen. Is this…you?”
“Look at the face and tell me.”
The picture painted every aspect of Darrius’s person from his keen features to his feet. The jet background cast an effect of motion—still motion.
“This is amazing. When was it painted?”
“The day after I was released from jail. The same artist asked me to pose in the studio. I have the original, but there are many prints. The artist can’t keep them on hand.”
“No doubt. Look at the muscles, the movement, the excitement on your face. You must have really been excited while he painted you.”
“But I wasn’t, what with the girl’s death still so fresh on my mind. The artist, Eva Germaine, even played Native American soundtracks while I posed to help get me back in the mood.”
“Did it help?”
“Some.”
“A woman painted this?”
“Sure. Why not? Aren’t women just as talented?”
“That’s not what I mean.” Justine continued to gaze at the painting. “Look at the breechcloth painted in white with a buffalo skull. She really hit you where you live, didn’t she?”
“Then, yes. I still love dancing, as you saw from my performance tonight, but where I really live is in my store…and here with you; especially here with you, tonight.”
She continued to stare. “She made it a point to capture the bulge in the breechcloth. Was she beautiful?”
“For a sixty-year-old woman, yes. Jealous?”
“Not a chance. I have the real thing in bed with me.”
He moved closer. “And as every one knows, the real one is always better.”
“Sure is.” Her hand smoothed against the turgid erection that was ready to part her.
His hand gently brought her face to his. “Lie back and let me do what I need to do with you.”
As if in a trance, she did as told. “Do I get my massage?”
“Lie on your back. I’m waiting to deliver one.”
“On wet skin?”
“To me, oil and water mix very well.”
“Then mix with me, Mr. Poetry in Motion.”
Darrius took the cork off the glass flask, dribbled the aromatic potion into his palms and rubbed them together. The scent hit the air in waves and Justine became more relaxed, anticipating the magic to come.
He planted his thighs on either side of hers and began massaging the tender, moist skin under her ears. Then he moved down to her neck and shoulders. His hands then circled her breasts.
Her back arched, bringing her breasts almost level with his chest. The hardened nipples pressed against his palms, tickling the oiled flesh—making his erection almost unbearable. But this part of the act was for her…solely for her. He continued, raking his rounded nails down her torso, circling her ribcage, navel, stopping just before the gentle tuft of hair that covered a marvelous sex—a sex he craved, mixed well with, wanted to partake of…immediately. But it wasn’t about him—not yet.
The scent of desert sage heightened her senses as Darrius cast spells on her body, making the winding spring well within her sex tighten. The closer he moved to her core, the less she could control her words, actions, thoughts. He played at the sides of her mound, oiling her hips, her upper thighs, but returning to the very place where all life seemed to begin. He teased her there, fingers hovering at the opening, but never entering, only a suggestion of the act. Hoping her moans and stretches would entice him more, she put on her act as well as any actress in Hollywood. Her body stretched, splaying curvature, sprawling like a satisfied feline, stretching muscles that had been dormant for months now. Her knees captured him, gently squeezing his sides, playing at his pelvic bone while his hands continued swirling and playing her body.
Now slick from neck to toes she demanded he sample her natural slickness, wet his whistle and delve into desire. This time it would be better, more; no time restraints, no store hours to be careful of, no rocking, clumsy horse swaying two bodies in the middle of the desert sun. They were in paradise, and at that moment, Darrius slid two fingers into her blazing cove, her eyes rolled, looked beyond her to the back wall. For the life of her, she saw his painting come to life—as if he’d stepped from the canvas. Was there peyote in the room or was she really seeing this? The deeper his fingers moved into her, the more she could see shadows of his portrait sprawling across her.
