Authors: Jaffarian;others
He handed me the helmet and helped me buckle the strap. Settling on the bike, he held out a helping hand and, as instructed, I threw my leg over the saddle. I gasped as I slipped down the angle of the seat to come to rest in intimate contact with his denim-clad back. My feet fumbled onto the pegs, and I placed hesitant hands on his waist.
I was glad my voice was steady as I gave him directions.
“Ready? You might want to hang on a bit tighter…” The words had barely left his lips when he started up the engine and the machine beneath us throbbed with power. As the motorcycle leapt into motion I was nearly thrown off and, terror-struck, I flung my arms about him in a death grip.
Crushed against his back, my hair whipping across the visor, I clutched him for dear life. I couldn’t see much through my flying locks, but the impression of speed and danger was clear, the black road beneath us tearing past, the streetlamps streaks of light. My skirt swirled ever higher about my thighs in the wind, but I didn’t dare spare a hand to satisfy the demands of modesty.
I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage as if attempting to reach escape velocity and launch itself into outer space. The denim of his jacket was cool against my cheek. I could feel the muscles beneath his skin, still smell the spicy aroma of him. His hips brushed against the insides of my legs, and I censored that thought as I felt a blush threatening at the direction my fancies were taking.
He slowed to take a corner and pulled up outside my house. I unclenched my hands from about his torso with difficulty, and he slid from the bike, holding out a hand to help me dismount. My knees were trembling, my heart still beating like a tom-tom. I handed him my helmet and attempted in vain to restore order to my hair.
Turning me about so he could see my face in the streetlight, he peered into my eyes.
“Are you all right? For a moment I thought you were going to squeeze the last bit of oxygen out of my lungs! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Scare me? That was the single most frightening, alarming, terrifying ride of my life. It was…fun! Can we do it again?” I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was exhilarated! All that speed and power was exciting.
“Seriously? Sure, but maybe not tonight.” He chuckled, relieved.
“Okay, I’ll hold you to that.” I was a tad disappointed not to be taking another turn about the highway. “Would you like to come in for coffee?” I hoped he would realize that “coffee” was not a euphemism.
“Sure.”
We sat on the couch, mugs in hand, discussing the movie. I was enjoying his company but hard as I tried to fend it off, tried banishing yesterday’s image of the bare-bottomed girl under his hands to the back of my mind, the vision kept haunting me. Finally my curiosity and, yes, ugly jealousy got the better of me.
“Remember the girl having the ‘Made in Russia’ tattoo on her butt? You seemed so, um, intent on her…”
“I remember her. Yes.” I could tell he wasn’t going to give me any help because of the single raised eyebrow that indicated he found this turn in the conversation highly amusing.
“Oh, look, I’m just going to ask.” Having made this brave utterance I found that my voice had dried up, so I took an intemperate gulp of coffee, provoking a savage bout of choking and spluttering.
He pounded me on the back until my coughing fit subsided.
While I was still incapacitated, he observed, “If you’re going to ask about the ‘Made in Russia’ thing, I should tell you I have no idea of the story behind that. I didn’t ask. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better not to know!”
I shook my head, wiped my streaming eyes and took the plunge.
“Okay. Thank you. What I really wanted to ask…what I’m trying to work out…oh, dammit! What are you doing with me?” Hmmm. It didn’t come out quite the way I’d intended.
“Nothing. Yet.” He grinned lasciviously. “What did you have in mind?”
I ignored this sally. “So, you’re not interested in Miss Slavic Nude in a more than professional way, then?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Not interested in her, or any of my other clients in more than a business way. Look, I don’t usually date customers. But I have to say, I was very tempted to break that rule for you. I - ”
For a long moment he searched for words. “The time you came in to start the tattoo on your ankle…ah, Remy, I don’t know how I kept my hands off you before that, so close to your, um, your, well, that first time you came in. The scent of your hair so close, that incredible view down your shirt, your blushes.”
He laughed, as much, I thought, at himself as anything, and went on. “You were lovely. Then when you came back and those pretty legs were exposed, I’m sorry. I knew I was making you squirm, but I couldn’t help myself. You felt so…good. I wanted to ask you out, but there was my stupid rule, then when
you
asked
me
it just seemed like fate. Meant to be. And here we are.”
“Just
where
are we?” I had to ask, had to hear him say it.
He made an exasperated noise. “I’ve fallen for you. Here, let me show you something that might convince you.”
He stood up and tugged his shirt out of the waist of his jeans, slipping it over his head in one fluid movement. Disrobing so abruptly was not at all what I’d expected.
“Er, um, that’s alright, you don’t have to prove anything—” This was not at all what I’d anticipated.
“Sshhh. Hush for a moment. You need to see this.” He dropped the shirt to the floor.
Not taking my eyes off him, I scrabbled after it, not sure exactly how I was going to accomplish it but determined to get him dressed again before this went any further.
“I’m sure there is, but, um, now may not be the right time—”
He turned away from me, revealing his bare back, and my mouth shut with a snap mid-stall.
Etched on the smoothly muscled skin of his torso was a lusciously naked beauty, a lovely zaftig woman, all ample curves and dimples, smiling like a fox in the henhouse, her generous body inked in loving detail. She looked proud and confident. And dare I say it? She looked rather like me.
“That’s not new, is it? When did you get that?” I was burning with curiosity, and more.
“No, she’s not new. She’s been with me a long, long time. She’s the woman of my dreams.” He hesitated, turning to face me again. I was having a hard time paying proper attention to his words while confronted with his semi-nakedness. He sank back onto the couch and took both my hands in his.
“Can’t you get it through your head? You’re the one I want. You’re the one I’ve been dreaming about, not a skinny girl with bad taste in tattoos.”
“Oh,” I said, in a very small voice.
“Oh? Is that the best you can do?” He was laughing at me.
There were no words to express what I was feeling, but action speaks volumes. I launched myself into his arms, and all of a sudden neither of us was laughing.
His bare chest was hard beneath my fingers, the silken skin warm and smooth. Long lashes brushed his cheek as his eyes half closed under my touch. His hands snaked about my waist and under my blouse to find my own bare skin, and the sensation was as electrifying as the first touch of ink had been, but far more pleasurable.
As I bent my head to his, I saw my long auburn elflocks brush about his shoulders, raising a trail of goose bumps in their wake. Matching goose bumps wended their way along my spine as he swept his hands up my back, drawing me closer.
Our lips met, and I felt as if the clocks stopped. His lips were soft and expert, waking a passion in me that had been dormant for too long. I met and matched the soft foray of his tongue along my upper lip, my hands hard on his shoulders, urging him on. He needed little encouragement and with a lithe movement deposited me beneath him. The long luscious length of his body hard against mine took my breath away.
He laid a hot path of kisses down my throat, paused and teased his way back along the slope of my collarbone and the curve of my neck. The spicy-sweet scent of him intoxicated me.
Burying his face in my hair, lips against my ear, he whispered: “What are we going to tattoo on that inviting hide next, Remy, my sweet?”
Hmm. I could see it now: I was destined to become the Illustrated Woman.
About the Author
Elizabeth Angus was born in Melbourne, Australia, sometime in the swinging sixties, and has lived there most of her life. There are thus forty-some years of odd and varied information crammed into her brain, snippets of which emerge at odd moments in both writing and conversation. She has been writing for as long as she can remember; even before learning that the odd little squiggles in books were words, she was making up stories in her head. Though she’ll read anything if desperate, her preferred genres are science fiction, fantasy and mystery, preferably with some romance thrown in. Her favourite colour is purple, except for the days when it is black. Or red. Or green. Apart from writing, her passions are travel, quilting and art, not necessarily in that order. If she could live anywhere in the world apart from Australia, it would be Canada. In order to eat and pay the bills, Elizabeth’s working life has been spent in libraries, but she is currently searching for a more lucrative and less fulltime career in order to spend more time writing and fuel her escalating shoe addiction.
A
W
ORK OF
A
RT
Judy Bagshaw
Dedication
To my many big beautiful friends. I think you’re all works of art!
D
ARBY
M
ARSHALL SHIFTED
on the hard wooden stacking chair, trying to find any position that would be comfortable. She was tired, she was bored, and she asked herself for the umpteenth time what had possessed her to bring her fractal art to a community craft sale. Especially one where the seating was designed by some size nothing sadist to torture her size twenty-six butt. Thankfully the day was almost over.
She was more accustomed to having her work—her paintings and sculptures—in galleries. To have allowed herself to succumb to doing a favor by taking a table—well, it irked.
She looked around at the other vendor’s tables scattered around the community center hall. They appeared to be doing a brisk business. Although she’d had lots of lookers, she hadn’t had any takers. She couldn’t blame her lack of customers on the weather. It was a perfect September day. She sighed and changed position once again.
She perked up a little when a young couple stopped at her table.
“Your pictures are so…um…unusual.” The girl flashed her a too-bright smile.
Darby inwardly cringed, but plastered a similar strained smile on her own face.
“Thank you,” she replied, standing. “It’s fractal art. I design it on the computer.”
“No kidding.” The young man picked up a picture and stared at it for a long moment. The piece was a vivid blue with various sized circles ringed in orange and yellow. “Way cool. I didn’t know you could do stuff like that on the computer.”
“Oh yes,” Darby said. “In fact—”
“How much is this one? It’s kind of pretty,” the girl said, annoying Darby with her rude interruption. She held up a whimsical piece Darby called ‘Strawberries and Cream’ that looked almost satiny in texture with vivid red stylized berries scattered on the creamy background.
“One hundred dollars framed and signed,” she replied. “I’m offering a bargain just for today.”
“Bargain?” the girl squealed. “It’s not that pretty.” She dropped it back on the table, nearly sending several of the fractals to the floor. The couple strolled off shaking their heads and muttering.
Darby slumped back with a sigh. She wasn’t surprised. It was a craft show after all. People wanted to get something for next to nothing. Her sister, Connie, had told her this would happen, but Darby, being Darby, wouldn’t listen.
She had always been like that, strong minded and charging into things without thinking them through. She had the kind of personality people described as a force of nature. They were drawn to her enthusiasm and innate optimism.
She had convinced herself that her work would speak for itself, and people would be happy to own a piece of original artwork. After all, her acrylics and sculptures sold well at the shops and galleries around town. Besides, she had been kind of badgered into taking a table by her parent’s obnoxious neighbor, Sylvia Donaldson, the mastermind behind the whole affair. Sylvia had a way of wearing you down and guilting you into volunteering against your better judgement. Connie called her the “Terminator.” As kids, Darby and her sister had been railroaded into all sorts of things from serving tables at community suppers to collecting junk for the church white elephant sales. As if reading Darby’s mind, Sylvia bore down on the table.
“Darby dear. How are we doing?”
How Darby hated that annoying singsong voice. “Gee, Sylvia, I don’t know how ‘we’re’ doing. I’m doing bupkis. It seems that fractals aren’t the flavor of the day.”
“Well, they are rather different, aren’t they?” Sylvia remarked dismissing Darby’s work with a flick of her hand. “Maybe you should’ve brought in some of those lovely ceramics and wonderful paintings like you have for sale at the Griffith gallery instead of these…things.”