He turned his head so his cheek was flat against her. He could feel her muscles moving softly — her coming was more in her mind still; when she got closer she would become a single band of muscle, like a fish — all of her would move at once, flickering and curving, unified from jaw to tail. His mind was half in hers. He felt her still loose-jointed drift — only an occasional little coil in the current tugging at her harder, moving her toward the flood. Then she breathed — he felt her body move as if her mouth opened on all of him — she took a breath and let herself go tumbling.
After a while they moved up the bank as though they had to escape the flood. They clambered onto the table of higher ground, onto the spartina. He got his feet out of his pants and made a bed of them for her on the long flattened stalks. Everything was brighter than in the creek — all around them the even tops of the spartina caught flat shadowless starlight.
He reached under her back to smooth out broken stems. For an instant he felt her feel his body, felt her register him, his inner sounds, the outer wave of them pressing toward her.
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And then they both fell into their own urgencies, overlapping disturbances, like waves from separate storms, at first damping, then amplifying each other. They lay still in their pit of gray light. Her cheek moved against his. He had no idea what her expression was now — maybe smiling, maybe recovering herself the way she laughed at herself after she cried. She moved her head and kissed his mouth. She stayed quiet, though.
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He caught one more feeling from the heavy stillness of their bodies. They were both stunned by sadness. Tomorrow there was more light in the room, and they split a half-bottle of white wine from the minibar before they began. Yolande was bolder and far more loquacious. Would you like to suck my breasts? Go ahead.
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Is that nice? Can I suck you? Was that nice? Sure I like to do it.
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Sucking and licking are very primal pleasures. But he was elated too. He hung on for dear life. Smugly, he showed her his pinga, as it was indelicately called in his youth. He was sitting on the bed in the Hotel Splendour and leaning back in the shadows, while she was standing by the bathroom door. And just looking at her fine naked body, damp with sweat and happiness, made his big thing all hard again.
That thing burning in the light of the window was thick and dark as a tree branch.
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In those days, it sprouted like a vine from between his legs, carried aloft by a powerful vein that precisely divided his body, and flourished upwards like the spreading top branches of a tree, or, he once thought while looking at a map of the United States, like the course of the Mississippi River and its tributaries. On that night, as on many other nights, he pulled up the tangled sheets so that she could join him on the bed again. And soon Vanna Vane was grinding her damp bottom against his chest, belly, and mouth and strands of her dyed blond hair came slipping down between their lips as they kissed.
I do not say anything. Instead I roll in the bed, reach across, and touch her, and because she is surprised she turns to me. When I kiss her the lips are dry, cracking against mine, unfamiliar as the ocean floor. But then the lips give. They part. I am inside her mouth, and there, still hidden from the world, as if ruin had forgotten a part, it is wet— Lord!
I have the feeling of a miracle. Her tongue comes forward. I do not know myself then, what man I am, who I lie with in embrace. I can barely remember her beauty. She touches my chest and I bite lightly on her lip, spread moisture to her cheek and then kiss there. She makes something like a sigh. My hand finds her fingers and grips them, bone and tendon, fragile things. She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there.
I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. He touched her on the forehead between her eyes and ran his finger down the line of her nose. She had never imagined you could say those words and still feel tender, but now she was lying on her side and he was lying on his and he had those clear blue Catchprice eyes and such sweet crease marks around his eyes.
She let him undress her and caress her swollen body.
God, she thought— this is how people die. She began to kiss him, to kiss his chest, to nuzzle her face among the soft apple-sweet hairs, discovering as she did so a hunger for the scents and textures of male skin. At fourteen I had discovered that a tongue had no real taste. I was sucking the tongue of a boy named Tanner, and I was sucking his tongue because I liked the way his fingers looked on the keys of the piano as he played it, and I had liked the way he looked from the back as he walked across the pasture, and also, when I was close to him, I liked the way behind his ears smelled.
As I was sucking away, I was thinking, Taste is not the thing to seek out in a tongue; how it makes you feel— that is the thing. He put his head between my legs, nuzzling at first. His beard was a little rough on the insides of my thighs. Then with his lips, then his tongue, he struck fire. I had to cry out in astonishment, in gratitude at being touched in that right place. Somehow, it alwaysmakes me grateful when a man finds the right place, maybe because when I was young so many of them kept finding the wrong place, or a series of wrong places, or no place at all.
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That strange feeling: gratitude and hunger. My hunger was being teased. It also felt like a punishment. She is in a good mood. She is very playful.
As they enter her building she becomes the secretary.