Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/S/SUUARE.TXT

Text File | 1994-07-04 | 64.9 KB | 1,121 lines

                           SUUARE
                      by Sarah Stegall

     He could not get her out of his mind.
     Even when he'd been with Kate, her face had been in his mind.  It was
her face, her mouth, her eyes, her sultry grace and her lithe body that
had been before him even as he held another woman in his arms.  Now Kate
was gone and the other was still with him, bedeviling his days and nights.
     He didn't even know her name.
      Jake woke as he always did these days, sprawled face down and naked
across the white sheets, a pillow clutched against him.  He hadn't slept
like that in years, not since he was an awkward, gawky teenager who
couldn't get through the night without half a dozen wet dreams.  In those
days, before he'd ever held a real woman in his arms, the pillow made do
for all the women in his fantasies--hot, beautiful, and agile.  To be
reduced to this again after so many years was humiliating.
     Yet, the alternative was too painful to think about.
     Jake rolled upright and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head
in his hands.  His eyes felt as though they were filled with sand. He
looked down; he was hard as a rock this morning.  He snorted.  Well, some
things never changed, at least.  Not that it did him any damn good.
     In the shower he tried to focus, to plan his day.  He shaved under
the running water, hating the safety razor. Most of his life he had used
his grandfather's old-fashioned straight razor;  after Alex had used it to
kill herself, he had destroyed it.  Still, he couldn't get used to the
clumsiness of the safety razor, the cheap construction, the inelegant
design of it after the sleek perfection of honed steel.  He sighed.  Maybe
he should try an electric razor-- he shuddered.
     He put some toast on and sat down to go through the paper.  War in
the Middle East.  Political scandal.  Two drive-by shootings overnight.
He turned to the arts section:  two plays, a new act at his favorite blues
club.
     And a gallery opening.
     "Viewpoint:  A Collection by Kate Lyons".  It was showing at a small
but trendy gallery on the north side.
     He thought of Kate, slim and cool and blonde, with her beautiful
lying mouth and her brilliant lying eyes.  For a moment, for a tiny
moment, he had thought she loved him, thought she wanted him, but she had
only wanted the image of him she held in her mind.  It had all been a
charade:  the fashionable loft, the photography studio, the image she
presented to the world of the sophisticated, detached photographer.  And
all of it supported by her staid, respectable, anonymous rich man--the
husband she introduced him to only when he was getting too close to her.
Damn her.
     And inevitably, he thought about her, the woman Kate had
photographed, the woman she had used to seduce him. Kate had taken him on
a surprise trip to a remote trailer, where a biker buddy of hers (and
where had she found him? Jake often wondered) and a beautiful Eurasian
girl had posed for her.  The girl had coiled and slid and curved in the
tattooed man's arms, sleek and lovely, a sloe-eyed courtesan who had
looked not at her partner, but at Jake.
     She had looked at him, and that look went through him like a bolt of
lightning.  He'd felt the walls coming down, the dam in him breaking after
so many months of guilt and denial and shame and loss and grief.  And in
that newly vulnerable state, Kate had moved in and claimed him with the
expertise born of long practice.
     But Kate was gone now, of her own accord, and he was alone again.
And all he could think about, dream about, was the beautiful Eurasian
woman she had photographed.
     Jake looked at the newspaper again.  Would those photographs be in
the exhibit?
     He should forget it.  He should ignore it.  He didn't need this.  He
needed to work.  He needed to forget.
     He left the toast on his plate and headed for the door.

     Why was he so nervous?  This is absurd, Jake told himself.  Still, he
couldn't make himself go into the tiny gallery on North Third.  It was a
beautiful spring day, with the brilliance that Los Angeles could show when
she wanted, when the smog lifted, when the winds blew clean and fresh from
the Pacific.  People on the sidewalk actually smiled; three tanned and
supple women on rollerblades greeted him with more than simple
friendliness as they rolled past.  He hunched his shoulders, stooping as
he always did when he was uneasy, thrusting his fists into his pockets.
     He could not go in there.
     The gallery was a converted storefront; the front window was still a
display area.  Against the stark grey drapes, only one photograph was
exhibited:  a stark construction of concrete shapes and shadows.  A
discreet sign in the window named it the work of Kate Lyons.
     What if she was in there?
     A more horrible thought struck him.  What if he, Jake, was in there?
Kate had photographed him, stalking him with her long range lenses and her
cameras. He had only discovered it by accident, one of her many secrets,
when he found her private collection.
     "These are for me," she had said.  "No one will see them except me."
     That was before he found out what a liar she was.
     What if he went in and found his own face staring back at him, his
private moments hung up on those walls for the world to look at?  The
thought made him want to turn and run- -until he remembered that her face
might be in there.
     He was blinking after the brightness of the day outside, letting his
eyes adjust to the darkness inside the gallery before he realized he had
changed his mind.  The gallery was tiny, no more than two rooms.  A man
lounged behind a desk, reading "Spy" and smoking despite the "No Smoking"
sign.  Jake glanced around nervously, ready to bolt, but the only other
patron in the place was an older man walking slowly from exhibit to
exhibit.
     Hesitantly, Jake drifted to the nearest wall.  The work was fine, if
sterile.  The first room was a series of architectural studies--buildings
and scaffolds and the play of shadow and sun across urban towers, without
a single human figure in any of the pictures.  He knew now where she had
first seen him: his own building was there, polished and towering,
dominating the monumental landscape around it.  He was proud of it, and
pleased at the photograph.  He lingered a moment, appreciating her skill,
and then moved on.
     The older man had left, so Jake was alone when he stepped into the
tiny second room with its crowd of faces, bodies, images.  It was as if
the empty images in the front room had been displayed solely to contrast
with this congregation of faces.  Everywhere he looked there were eyes,
limbs, breasts, feet, mouths.  Women, men, and images where it was
impossible to tell whether that smooth expanse of back or arm or cheek was
male or female.  It reminded him of Robert Mapplethorpe's work.  It was
very, very good.
     Under a spotlight in the corner, he found the face that had possessed
him for seven months.
     Her eyes were rounder than he remembered, her mouth more full, but
the breasts and the smoldering look under the black lashes were the same,
only more real, more alive. Jake felt his breath come short as he moved
from one photograph to the other, drinking her in, seeing again the body
and the eyes and the long waterfall of her hair.  His whole body tingled;
he felt every separate touch of his own clothes against his skin.  The
last photograph held him mesmerized: she was looking towards the camera,
that drugged, dreamy look in her dark eyes, looking past the man holding
her, past the camera, past the photographer.
     At him.
     He'd been standing behind Kate, his eyes locked on the woman's,
feeling his limbs loosen and his heart speed up, feeling a change come
over him like winter giving way to ripe summer.  Unable to bear it, he had
run from the trailer.
     Now in this dark room, under the spotlight, he'd found her again.
     He walked back into the front room.  His wallet slapped the desk and
the smoking man looked up.
     "Yes?"
     "How much?"
     The man was younger than Jake had thought, blond and tan and with
sleepy eyes.  He sat up slowly, putting the magazine down.  He looked from
the wallet to Jake and back. "How much for what?"
     "I want some of the photographs in the back room.  Are they for
sale?"
     The boy's eyes changed, his expression became knowing. "Some of 'em.
Which ones did you want?"
     Jake was beyond embarrassment.  Once he would have been mortified to
stand here and demand a photograph of a woman he didn't know, would never
see again, admitting to his obsession in public.  Now he didn't care.  His
only fear was that Kate didn't want the money, and that none of the
pictures were for sale.
     "The ones in the very back, with the...the Oriental woman and the
tattooed man." He hoped he wasn't blushing; put that baldly, it sounded
like he was buying something at an XXX-rated bookstore.
     The boy wasn't quite leering, but it was close.  "Yeah, they're
pretty hot.  Kate likes 'em.  Which one did you want."
     "All of them."
     The boy's eyebrows shot up.  "That'll be pretty steep. Like I said,
Kate likes 'em.  She charges more for the ones she likes."
     "Is she...is she here?"  Jake asked hesitantly.
     "Nah.  She never comes down here.  But she left me a price list.
Here, hang on."  The young man rummaged in the desk, pulling out lists,
invitations, flyers in an untidy heap.  Jake fought his impatience.  In
the back of his mind her image burned, dark eyed and piquant.
     "What's her name?" he burst out.
     The younger man looked up, startled.  "What? Whose name?  Kate's?"
     Jake knew he was blushing, and made his face stone. "No.  The woman
in the pictures."
     Now the boy was openly leering.  "I have no idea. She's pretty hot,
huh?"  At last, thank god, the boy found the price list.  "Oh.  Well, Kate
wants two hundred apiece for them.  Pretty steep."
     Jake could have laughed.  There was no price he would not have paid
for those pictures.  He tossed the boy his American Express Gold card and
said, "Ring it up.  All of them."
      Then, just in time, he remembered that his name would be on the
charge slip.  Kate would know who had bought her photographs.  And she
would know why.  More of his secrets stolen from him, he thought.  Damn
her anyway.  He hoped he never saw her again.  He picked up the Gold card
and put it back in his wallet.  "Cash," he said, hoping he had enough on
him.
     He hurried home in the growling traffic, intently aware of the flat
package on the seat beside him.
     He rolled down the window to feel the breeze but got only the stink
of diesel from a dump truck in the next lane. One hand drifted over to lie
flat on the wrapped pictures. To lie on her.  He could hardly wait to rip
the paper off, to see her face, to put his hands where his eyes had
been...
     Stella greeted him effusively at the door, jumping up on her back
legs and pawing at him.  He hadn't walked her all day, and she was
overdue, but he couldn't, he could not bring himself to put the pictures
down.  Jake flung his coat in one direction, his tie in another, kicked
off his shoes and threw himself across his unmade bed.  The paper tore
away in long, luxurious strips, and then at last she was in his hands.
     Her eyes burned through him like headlights.  They were dark and
alive and awake, staring at him, into him, through him.  Her mouth was a
full pout, he remembered how luscious her lips had been, sulky and sweet
at the same time, hiding secrets he wanted to taste.  And her body...
     What was he doing?  He put the pictures aside and sat cross-legged on
the bed, holding his head in his hands. God, he was getting aroused over
some pictures.  He was possessed by a photograph, for Christ's sake.  As
if he weren't a grown man, able to find a real woman, able to take a real
woman to his bed.  Was there something wrong with him?  He spent his days
building in stone and steel, and his nights reading the confessions of
strangers.  There were few friends in his life, and no lovers.  The only
women he had ever loved had betrayed him.  Had betrayed themselves.
     Slowly, his breathing came back to normal.  He unfolded his long legs
and got off the bed.  He went into the kitchen to make dinner.  Since Alex
died, he hadn't cared for cooking, since there was no one else to cook
for.  His brief romance with Kate had been over too soon to progress to
that stage where he could cook for her.  Tonight, though, he was hungry
and unwilling to settle for some second-rate restaurant meal served by
strangers.
     He lost himself now in the familiar routine, getting out the onions
and the mushrooms and the wine.  He stopped briefly to put on a Richie
Sambora CD, then went back to making Gratin de Pommes de Terre aux
Anchois.  He hadn't had it in years.

     "You never find a reason why love falls from grace
     Some kind of voodoo, like a spirit you can't embrace
     There's a voice in the mirror, and a ghost in my heart
     That relives the passion before we were torn apart..."

     When he finally sat down to eat, he propped the
photograph at the other end of the table.

     She knew that the dark glasses would not disguise her, but hoped
anyway.  She'd hidden her hair under a scarf, and was wearing the most
conservative business suit her dressmaker would permit her to wear
("Madam, you cannot go out looking like a secretary!  Here, try the
sapphire blouse...").  Her makeup was conservative to the point of
invisibility.  But as soon as the boy looked up from his magazine, he
recognized her.  She could see his eyes change before they dropped in
embarrassment.  She had seen it before.  She sighed.  There was no use
pretending.
     "I want to buy the pictures," she said carefully.  "All of them."
She didn't have to explain which ones she meant.
     The boy looked up, startled.  She saw his almost involuntary
appraisal, knew that he was seeing not the raw beige silk suit, the
pearls, the ivory satin blouse, but the breasts and belly and legs under
it, from the photograph. It was always that way.  This one was actually
smiling, though.
     "That's funny.  I sit here for two days and no one buys a thing. Now
twice in one day I get customers for the same pictures."
     "I beg your pardon?"
     "You're too late.  Ma'am."  He looked suddenly awkward. "A...a guy
came in and bought every one of the pictures of you.  This morning."
     She opened her handbag, drew out a hundred dollar bill. She held it
out to the boy, saw his eyes go wide.  It was crude, she knew, but she was
impatient and desperate and didn't know how to be subtle about it.  "What
was his name?"
     The boy reached out but didn't take the money.  "I'm sorry," he said
sincerely.  "I really am.  But he paid cash. I don't know his name."
     She laid the money down on the table and put her card on top of it.
"If he comes back, say nothing, but call me."
     He picked up the hundred dollar bill and tucked it into his shirt
pocket.  "I will.  Thank you.  Did you...did you just want those
pictures?"
     "Yes."
     The boy hesitated, then pulled open a drawer.  "I have Kate's address
here, if you want more--"
     He halted as he caught sight of her eyes.
     "No," she said coldly.  "I have it."
     She turned and walked out into the sunlight.
     Her driver scrambled to open the door for her and she slipped into
the cool, quiet interior.  Private, so private. No one could see her
behind the smoked glass windows.  She was safe here.
     "Ma'am?"  the driver was saying, looking in his rear view mirror.
     "Take me back to the penthouse," she said absently. She leaned her
cheek on her hand and looked out the window as they glided away from the
curb.

     He went to every photography and art gallery in the city of Los
Angeles, hoping she was a professional model. He haunted model and talent
agencies with her photograph. No one knew her.  Remembering the tattooed
man, he even went to biker bars and tattoo shops, places he had never
wanted to go, places that repulsed him.  No one recognized her.
     He told no one, not Paul, his partner, nor anyone else about her.
She was his secret obsession, the face that overpowered his reason and
beset his dreams.  He began to despair of ever finding her.
     "Jake, we need to talk," said Paul.  The big blond German's face was
creased with worry.  "I need to know what is going on with you."
     Jake had come into the office late, as usual, throwing his raincoat
carelessly across the client's couch and sinking moodily into the steel
and leather chair behind his desk.  His office was spare, clean,
industrial.  Paul, who hung pastel watercolors in his office and put
Oriental rugs on the floor, called it Jake's laboratory.
     "Nothing is going on," said Jake.
     "Don't bullshit me," said Paul.  He swung a leg over the chair facing
Jake's desk.  "I've known you too long.  Is it Alex, still?"
     Jake shrugged.  "I don't want to talk about it," he said warningly.
He and Paul had been partners--brothers almost--for ten years, but Jake
would not, could not open up his deep pain even to Paul.  Alex was an
intensely private grief; the weight of her dead body in his arms would
haunt him for the rest of his life.
     "Okay, okay."  Paul held up his hands in a warding-off gesture.  "You
know you can talk to me anytime, Jake.  But I need to know right now if I
can count you in on my presentations."
     Paul was the salesman, the pragmatist who turned Jake's genius into
contracts and permits and award-winning designs. Their partnership had
been very successful over the years; Paul knew his end of the business and
Jake never interfered with it.
     "What presentations?  Are we taking on anything big?"
     Paul shook his head.  "I submitted a proposal on the Minneapolis
Civic Center renovation project, and the Cincinnati Museum of Art, but I
haven't heard anything back yet."
     Jake sighed.  Projects that big made and broke an architect's
reputation.  He hadn't taken on any really big commissions since Alex
died.  He knew Paul was worried that they would slip behind the
competition, but appreciated the fact that Paul hadn't nagged about it.
     "Anything smaller?"
     The German shrugged.  "A couple of small clients.  A guy who wants to
add an extension to his stables out in Santa Rita.  A client who wants a
solarium or greenhouse added onto a downtown penthouse."
     Jake rubbed his eyes.  Familiar as the routine had been for most of
his life, now it all sounded so strange and distant from the ache that
suffused his life these days. "Okay.  I'll talk to the solarium.  When?"
     "Today.  Two o'clock."
     "Fine."
     Paul stood, hesitated.  "Jake, is there anything I can do?"
     Yes, he thought.  Find me a girl with eyes like dark fire, who can
look through a man's soul and leave him helpless.  But he said, "No, I'll
be okay.  Thanks."
     "Two o'clock."
     "I'll be here."

     She sat in the restaurant, oblivious to the stares, and toyed with
her salad.  It was a way to kill time.  She had never had the luxury of
killing time before, so the sensation was still new and interesting.
Boredom had not yet bored her.
     Still, there was this emptiness inside, and she did not know how to
fill it.  Experience taught her that the obvious solution, a man, would
not work.
     It was never the right man at the right time, she thought.  For so
long she had had few choices, and now that she had infinitely many none
suited.  She had been merely material to the men she modeled for, another
shape to light and photograph and drape and paint.  She had been a trophy
for the rich men and a prize for the poor men, and nothing for herself.
Poverty and a certain aimless despair had consumed her, and she had
allowed herself to drift on the currents of trendy, hustling Los Angeles,
her face and her body the passport to places she didn't really want to be.
But she'd had no better place to be, no one better to be with than the
famous or the rapacious or the twisted.  She had not been terribly hurt,
but she had not been happy, either, only bored and hungry and purposeless.
Now, finding that she could indulge herself in anything, she found she
wanted nothing.
     Or almost nothing.
     Now and then, as she was drifting off to sleep, or waking up, or
thinking about something else entirely, a face and eyes and mouth would
come to mind.  She had seen him only briefly, for a few moments, before he
turned and left her to her boring, silly assignment and the pretentious
woman with the camera.  A long, elegant body simply dressed, an expressive
face and a mobile, sensitive mouth.  And eyes that held pain and grief and
desire.  Eyes that had looked at her and through her, as if unable to bear
the sight of her.
     She had not known his name.  She would have liked to see him smile.
     The limousine pulled smoothly up to the curb.  Before her hand
reached the door latch, her driver was opening it, standing back for her.
She put her sunglasses on and stepped out.
     Shopping, always shopping.  Not that she ever bought anything.  She
had had so little, wanted so much.  Now she wanted nothing.  Or rather,
she wanted something to fill the emptiness, but didn't know what it was.
The only thing that had helped were the plants.  Green, growing, living
things that grew and fought for territory and bloomed and died-- these
silent struggles she understood, layered beneath the beauty of broceliad
and lily and orchid.  This, she could lavish her care on.  A private
jungle, for her alone, to hide in.
     She stepped into the lobby, headed for the elevator.

     Marilyn opened the door to his office, smiling.  "Jake? Your two
o'clock is here."
     The solarium builder, he remembered.  He sighed. Another society
dowager who would ruin the silhouette, the balance of a beautiful tower
just so her plants wouldn't have to sweat through the Los Angeles summer.
     "Show her in," he said.
     He smiled his professional smile, and then the smile was wiped from
his face as though it had never been.
     "My God!" he said with an indrawn breath.
     The door closed softly behind her.  He came around his desk, headed
for her, but halted.
     She recognized the hazel eyes at once, and had no words for the
feeling that went through her.  But instinct and long habit made her step
back, putting more distance between them.  He stepped forward again, as
though drawn on a leash. He reached out but didn't touch her.
     "It's you, isn't it," he said wonderingly.  "From the trailer..."
     Her lips made a thin line.  "And you...were watching." She made her
face as expressionless as possible.  "Did you enjoy it?"
     "Yes, I did," he said helplessly.  What could he say? You mesmerize
me?  I'm obsessed with you?  And by the way, what's your name?  "I...I
even bought some of the pictures."
     Immediately he regretted saying that.  It sounded like a come-on.
Standing here before him in her linen and silk, looking like an ad out of
Vogue, she didn't look like the kind of woman who would pose naked with a
tattooed man. Probably she would be angry with him.
     "You have the pictures?"  her voice asked sharply.
     What was that trace of accent?  he wondered.  "Yes.  I bought them
from the gallery."
     There was a tiny silence.  "You know Kate."  She said it as a
statement, not a question.
     "Yes," he said neutrally.  "I knew her."  He emphasized the past
tense, and saw by the tense way her mouth (that mouth!) turned down that
she had understood him.
     "She told me where they were being shown.  I got to the gallery after
you bought them," she said slowly.  "They didn't know your name."
     He stuck out his hand.  "My name is Jake," he said.
     For a moment, he thought she wouldn't shake his hand, and he felt
bitterness wash over him.  Well, why not?  he had stood and watched her
prostitute herself to the camera, like a man at a peepshow. Why should she
shake his hand?
     But she did, and at her touch he felt his body begin to sing.  Her
hand was soft and cool and slender in his.
     "Suuare."  She said it slowly, letting him get used to the sound of
it.  Soo-ARE-ay.  As exotic as she was, as fascinating.  Her eyes,
revealed now, were wide and liquid and alive.  He had never seen her
standing before, and he found that she was much shorter than he had
thought, a tiny little waif of a woman.  Jake felt things happening in
him, things he hadn't felt in a long time, things he hadn't wanted to feel
again.
     "Suuare," he whispered, the syllables flowing like wine on his
tongue.  "A beautiful name."
     She pulled her hand away.  "Will you sell me your pictures?"  she
asked.
     "If you'll tell me why you want them," he said boldly.
     She looked away.  "Isn't it obvious?  Would you want pictures of you,
like that, displayed for all to see?"
     "Then why did you pose for them?"
     She shrugged.  "I needed the money."
     His glance took in her clothing--tailored, subtle, expensive.  A year
with Alex had taught him a lot about women's clothing, and he knew haute
couture when he saw it. What the hell was a stripper, a model, doing
wearing Adolfo?
     "You don't look like you need it now," he was saying. "Kate must have
paid pretty well."
     He instantly regretted that, and wanted to kick himself.  What was
the matter with him?
     She opened her bag and rummaged in it for a moment. She brought out a
keychain with a large tag on it.  He saw it wink and flash in the light
slanting in through the window.  She turned the tag face up and held it
out for him to see.
     It was done in enamels, an incredibly expensive extravagance.  But it
was obvious why:  it was a jewelled replica of a California lottery
ticket, with all six numbers circled in red.
     It took him a minute to figure it out, and then his eyes widened.
"You won the lottery?"
     "Four months ago.  I can afford the pictures."
     He watched her put the copy of the ticket away.  "And you're buying
all the prints?"
     "Kate will not sell the negatives at any price," Suuare said calmly.
"But I can buy the prints as they appear on the market."
     Jake bit the inside of his cheek.  "That sounds like her.  Bitch."
     Suuare looked surprised at this.  "You're her...friend."  The way she
said it didn't mean "friend".
     "No."  His reply was brief but final.  "No more than you are.
She...used us both that night."
     Suuare looked up at him, as though seeing him for the first time.
They were the same eyes, hazel, intense, focused solely on her.  She
remembered them, the hot way he had looked at her while the camera clicked
away.  She had assumed he was Kate's assistant, her lover, her sponsor.
Or that he had paid to watch.  Now she saw him as a victim, in a way, of
the arrogant blonde with the expensive hobby.
     "I'm sorry."
     "I'm not," he said softly, and took her hand.  "I met you."
     She stood still, unable to move.  His hand was large and warm and
sensitive, folding her small one into his protectively.  She didn't often
touch men or allow them to touch her anymore, not since the day six
numbers had changed her life.  But this one--Jake--was different.  He
didn't feel like a stranger, she thought.  Probably because he had so
often been in her thoughts.  His thumb swept slowly across the back of her
hand.  He raised it slowly to his mouth and kissed it, his lips warm and
soft.
     He smiled, and she was startled at the transformation. His closed,
solemn face suddenly became boyish and open. "Suuare," he breathed her
name.  "I am very, very glad to meet you.  Again.  Will you have dinner
with me?"
     No, she thought.  She had just escaped from all this. She didn't need
to get entangled with a man.  And she didn't want to get entangled with
this one, especially.  This one was dangerous.  He would threaten her
peace of mind as no other.  And if he turned out like the others...it
would hurt.  It would hurt a lot.  But she found herself nodding, unable
to resist that smile.
     Jake ran down a list of restaurants in his mind.  For this meal, he
wanted champagne and strawberries and a quiet, dark corner to be with her.
Instead, they would get snotty service and overpriced, overcooked food.
     "Tell you what," he said.  "Let me make you dinner. I'll give you the
pictures and we can talk."
     Warily she looked up at him.  "Talk?"
     He ignored what his own body was urging on him, and nodded.  "Just
talk, okay?"
     She didn't trust him.  He could feel the suspicion--in her hand,
still in his.  He forced himself to be still, to wait for her to relax
with him.  "I'm a pretty good hand with a food processor," he said.
     She took a deep breath, and her perfume wafted toward him.  He
trembled slightly.  "All right," she said slowly.
     Springtime opened in him.  He smiled.
     Jake turned off the engine and got out.
     Suuare was looking up through the windshield.  "You live in a
warehouse?"
     "Glue factory, actually," he said, helping her out. Her hand was
small and quick in his, he didn't let it go but led her to the stairs.  "I
remodeled it."
     Stella gave a quick bark and leaped for him, as always. Guiltily, he
realized he hadn't walked her today.  Well, he'd make it up to her later.
Suuare stood in the doorway, watching him fondle the dog and rub noses.
Jake turned and motioned her in.
     "Come on, Stella won't hurt you.  She's not a guard dog, she's a
foot-licker."
     "I don't like dogs.  They...they scare me."
     Jake straightened, amazed.  "Really? Did you get bitten when you were
a child or something?"
     She hesitated.  "Or something."
     Jake led Stella to the stairwell and locked her in, knowing that the
security gate at the bottom of the stairs would keep her in the building.
"Sit, girl.  We'll be back."
     Suuare was standing in the middle of the room, turning around.  Her
calm gaze took in the accent lighting, the basketball hoop, the
architectural models.  She looked at him and untied her scarf.  "You did
all this?"
     "Yes."
     She walked around one of the models, almost as tall as she was.  "You
make the shadows for the city, then."
     How had she known?  His very thought.  "Yes."
     She nodded solemnly.  She went over to a sofa, tested it gingerly,
sat down, and crossed her legs smoothly.  Jake stood and watched her, then
shook himself.
     "Dinner," he muttered.  "Do you like French cooking?"
     "Mais oui, bien sr," she answered flawlessly.  "J'aime le cuisine de
Proven e, particularement."
     "Peut-etre des poissons?"  he suggested.  "J'ai les seules de
maison."
     "Parfait," she said languidly.  "Fish will be fine."
     He made poisson d'aubreville with a sauce minuit, a salade des
albres, and dove to the bottom of his closet for a Chardonnay.  While he
worked, his sleeves rolled up, he watched her out of the corner of his
eye.  He damn near cut his finger off.

     Suuare wandered around the big room, touching, looking. Surprisingly,
she was not nervous.  Perhaps she was too confident in her ability to talk
her way out of any uncomfortable situation--maybe she didn't care.  Maybe,
she admitted to herself, maybe she liked being here with him.
     She came to the sleeping area and eyed the big bed. She rested a hand
for a moment on the bedspread, feeling the silk under her fingers.  She
swept the backs of her fingers over it, feeling the texture, the cool
surface of it. Behind her she heard Jake drop something and a muffled
curse.  She didn't turn, but a small smile curved her mouth. Oh, yes, he
wanted her.  She could tell, it was radiating off of him like heat off a
hot rock.
     But that didn't mean she owed him anything.
     It was wonderful, the ability to say no and make it stick.  Poor and
hungry, with only her body and her face left to go on with, she had had to
say yes to too many men, too many situations she would have preferred to
turn down. Now she could say no and mean it.  She'd been saying no for
months now, and fully intended to go on saying it.
     The picture beside the bed drew her eye.  A dark-eyed, laughing young
woman, standing in the circle of Jake's arms. His sleeves were rolled up,
his collar askew.  He was laughing into the camera, cradling her proudly,
protectively.  Suuare felt a ripple of curiosity.  Who was she?  And why
wasn't she here?  She saw no clothes, no evidence of a woman in the whole
huge place.  If she was gone, why did he cherish her picture?
     It occurred to Suuare that any woman who left this man would be a
fool.  She was shocked to know the feeling in herself.  It had been a long
time since she had cared for any man.  If she had ever cared.  What would
it be like to care for this one?
     She encountered the stereo, and stood a moment going over the music
there.  What an odd mix, she thought. DeBussy and Devo.  Most of the
records and CDs, the ones that looked as though they were used most
frequently, were jazz and blues.  But at the back, under a light film of
dust, were classical records and disco.  That didn't seem to fit her image
of Jake.
     "Play anything you like," he called to her.
     She chose an Oleta Adams CD and put it on.  The lazy, sensual notes
floated out into the big room, swelling softly through the echoing space.

     "Everything must change,
     Nothing stays the same...
     Winter turns to spring
     A wounded heart will heal....
     'Cause that's the way of time
     Nothing and no one doesn't change..."

     "Dinner is served," Jake called.  He was standing by the table,
holding a bottle of wine.  His sleeves were stilled rolled up; she noted
the cuff links on the kitchen counter.  How many men wore cuff links in
this day and age?
     She let him seat her, feeling him linger behind her a moment as he
pushed her seat in.  Then he sat across from her and served her salad.
     "Congratulations," he smiled at her.
     That smile would destroy her, she thought.  She had always remembered
the intense sadness in his eyes.  She hadn't imagined what his eyes would
look like if he smiled. She watched his mouth, the full curve of his lips.
     "For what?" she asked.
     "On winning the lottery.  I've never met a lottery winner before."
     She shrugged and picked up her fork.  "It's hardly anything to be
congratulated on.  It's just luck, like being born with black hair or blue
eyes."
     "Still, it looks like it's made a change in your life."
     She looked at him warily.  "Yes.  Quite a change.  This is very
good."
     "Merci," he said.  "There are strawberries for dessert."
     "I never knew a man who could cook anything but hot dogs."
     "A...a lady I used to know liked French cuisine.  We would cook
together, sometimes."
     "The one by the bed?"
     Shadows in his eyes--that was the look she remembered. A pang went
through her; she hadn't meant to hurt him.
     "Yes."
     Suuare glanced around.  "Does she live here, too?"
     "No.  Not anymore," Jake said shortly, and sipped his wine.
     "But you keep her picture."
     "Yes."
     "Were you going to put mine next to it?"
     That stopped him cold.  He put down his fork and looked at her.
"No."
     "You have no plants."
     "Excuse me?"
     She glanced up at him, met those intense hazel eyes. "There are no
plants in this room."  In fact, she noted, apart from the dog there were
no living things at all here.
     He blinked, then looked around. "Well, no.  I never thought of it
before, but you're right.  I never have had any plants here."
     "I love plants," she said.  "My place--"
     He waited, then said, "Yes?  You were saying?"
     She hadn't meant to tell him anything about herself, but she said, "I
have lots of plants in my... place.  I love plants, green things.  They
change the air, make it more...like home.  I would live in a jungle if I
could. That's why I want the solarium."
     "You're changing the subject," he said.
     She looked full into his eyes.  "Yes," she said.  "I am."
     They finished the dinner in silence.  It was neither hostile nor
uncomfortable, but a little wary, as they sought some common ground
between them.  He was rising to gather the plates when a frantic whining
at the door drew his attention.
     "Damn," he muttered.
     "What is it?"
     "Stella.  I forgot to walk her."  He looked at her helplessly.  "I
can't leave her out there like that.  It's not right."
     Suuare folded her napkin and stood.  "Well, if you give me the
pictures, I can call a cab and you can walk your dog."
     He stood with a plate in each hand, undecided. "Suuare, come walk
with me.  Just a short walk, that's all. Please."
     She looked at him, the tall, long grace of him, and nodded.  She felt
safe with him.
     The night was mild, and although the lights of the city drowned the
stars they could enjoy the breeze off the ocean and the coolness of the
air.  The streets were deserted. Stella frisked along, now in front of
them, now behind, as Jake strolled towards the rail yards at the end of
the street.  At first he had kept apart from her, shortening his stride to
match hers, but after he helped her over the railroad track he didn't let
go of her hand, and held it all the way down to the water front.
     At the end of the street, across the rail yards, was a small dock
that had once served as an offloading point for the ships that met the
rail.  Rusty and abandoned now, it had fallen into a sort of careless
charm, a small private nook of a place.  Suuare noted the wooden chair
placed to look out over the water and concluded that he came here often.
Alone.
     He bowed her to the chair, and sat cross-legged beside her to watch
the lights of the passing ships.  He was still holding her hand, and she
was intently aware of his touch, his warmth.  She could hear him
breathing.  Stella barked and trotted off to sniff around a pile of beams.
     "Rats," said Jake.  "Now and then she actually catches one, and I
have to disappoint her by not eating it."
     She inhaled, smelling the sea, the smells of the city.
     "Why did you buy the pictures, Jake?"
     "Because you were beautiful.  They are wonderful photographs.
Because I didn't want Kate to have them anymore."  His voice was warm,
low, intimate.  She closed her eyes, hearing it.
     No, she told herself.  I will not get involved with this man.  I will
not.  Not when I finally have my freedom.
     "Alex--the girl in the picture by the bed--killed herself," he said,
so quietly she could hardly hear him. "We had been planning to get
married.  I...I thought I might die, too.  I was alone for so long...and
then Kate came.  I thought...well, never mind what I thought.  She lied to
me. I didn't know anything about her."
     He looked up at her, she met his eyes squarely.  "I don't know
anything about you, Suuare.  And I'm not going to ask."
     "Jake--"
     "She used you to ambush me.  She lied to get what she wanted.  I've
had enough lies.  Tell me the truth or tell me nothing."
     She heard the steel in his voice, felt his hand on hers tighten.
"Then you must tell me the truth, as well," she said. "Why did you buy the
pictures?"
     There was a long silence.  He held his breath, then let it out
softly.  "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able
to stop thinking about you since the night I first saw you.  Even when I
was with Kate."
      In the light from the street lamps she saw his eyes, open, trusting.
Slowly, she pulled her hand free of his and put it on his cheek, feeling
the stubble there.  His skin was warm, smooth.  She felt her breath
quicken.
     "I have thought about you, too, Jake," she said.
     She placed her other hand on the other side of his cheek and drew him
up to her mouth.
     His lips were soft, warm under hers.  He drank her in, open mouthed,
eyes closed.  Her tongue met his gently, then more urgently.  She felt him
breathing short and quick, felt him trembling under her palms.  He tasted
like wine and flame and salt.  He burned under her hands.
     She lingered, enjoying the taste and feel of his mouth, and finally
broke the kiss slowly, leisurely.  He remained motionless for a moment,
and then hung his head.  He was utterly silent.
     "I have to go," she said after a while.
     "Suuare," he whispered.  "Don't go."
     She put a hand on his hair, so soft and thick, and stroked his head
as one might stroke a cat.  She stood, turned back towards the warehouse,
and extended her hand to him.  "Come.  I want you to call a taxi for me.
I want to go home."
     He nodded, misery on his face.
     Back at the studio, he unlocked the door and led Stella in.  The dog
sniffed at the table, the remains of the fish, and then bounced up onto
the bed and curled up at the foot. It was obviously her accustomed spot.
     Jake didn't look at Suuare, but went to the dresser beside the bed
and pulled open the top drawer.  When he turned around, holding the stack
of photographs, his eyes were miserable.  Reluctantly he held them out to
her.
     "You don't owe me anything for them," he said as she reached for her
purse.
     "I know what they cost you," she said.  "I don't need charity, I can
afford them."
     "I won't take your money," he said fiercely.
     She reached out and took the photographs in her hand, feeling a great
relief.  He stood there, looking tormented, not meeting her eyes.
Finally, he reached for his raincoat.
     "I'll drive you home," he said dully.  "Unless that's a secret."
     "No," she said, surprised.  "Not at all."
     On the way he drove the car with only half of his attention.  His
mind was in a turmoil, his heart wrenched. They drew up in front of the
towering apartment building. He recognized it, had voted for it when it
won an AIA award five years ago.  He knew the woman who had designed it.
     He turned off the ignition and sat, his mind in chaos. "Suuare...."
     She sat, a hand on the door latch, watching him quietly.  He suddenly
turned to face her.
     "Suuare ... when I watched you, I felt something.  I thought maybe
you did, too.  Was I wrong?"
     Her mouth was solemn, her eyes in the shadow thrown by the roof.
"No," she said.  "You weren't wrong, Jake."
     "Will I see you again?"  She knew he wasn't talking about her
commission.
     Her hand on his cheek was cool and soft.  "If you like."
     He caught her hand in his.  "I like.  Oh, god, I like." He turned his
cheek and kissed her palm, inhaling the scent of her.  She smelled like
sandalwood and sassafras.
     "Dinner.  A movie.  The theatre.  A ball game, anything," he said.
"I just want to be with you."
     "I would like...I would like to listen to music with you," she said
slowly.
     "Opera?  Jazz?  Rap?"
     A tiny corner of her mouth turned up, ever so briefly, and he
realized that he had never seen her smile.  He wondered what it would be
like to be smiled at by her.
     "Blues," she said.  "Pick someone you like."
     "Tomorrow?" he asked.  "Eight o'clock?"
     She drew her hand out of his grasp.  "Yes.  Meet me in the lobby."
     She was getting out of the car.  Jake knew a moment of panic--what if
she was lying?  What if this was all a trick, a deception?  She would
disappear and he would not even have the photographs any more.  Could he
trust her?
     She walked into the building, carrying his heart.

     Suuare was there, at eight o'clock, as she had promised.  With
infinite relief he saw her small figure, cool and poised, sitting in the
lobby when he arrived.  When she stood up he went weak in the knees.
     She was wearing an emerald green silk dress with spaghetti straps and
deep cleavage.  He could see the tops of her breasts, remembered how they
had looked, so soft, so round.  Almost involuntarily, he wondered what
they would feel like in his hands, and immediately after wondered how he
was going to get through the rest of this evening without embarrassing
himself.
     She walked towards him, solemn as a judge, her dark eyes huge in her
face.  She was so beautiful he was going to die, he thought.  Her hair
fell like ink down her back, straight, shining, unadorned.  The emeralds
in her ears were as real as her mouth, her eyes.
     Her eyes were like black velvet holes; he would fall in and drown, he
was certain.
     "You look very nice," she said as he reached for her hand.  "I like
cuff links."  She turned his hand over in hers, looking at the heavy gold
links.  His heart pounded in his ears.
     "You look...stunning," he said when he found his voice. "I'm going to
go in fear of my life tonight."
     She drew her arm through his and turned to the door. "Then we will
have to stay among crowds," she said.  "Where are we going?"
     To hell, he wanted to answer, but held the door for her.  "A little
club out near Venice.  I know the band that's playing tonight.  Are you
hungry?"
     He drove in a daze, wondering how he had gotten so far in so fast.
He wanted her so badly.  He didn't know what to do.  He felt lost and
helpless.
     At the club, the doorman waved in Jake without a second glance,
staring at Suuare.  The lights were low, the music sharp and sparkling in
the near darkness.  The balding piano player nodded at Jake as he came in,
winked when he saw the woman beside him.
     "Would you like to dance?"  he asked her.
     She came into his arms, and he thought he would die right there.  She
was warm and soft and smelled incredible, and she stood looking up at him
with those enormous eyes. He put an arm around her and pulled her in
tighter than he had intended, though not half as close as he wanted.  Her
hand in his was light and strong.
     The music was seductive, low and melancholy and hypnotic.  The
keyboards set a slow, rhythmic tempo, with the saxophone weaving in and
out of the melody like a wandering lover.  It was sad and sensuous and
evocative, all at once, and their bodies moved to it marvelously.  He
closed his eyes to feel her better, wondering at how perfectly she fitted
under his chin, in his arms.

     You never really know, you never really know.
     You make your plans so carefully, but it burns out of control.
     You never really see--no, you never really see--
     Something hiding in the shadows brings you screaming to your knees.
     You can hold it in your hands, think you feel it in your soul;
     You never really know, you never really know.
     Who can ever tell? Who can ever tell?
     Will it lift you up to heaven or drag you down to hell?
     You can hold it in your hands:  don't ever let it go...
     You never really know, you never really know.

     Suuare felt the music moving through her, sweeping her away on it,
relieving her of the need to talk, to guard, to watch.  She felt relaxed
and safe in Jake's arms, feeling the strength in them.  The music changed,
the bands changed, and sometimes they just sat and listened to the music.
Neither of them drank much, but at all times she was aware of him beside
her, undemanding, but overwhelmingly present. Most of the time he just
held her hand quietly.  She was not unaware of the passion trembling
through him, but she put it out of her mind and concentrated on the music
swelling through the darkness.
     It grew late, and the band announced the last number. Jake stood and
drew her into his arms again.  He danced well, she thought.  So many men
thought they could dance, but Jake was graceful, unconscious, deft.  She
looked at him, caught him looking at her.
     She smiled.
     He froze, as though in shock, and then halted in the middle of the
dance floor as the other dancers swept around them, an island in the
middle of the music.
     "Suuare," he said, and she dared not guess at what was in his voice.
His hands, the touch of him against her, were persuasive enough.
     As though seeing him for the first time, she looked at him and felt
an enormous change seep through her.  His eyes were dark in the half-light
and sleepy-lidded, but the intelligence behind them was unmistakable.  His
mouth was full, his lips large and sensual.  She wanted that mouth; she
wanted it on her lips, her neck, her nipples.  She could imagine its fine
velvet, its soft insistence, his tongue wet and slow...
     She pulled out of his arms and caught his hand, leading him off the
dance floor.  He stopped her when they reached the hallway leading out to
the parking lot and turned her to face him.  Without speaking, holding her
eyes with his, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her.  No warning
from her body prepared her for her response.  Her mouth opened greedily
under his, and suddenly he was pressing her up against the wall, his hands
in her hair, holding her face, stroking her earlobes as his tongue took
her mouth.  She welcomed him, feeling the fabric of his suit against her
nipples, his big body pressed up against hers, his erection between them
like an unacknowledged promise.
     And then he placed both hands against the wall on either side of her
face and pushed himself away from her. He stood looking down at her, his
face open and vulnerable, and then looked down.
     "I'm sorry,"  he said.  "I shouldn't have done that. You
just....overwhelm me sometimes.  Please don't be angry at me."
     "I'm not angry with you, Jake," she said.  "May we go?"
     He held the door for her.
     She was silent in the car, at the apartment, in the elevator; he
wondered what she was thinking.  When the elevator stopped at the
penthouse level, she motioned him out first.  Her door was locked not by
keys but by a touch- pad:  she made him watch while she punched in the
combination.
     "No secrets, Jake," she said, with a small smile. "I want you to see
this."
     It was a jungle indeed.  As they stepped into the entryway, Jake
could feel the change in temperature.  It was humid, hot, and green.
Plants were everywhere, in enormous tubs, in planters, hanging from the
ceiling.  Here and there sat a chair, a table, looking out of place.  It
was extravagant, this indoor jungle.  Suuare touched a button and
music--melancholy, exotic--floated around them.
     She took his hand and led him out onto the terrace.
     The sky above them was midnight blue; Los Angeles lay below them like
diamonds scattered thickly across black velvet.  The terrace was lush with
greenery.  A small table and one chair sat in the center of it.  To one
side, an artificial pool held goldfish.  Among the plants, Suuare in her
emerald green dress looked like a nymph come to life.
     "It's...amazing," he said finally.  "I feel like I'm in Tahiti."
     "But it is all dying," she said.  She held up the underside of a
leaf.  Knowing nothing of plants, he looked at her quizzically.  "Too much
heat.  Too much smog.  They need protection."
     The way she said it did strange things to the inside of him.
     "I can build you a solarium," he said.  His practiced eye took in the
line of the roof, the lintel over the French doors.  "If you don't want it
too big."
     She shook her head.  "It doesn't have to be big," she said.
     He watched her move among the plants, touching each one as if it were
a personal friend.  She ran a hand along the petal of a flower, drew a
finger down into the bowl of a bromeliad.  Hair stood up along his arms.
God, if she would touch him like that...
     "This is my sanctuary," she said.  "I hide here,"
     "What are you hiding from?"
     "I was born in Macao," she said softly.  "My mother worked in a
brothel.  I do not know and do not care who my father was, but he was
probably French or British.  My mother died in a bus accident when I was
eight years old. The women of the house brought me up.  The madam made
sure I had some education, because she thought men would pay more."
     Jake shifted, opened his mouth to speak, but she went on quickly.
     "I was auctioned off at age twelve to a much older man. I will not
tell you his name.  He is dead now, anyway.  He bought me because I was
young and because I was a virgin. He used to lend me out to his friends to
secure political favors, but he also gave me a room of my own and clothes
and sent me to school.  When he died he left me some money and I came to
America."
     She knew he was looking at her but she could not look back.  She felt
him take her hand gently.
     "One thing I can say and be proud of, I have never been a drug
addict.  In Macao, most of the girls were.  But I was enough of a slave
already.  I am not ashamed of what I have done.  I have had to survive,
and the only thing I had was my body and my face."
     She looked at him then, caught his eyes full on her. "Jake, I have
had two abortions.  I have sold myself to countless men.  I have had VD
seven times; by a miracle, I don't have HIV.  I have been raped.  I have
been beaten. But I am here and I am free now.  I will not be bound by the
past but I cannot ignore it.  "
     Jake didn't know what to say.  He'd suspected some similar past, but
couldn't think how to react.  Her experience--her whole world--had been so
different from his past, which now seemed so privileged. So he held her
hand in silence and listened to the wind.
     Finally he said, "Alex and I came from different pasts.  I once told
her the past was behind, that it didn't matter, that it couldn't shape the
future.  I was wrong.  I won't make that mistake again.  It's not just
some abstraction you can ignore, it's the fabric of your life. You have to
deal with it.  Alex couldn't handle the tensions it set up in her life,
and she lost herself.  I lost her.
     "I don't want to lose you, Suuare.  I'll do anything I have to, to
prove that."
     He smiled, a small, painful smile.  "I won't ask you to sleep with
me, you can stop worrying about that.  If all you want is a friend, that's
what I'll be.  Just....don't shut me out of your life.  Don't cut me off.
Please."
     "I won't," she said simply, and came into his arms.
      He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. It smelled
exotic and wild, as if some flower had been flown halfway around the world
to die and leave its fragrance in her hair.  It was soft and fine, and as
his hands met behind her back, her hair fell over them like a veil.
     "What--" He choked, and started over.  "What do you want, Suuare?"
     Her hands came up, under his jacket, skimming lightly over his back,
coming round to slide up his chest, his neck, pulling his head down to
hers.
     "You, Jake," she whispered.
     He kissed her very softly.  He tasted sweet and hot. His lips broke
free enough to smile at her, then he was kissing her neck, slowly, taking
his time.  He kissed under her ear and laughed when her dangling earring
tickled his nose.  He closed his teeth briefly on her ear, and then
breathed gently into it.
     As she watched, his hands came forward and took hers. She suppressed
a gasp at their warmth.  She could feel his pulse through his hands,
pounding.  Slowly he raised her hands to his lips.  Not taking his eyes
from hers, he turned her hands palm upwards and slowly ran his tongue down
each one, from her wrists to the tips of her middle fingers.  He drew her
right hand up to place on his cheek--she felt a light stubble there, and
felt sudden warmth between her thighs.  He brought her left hand up to his
mouth and slowly thrust his tongue between her fingers, drawing it in and
out, in and out, all the time with his eyes on hers. His face was very
close now, she could hear the delicate wet sounds his tongue made as it
slid across her palm to lick her fingers, one by one.  His eyes were
gleaming with a mischievous sweet brightness.
     She felt wetness now on her thighs, felt a delicious ache in her
fingers, her whole body.  She could feel her pulse racing as his hands
came up behind her head, tangling themselves in her hair, pulling her
closer to him.  They slipped down her neck to her shoulders, her waist,
and then he pulled her powerfully against him, so that she was pressed up
against him the length of her body.  She breathed in his smell, warm and
tangy and male, a mixture of sweat and warm wool and a clean smell of
shampoo from his hair.
     His mouth worked on hers, and she parted her lips, feeling his tongue
meet hers eagerly.  They darted and slid, working wet and eager together
in her mouth, then his.  She could no longer tell which of them was
moaning.  His hands came down to grab her buttocks and pull them fiercely
against him.  His body heat burned through his clothes to her; she could
feel the bulge of his cock against her.  She heard his breathing change
from a light shallow pant to deep, ragged breaths as he kissed her, kissed
her, kissed her...
     When he broke free, finally, she was so entwined with him she was
practically wearing his jacket; his hair was in his eyes again.  They
didn't speak, only now she could look him in those beautiful hazel eyes
without embarrassment.
     After that kiss, she knew everything about him she wanted to know.
     Her hands brushed up, and over, and around his chest and shoulders,
feeling the hard muscles sliding under the smooth skin.  She loosened his
tie and began to unbutton his shirt.  Without taking his lips from her
neck, he shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor.  With
graceful fingers she pulled his shirt out of his pants, pushed it down
over his muscled arms.  His chest was smooth and muscled, the skin firm
under her cool fingers.  Dark hair spread over his pectorals, leading her
eyes and imagination downward over a beautifully modeled stomach to where
it disappeared under his belt.
     This time when he put his arms around her, she could feel him
trembling. He kissed her, many small swift kisses over her face and neck,
and she murmured, "Yes!" to each one.  His hands slid off her shoulders,
but then ranged uncertainly around her back, her side, searching.  She
smiled under his kiss, then gasped as his hands slid up inside her skirt
along her thighs. Her hands roamed over his chest, over the dark, soft
hair there that tickled her face when she ran her tongue over his nipples.
     She began to unbuckle his belt, slowly, but he covered her hand with
his.
     "Are you sure you want this?" he asked.  "I can't promise to stop
once we get started."
     She laughed in her throat.  "We have started."  She worked the buckle
loose and unzipped him.  Immediately his shaft sprang into her hand, hard
and hot.  "Oh, God," he breathed in her ear.
     He lifted her dress off over her head and threw it on top of his
abandoned jacket.  She wore nothing underneath. The clothes mingled on the
floor like old lovers.  His eyes widened when her breasts came into view,
the nipples hard and demanding.  He touched them gently, circling the left
nipple, then the right with seductive, teasing fingers.  His hands slid
along her skin, from her shoulders down to her breasts.  He cupped them in
each hand, breathing on the nipples, then slid his hands down, down, down.
     "Oh, yes!" he said.  He took her hands and guided them to his waist;
she peeled his pants off very slowly, watching as his thighs, his knees,
his feet were revealed, and then he too was naked.  She looked at him, the
fine, lean, muscles, the elegance in the way he moved, the long jaw and
full mouth.  He was beautifully built, athletic and graceful.  His eyes
were intent, looking through her as they had that evening in the trailer.
He left her standing and knelt at her feet.
     Beginning at her ankles, he deliberately and delicately kissed all
the way up her calf to her knee, her thigh.  He reached the top of her
thighs and buried his face in her. Her back arched as his tongue slicked
into her--once, twice, again.  He curled his tongue into all her secret
places, as his hands stroked up and down her buttocks.  As he worked, he
"Mmmm"'d deep in his throat; the vibration swirled up from her inner core
to the back of her throat.  She could hardly breathe for the intensity of
it.  His lips against her wet folds were warm and soft and luscious,
teasing, nibbling, licking.  Shivers cascaded down her body; her nipples
were so hard they hurt.  She could hear herself giving little moaning
yelps but she could not stop it.  Heat gathered deep in the pit of her
body as the orgasmic energy built in her with every thrust of his tongue.
     His hands slid under her, lifting her hips higher, supporting her
while he licked and kissed.  She could not stand; she slumped against him
but his strength held her up easily.  She shuddered with the swelling
power, building in her until finally she cried out, quivering and gasping
his name as the wave broke over her.  Her hips thrust against his warm
mouth over and over, his tongue matching her movements.  He laughed deeply
and triumphantly when she subsided, eyes wide and fixed on his.
     He thrust his tongue deep into her mouth as he caught her up against
him.  He grunted into her neck and grasped her bottom in his hands,
lifting her off the floor.  To keep her balance, she put her arms around
his neck and wrapped her legs around him.
     His shaft was thick and hard, straining against his stomach.  Below
it his balls were heavy and swayed against his thighs.  She lost her
balance against him, clutching at his shoulders.  He shifted, and then
slid into her with one quick thrust, crying out into her ear.  He was
heavy and full inside her.  She tasted sweat--or tears--on his neck,
smelled his skin as he thrust over and over and over.  She couldn't get
enough of him, urging him deeper into her with every move.  Grasping one
of her legs in each hand, he spread her wide around him, forcing her
sensory focus onto the sensation of his cock sliding in her.  His rhythm
built and built, she felt him inside her hard as a rock, and then he
suddenly stopped.
     "What--" she started to say.
     But he gasped, his whole body shuddering as his release flooded into
her.  "Ah, God!" he cried.  It sounded like a sob.
     Suddenly his muscles relaxed and she felt his long legs and arms
folding around her, wrapping her against him, lowering them both to the
floor.  His breath was in her ear, ragged and broken.
     "Suuare...."
     He was on his knees, still buried inside her, carrying her with him,
her legs wrapped around his waist.  He enveloped her, immersing his face
in her hair, which fell across them both like a cloud the color of jet.
He rocked back and forth, back and forth with her.
     "Oh, God, Suuare, I wanted you so long, so long."
     She traced her fingers down the back of his neck, across his
shoulders, up again to knot together in his fine, thick hair.  "Look at
me, Jake,"
     His eyes were sleepy and happy and open.  She looked into them and
smiled.  "Was it like you thought it would be?"
     "No," he smiled.  "It was better."
     She stroked his face tenderly.  "I didn't think I would ever want a
man again."
     "Maybe wanting isn't enough," he said quietly.  "Maybe there has to
be more."
     He breathed lightly over her breasts, holding her carefully.  She was
so small, so delicate.
     "Will you build me a jungle?"
     "Yes," he said, and kissed her lower lip.  "And fill it with flowers."

     Everything must change.
     Nothing stays the same.
     Everyone will change,
     No one stays the same....
     There aren't many things in life
     You can be sure of...
     Winter turns to spring;
     A wounded heart will heal,
     But never much too soon.
     Yes, everything will change:
     The young become the old,
     And mysteries do unfold
     'Cause that's the way of time.
     Nothing and no one doesn't change.

                           THE END

     -----------------------
"Church of Desire"  by Richie Sambora.  Richie Sambora appears twice on
the soundtrack to RSD but "Church of Desire" is from his album "Stranger
in This Town".

"You Never Really Know" by George S. Clinton.  Clinton is the composer of
the music used in "Red Shoe Diaries"; the piano player in the club is
George Clinton (he's also the balding piano player at Alex's birthday
party).

"Everything Must Change"  by Bernard Ighner.  "Everything Must Change"
appears on the soundtrack to "Red Shoe Diaries" but is not apparently
featured in the movie.


--------------------------------------

I appreciate any and all criticism, at whatever level you are comfortable
with.  I have a fairly tough hide, and while childish comments will be
toasted, serious evaluation will be welcome. I hope you enjoyed this
story.

Sarah Stegall
[e-mail]

*******************************************************************
Sarah Stegall      |"Do you think I'm spooky?"
[e-mail]     |--Agent Fox Mulder, "Squeeze"
DDEB, X-phile      |--The X-Files
*******************************************************************


--
Kellie Matthews-Simmons//[e-mail]
Member: SFLA&EBS,  PSEB,  DDEB,  X-phile   "Ego veno eos in vulcos minos."
"Sometimes the need to mess with their heads outweighs the millstone of
 humiliation." --Fox Mulder, X-Files "Squeeze"