Yearn (34 page)

“To beautiful flaws, long may they reign.”

Their glasses touched. Sara leaned back against a pillow, letting the warming cognac stream through her. It was still light outside but the sun had dipped below Piccadilly and filled the bedroom with a soft late afternoon glow, the reddish light catching at the gilt and bronze. It felt intensely intimate, as if they were old girlfriends or young girls at boarding school, and for once the habitual aloneness that had shadowed Sara all her life temporarily abated.

“Besides,” he added, smiling, “we all have our challenges. I, for example, have only one testicle.”

At which the tension broke like a bubble and they both roared, their faces thrown close together as the laughter caught like fire from one then back to the other. In her hysteria, Sara's hand accidentally brushed across his naked arm, and suddenly he caught her wrist, pulled her toward him, and kissed her. His tongue pushed passionately into her mouth, searching, probing, the taste of him so sweet that in a flash Sara found her body responding before she could think rationally, moistening for him, all the longing, the desire sweeping up through her center. His hands slipped down into her blouse, searching for her breasts, her nipples. Gasping, she sat back.

“Aren't you gay?”

“Sometimes I falter. . . .”

“So you don't mind if you and I . . .”

“I think in some circumstances it's best not to intellectualize. Besides, the trouble with living in the twenty-first century is how everything gets shoehorned into labels, genres, including sexuality.”

He smiled up at her, one hand still caressing a breast, the planes of his face a beautiful patchwork of shadow and angles. Irresistible mystery.

“I always thought shoehorns were overrated myself,” she answered, desire thumping a tattoo across every inch of her. He drew her back toward him and kissed her for a second time. Sara had the sensation that she was sinking backward into a pool of warm water. She was losing control and she struggled against the sensation. She pulled away.

“Strip for me,” she said, shocking herself more than Stephen.

“That's pretty kinky,” he replied straight-faced, until Sara caught the glint in his eye.

“Strip for me. You're beautiful and I want to see it all—in the light.” Her voice became sultry, more controlling. She sat up straight. Now she wanted to be master, to choreograph when and if she touched him. She was determined not to subjugate herself to desire again, not after Hugh, not after the phone call the night before. Stephen stood slowly.

“In the middle of the room,” Sara ordered, pointing to the empty rug, where a square of late sunlight pooled. He walked into it. Immediately the ray of sun illuminated his head and shoulders, creating an aura around him. Now Sara could see how the very shape of his skull had a sculptural elegance, his ears transformed into translucent seashells that stood away from the soaring planes of his cheekbones, his straight, neat nose drawing attention down to the full lips, sardonic in their pout. The timeless nature of his beauty made Sara think of a medieval Nordic knight, then something older. He spun slowly in the light, his arms outstretched as if he were underwater. It was a floating dance, a seduction so joyously abandoned, the power of it caught in her throat.

He stopped rotating and faced her, his gaze steady and deep, the blue catching her own black pupils. Defiant, wry, and dead sexy. Without breaking this bridge between them he unbuttoned his shirt with excruciating slowness, then let it fall away from his torso, where it hung, like huge unfurled white petals, down from his leather belt.

His shoulders were broad—perhaps a little too broad for so slender a torso, but the width seemed to make him vulnerable, a flaw in his perfection. He obviously worked out, but Sara guessed he was a naturally slim man who exercised to plump out his physique. The curves of his chest swept down to large dark nipples feathered with fine blond hair, and as he lifted an arm Sara caught for a moment his armpit, finely dusted with long straight blond hair, as delicate as an etching. And she knew that if she buried her face into him, into this junction of limb and soft skin, his scent would be delicious, would be the trigger, the pheromonal aftershock of which would vibrate from the back of her throat right down to her sex.

He slipped his thumbs into his belt loops, pausing for a moment in mock shyness, his head tilted as if to tease. “Dare I?” Sara couldn't help dropping her eyes down to his crotch, caught in that fascination, that promise of discovery, of taste, touch, and scent that sweeps both women and gay men away—the sweet moment of before. Even though he was clothed she could see his penis, his erection now tenting out the front of his trousers. His cock looked beautiful and well formed, the clear outline of it visible through the linen. She lifted her gaze back to his face, and again caught a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Pulling the rest of his shirt out of his waistband, he let it descend to the floor with a soft slither.

“Oh God,” Sara whispered to herself, unable to remember the last time she'd wanted someone so much. He took one tantalizing step toward her. He ran his hands down the sides of his torso in a slow tease and stopped at his belt. Slowly he unbuckled it, allowing each notch to loosen one by one before pulling the leather belt out from his waistband. Suddenly he cracked it in the air like a whip. The sound resonated around the large high-ceilinged room, piercing the silence. Sara almost laughed but the intense expression on Stephen's face stopped her. She may be master now but he'd made it clear he too could take control whenever he wanted.

Without saying a word she knelt and shuffled toward him on her knees until her face, her mouth, was inches from his crotch. He stared down at her, his expression now changed again; he seemed almost tremulous, questioning and vulnerable. He lifted his arms above his head and struck the pose of a bound slave, the muscles rippling over his ribs. From Sara's perspective his body was a series of foreshortened curves, muscular sculptural arches, his erect nipples two apexes. She reached across and began unzipping his fly. Stephen stared down from above as his cock pushed out, hard and ready. The velvet head nudged her cheek, her lips. She looked up; Stephen's face was flushed. Under her palms she could feel his clenched buttocks. He groaned, then reached out to steady himself against a chair.

With a sudden violent yank she pulled his trousers down to his ankles. Fully exposed, the perfect symmetry of him was wondrous. Wrapping her hands around him, she ran her fingers down the shaft. Stephen, overcome with excitement, could barely stand. He roughly slipped his fingers through her hair and pulled her head toward him. But she resisted: this was to be her act, at her own pace and command.

Slowly, tantalizingly, she blew gently on the tip of his penis. It quivered, a drop of dew forming in a perfect tear. Moving closer, she rubbed it across her lips, the pungent earthy scent of him filling her nostrils, making her wet. Again Stephen groaned, his legs trembling. A beam of sunlight momentarily illuminated her face buried in his crotch, crystallizing the moment in golden warmth. She extended her tongue and slowly encircled the head. From the corner of her eye she saw Stephen's fingers, his hands now fallen by his sides, curled in pleasure. Now she took him fully into her mouth, greedily sucking, as deeper and deeper he drove, his groans and cries now filling the room. Her hands cupped each taut buttock, guiding him until she felt the tremor of a climax starting at the base and then she pulled away. She wanted him to come inside her. She wanted pleasuring.

Knowingly, Stephen pulled her to her feet, then, with his naked body and erect wet cock pressed against her clothed torso, he kissed her deeply. The scent of him filling both their mouths, she could have come then; his obvious excitement and pleasure was almost enough for her. While their lips were locked he thrust his hand between her legs, the wetness of her sticky against his fingers.

“I want you,” he groaned against her cheek. He pulled her down and across the polished parquet floor. He then threw her skirt up over her head. Embarrassed by her own body, Sara struggled, murmuring protests, but he was beyond hearing. With a sharp tug he ripped her pants at the side and threw them across the floor. Sara was wearing stockings so now her vagina was completely exposed. Lacking confidence, she held her legs closed, but using his knee Stephen managed to part them and she finally surrendered, staring up into the tent of her own skirt, transformed into a planetarium of glowing patterns and flowers. She lay there spread-eagled, fully clothed except for her crotch, the sun warming this naked apex. She'd never felt so exposed and so aroused. There was no escape and her own fear stared back at her.

Kneeling over her, Stephen buried his face into her, his full soft lips biting the inside of her thighs gently as he worked his way up. Slipping his large hands beneath her full buttocks, he began nuzzling her, his tongue brushing across the tip of her erect clitoris in excruciating pleasure, before taking her completely into his mouth, sucking gently as his fingers probed both her arse and vagina, slowly plying her open, to the elements, to him, to a great unfettered rush of pleasure as Sara thrashed and moaned above him. Finally she came so intensely she thought she might die from pleasure. He waited, then hauled himself over her. Staring down at her flushed face, he suddenly grinned.

“Good to know I haven't lost my touch.”

She smiled back at him. “I suppose it's like riding a bike—once you've learned you never forget. . . .” She could still feel his hard erection against her. “But you haven't come yet?”

“That's because . . .” And here he slowly entered her, the size of him making her groan involuntarily. He grinned again. “. . . I haven't finished yet.” He filled her completely; lifting her legs over his shoulders, he pulled back until the tip of him was nestled between her swollen lips and entered her all over again, this time as slowly as his excitement would allow. Over and over until he abandoned himself and they both galloped to a shuddering climax—his first, her second—while two flights below, Rosa, the housekeeper, returning from church and hearing the cries, crossed herself at the homemade shrine she kept in her bedroom.

Afterward they both lay entwined on the floor, watching the setting sun leave the grand old bedroom like the closing of life itself. And when the evening chill began to creep across the floor Sara took him to her bed, where they lay like two slightly bewildered children, cradled against each other in faint amazement.

“Sara . . .” Stephen murmured against her neck. She turned but he left the sentence hanging like the question that had already fallen across them.

“You know . . .” he finally continued, catching the silence before it snapped in two, “. . . we can't have a relationship.”

Deciding to rescue him, she replied, “But we can have some fun occasionally?” She tried to sound casual and succeeded.

“I can't see why not.” Stephen laughed, his deep voice resonant. “But there's one thing I want you to really understand. . . .”

Sara found herself tensing in anticipation of rejection. Dreading the worst, she interrupted: “But you don't have to say it.”

“But I do, I really do. . . . You're beautiful, no matter what you think. Don't change a thing, promise?”

She lay back and thought before answering. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so flushed with contentment, so elated to be in her own skin. At last she felt completely and utterly powerful.

“Promise.” She stared over at the shower of freckles that peppered his shoulders. She hadn't noticed them before. There was something else that had finally fallen into place, something that had been forming like a jigsaw at the back of her brain.

“You know this collection I want to put together? Well I want you to be the curator. And I think I've finally decided on the charity.”

There was silence from Stephen. Sara glanced across to find he'd fallen asleep.

 • • • 

The auction was in one of Christie's smaller, more exclusive rooms. It was already in mid-swing and the last two items had gone for three times their estimated price. Sara scanned the room. She and Stephen as well as a fantastic publicist had made sure that the rows of bidders read like a who's who of the wealthy, famous, and infamous of London. The slow burn of satisfaction had already started spreading through her. This time Sara didn't mind being visible; in fact she rather liked the huge banner that hung on the auctioneer's stand reading “The Sara Le Carin Collection.” She'd even enjoyed the radio and press interviews engendered by her unusual choice of charity and the unusually large amount of money the collection was expected to bring in, all of which was to be donated. For the first time in her life she found herself relishing who she was and what she was doing. She smiled up at Stephen, who was standing beside the auctioneer as the official curator of the collection. Stephen smiled briefly back down at her, then helped one of the assistants bring out the next artwork to be auctioned. They carried the huge photograph of her mother onto the stage.

“Lot six—a photograph of fashion model Daphne Le Carin, in spotted bikini, nineteen sixty-two. Originally taken for French
Vogue
, this is believed to be the only surviving print. Do we start at a thousand . . . ? We have a thousand from the gentleman in blue. . . .”

Sara swung around. She recognized the man, who was in his midseventies, as someone who was rumored to have been a lover of her mother's. So he must have been, she concluded. As if in agreement there was a faint ripple among the older bidders, all as curious as Sara was to know the truth of the matter. Another bidder put up his hand; it was another old friend, this time of her father's, and a bidding war began. Delighted, Sara leaned back in her chair. She was finally going to be rid of the photograph, and the idea of that particular sale going to her assigned charity—No Cut, a charity dedicated to the fight against female genital mutilation—thrilled her even more. And then there was Stephen.