The windows are immaculate, acting as a mirror with a city night backdrop. You peer at your reflection in it passively.
Your hair is too long. The bottom layer tapers around your shoulders. It’s almost gone platinum due to all the sun you’ve gotten outdoors, like how your skin never tanned but burned and the amount of freckles on it doubled.
In four years you’ve gained at least eight inches, proving all your teachers wrong about bad posture leading to a curved back and short height—you slouch even now and you’re still a head taller than everybody.
You don darker colors now, like burgundy, so you don’t stray too far from your original style but maybe subconsciously you wanted to appear more mature.
Rose has grown, too. At first you’d wondered if she would recognize you, and now you barely recognize her.
She’s become the vixen she’s always spoken like, the kinds found only in song lyrics; an immeasurable beauty.
Never one to give up the classical pieces, she continues to paint her lips with black and wear it all the same. Today she’s got a plum pencil skirt hiked up to her ribs and a high-collared blouse, fastened with the same pearls she has as earrings. She would have been freezing if not for the amazingly unpretentious fur shawl tied around her shoulders, now hanging over an armrest. Crisp French tips toy with her new angled bob, highlighted with her signature headband.
You keep trying to peek at her eyes to see if they glimmer when she laughs but her constantly half-lidded state prevents any stolen glances. You take this to mean that they sparkle. You hope she’ll laugh soon.
Like you, Rose is facing the window, though actually looking through it instead of using it as means of checking herself out. Her profile is as smooth as it always was but it seems more adult, somehow. Her figure is slim
like you dreamt it would be and slight; pixie-like.
Your breathing is starting to get rough, your heartbeat faster, just because you kind of want to see her up closer. Must you admit it?
“I missed you, Lalonde.”
Rose gives a dainty snort and the drink in her hand ripples. “Did you?”
Maybe not her snarky conversational skills. Or maybe so. You lean back in your leather wing backed chair, settling in. You’re glad now you splurged on the pompous hotel. Any building lacking floral arrangements worth more than your organs and complimentary bottles of decades-old Chablis would not suit her.
She hasn’t turned to face you so you want to intrigue her further. “I did.” Her mouth forms into a thin line. Interest gained.
You lean over to pat the thick cushions on the pale chaise lounge next to you. “Let’s chat.”
A twitch at the corner of her lips tells you you’ve nearly won her. Rose takes a lazy stride, a little daunting with the minute shake of the hips, over to you but rather than the lounge she takes a spot on the armrest of your chair. You’d guess it’s because she likes to give you belittling looks when she’s higher up than you.
Her glass has only a few sips left and you move to take it. “Might I suggest a white wine?”
Your fingertips barely grasp it before she switches it to the other hand. Her jaw is set firmly and you raise a brow in response. “I don’t take suggestions.”
Is she going to act like that? Then, you’ll have to go by her rules—polished by you.
“How about orders?” Eyes clouding, your vision of her gets hazy.
She doesn’t even have the time to blink, you knock the goblet out of her fingers so fast. It doesn’t shatter as it hits the carpeting, only cracks, but the rattling does drown out the sound Rose’s throat makes when you take her by the shoulders and kiss her.
When you stop Rose coughs, more out of surprise than suffocation, as you slide her off the armrest onto your lap. Your thumb grazes her lips. If there are black smudges on it you’ll want to stain her clothes.
“Neither of us likes to play games anymore, Rose.”
You’d swear it, she’d deny it; her entire face flushes pink. Her eyes burn holes into your hand as they watch it smooth over her neck, her shoulder, her breast. You barely graze her skin but she’s still affected, and shuts her eyes tight when you begin to caress it.
“What’s wrong, Lalonde?” Your fingers walk over her collarbones, undoing a single button on her blouse. “Don’t know what to think now?”
Rose is fidgeting something wild and it makes undressing her more challenging, but not impossible. You trace a circle at the base of her throat, smirking at the stubborn vibrations refusing to be heard, and almost jump when she starts speaking, her words interspersed with mewls.
“I think you’re”—ah—“demanding attention from”—oh—“anywhere you can get it, any kind that you can get and it so happens”—ooh—“that you are arousing attention out of me.”
You lightly pinch her just to make her gasp. Just to hear her gasp. “’Arousing attention’ outta you, huh? I guess you could put it that way.”
You let her catch her breath, or at least a few huffs of it, and you slip your fingers down her blouse, opening another button in the process, and Rose all but chokes.
Her skin is silky, as you imagined, and hot to the touch. You nearly split your lip in two, you’re biting it so hard in trying not to burst.
You indulge in the sound of the chiffon crinkling its way out of her skirt, made louder by her constant wriggling, and the gentle pop of the final buttons. You smile at your imagination turning to reality.
“A guilty pleasure?” You fiddle about with the lavish brassiere—lacey and black, how ridiculously cliché. A satin bow marks the middle, of course, and you’d enjoy undoing it but you feel it’s not time yet to do so. You still give it a tug. “Doesn’t seem quite your style…”
She’s as red as her name might imply and when you smile against her shoulder you can feel that she’s just as hot. You smile wider.
You soon realize there is no padding in her lingerie as the ivory, turning scarlet, skin peaks through each eyelet and every embroidered petal clings to the curves of Rose. Magnificent.
There’s little more than a handful, really, so you can easily cup an entire breast in one hand. You anticipate a sharp glare from her and gain it.
Her lips (gloss indeed smudged) are tight, silently asking you to give them a peck, until she opens it to speak. Her voice sounds as sour as she wants to look, and though her sentences are even her eyes are becoming half-lidded and give her away.
“You are an absolute lizard so lacking in self-esteem I’m positive there’s a part of me that pities you, somewhere deep under the layers of loathsome intensions crafted for only you.”
You could cry. “I’m touched.”
You don’t cry obviously, but you do touch her more. This time you dig your fingers into her ribs and her whole body quakes.
Was that a tear rolling down your cheek? No, you’re still good; it was sweat. The room is pretty stuffy.
It’s common courtesy (and sense) to not ruin other people’s things, so you push her blouse down to her elbows instead of ripping every one of its seams and tearing it to pieces.
With an arm around her shoulders curling back over and holding her chin in place, dazed and dizzying eyes watch the other hand crawl down her side.
Her hips and thighs are bathed in black and there’s a striking contrast between your hand and it. You almost can’t believe what you’re doing.
A finger dips underneath the hem; you kiss Rose again before she has time to protest. You can feel a familiar fabric and you’d smile at the thought of her buying a matching lingerie set if her perfume wasn’t making you feel out of sorts. Is it vanilla? That seems so generic it’s ridiculous. It has something tart, like blackberry. Like wine. Maybe it was the Cabernet she downed earlier. Its scent is better than its taste, in your opinion.
You tell the crook of her neck how good it smells and it responds with a choked whine.
Hah. Whine. Wine. Cute.
You should be shot.
The back of your head is screaming death threats at you and is being completely ignored by your hand. It might as well be a different entity because you don’t feel like you’re in control of it. Not that you have much in control.
Your lips are dragged up Rose’s throat and over her cheek. You’re steady compared to her. Her earrings are trembling more than she is, like chimes in a disconcerting breeze. You like them. You take the opportunity to kiss her lobe.
“Body’s gettin’ hot,” you whisper in an equally steamy voice, if you do say yourself. “Don’t you hate to get turned on by a lizard?”
“The body naturally reacts to touch, whether or not it approves of the person touching it,” she responds almost robotically, it’s so obvious to her.
Her thighs are smooth and you involuntarily picture the rest of her being this smooth.
The room is really muggy, or that’s just your head, and you’re practically panting, possibly drooling, over Rose and you’re not sure how much farther to go, and just when you swallow something caught in your throat Rose pushes your hand away from going any farther and looks you in the eyes.
You can’t see very well at this point, not hardly, so you just kind of stare at each other for the longest second of your life.
Rose smiles—you can see that much. You keen a little.
“Neither of us likes to play games anymore, Dave.”
Rose kisses you with a missed fervor.
You drink her up.