He opens the door.
The tell-tale sizzle of a cast iron skillet sings from the kitchen. Our hero, tired like he's hung over, looks in confusion in the direction of the noise, down the hallway. The entire episode seems like a dream until he touches his face and winces, his cheek still tender from her slap. Then the memory of it all seeps in, last night, the strange country, the unmitigated tyranny of the sun.
Then other memories come to the surface. Bribery and trespassing most notably. Maybe breaking and entering if someone wanted to pin that on him. It certainly wouldn't be difficult.
He heads to the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror and observes the bags under his eyes, the stubble he had no way of removing. So he turns on the hot water, runs a small rag under it and lays it over his face, dabbing at his eyes while breathing in the steam.
After he takes it off, he looks to the medicine cabinet. It is open, just slightly, and he considers exploring. Then he remembers that this is her sanctum. He's not even been invited. Our hero tosses around various justifications before closing it all the way shut.
Light steps take him to the kitchen. It is open-aired, bathed in natural light, and everything in it looks somehow handcrafted. She is dressed modestly, for the first time that he's seen her, adorned in a large T-shirt with worn jeans. Her hair still looks to be damp. "You showered?"
She turns to look at him, some reservations in her eyes, before going back to the hash browns and egg dish she was making. "I did. Did it wake you?"
"No. You're still here."
She smiles at that and looks back to him after taking the hash browns out of the pan, turning the flame off and bringing the dish to a small table. "Please sit. I am still here. I could say the same for you." When he does not move she gestures to the table for two again. "I promise it's not poison. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it last night."
"I'm not worried about the poison. Just the—"
"We can talk about last night. I'd like to have breakfast first."
He nods after a moment and takes a seat. She places various plates and a mug in front of him. "I am sorry, I do not have tea. I only have café."
"That sounds good."
"You don't like café, though?"
"I'm very groggy so, this morning, I like it just fine. Please."
She nods and fills his mug. Then she places the egg dish in the middle of the table and pours honey over it. "It has to seep in. We need to give it a few moments." But when everything is set aside, she looks at him over her own steaming mug of coffee. Directly, openly, for the first time.
"So," he says after a sip of his coffee, "you want to tell me what's happening right now?"
"Not in particular." She smiles sweetly and, when he doesn't budge, she nods. "I suppose some answers are in order. We are having breakfast. I could say I'm sorry, but I'd rather say I'm sorry and make food you enjoy. It was also a good way to signify, I thought, that I wouldn't be running away today."
"Today."
"Today, My Mister." She nods. "I give you no promises about tomorrow." She cuts into the egg dish like it's pie and offers him a slice. "This is Mwshewsha; please do not make the joke where you say bless you. I hate that joke. I made it with love, unlike the dinner I left you with at the bar, which I made mostly with curiosity and spite." Another lovely smile is offered. "You are here, having breakfast with me. You are the first man who has ever done that. You are the first to ever be inside my place. The second to ever sleep beside me, but the first not in a hotel room. You are many firsts for me. What point is there running today? We began the day together. We should spend it together."
He takes a bite of the mwshewsha, rolls it around on his tongue before downing half a cup of the coffee. "I'm going to need another one of these," he says as he shakes the mug.
The carafe is in her hand and she pours coffee into his cup within an instant, silent, close. Her hips mere centimeters from his shoulder and her eyes looking into his as she completes the task, puts the container on the table, and sits back down.
She is, without a doubt, as lovely in the morning in the simple clothing as in the evening in elegant dresses.
"I lied, last night." For the first time he can remember, she flinches, looks away and then back to him. "I said many things that were untrue to get you to—I wanted you to get mad. Punch a wall. Strike me. Scream. If you did that, I could reject you. Rationalize it."
Our hero swirls the coffee around his mug before taking a long pull of it. Then he surveys her. Tries to look into her eyes, past the dark color. Past the strong exterior. Past the part of her that plays him like a a card game that's she's known since a child. To her. When he finds he can't, he takes another sip. "Go on."
"I've never lured anyone here. Never met a man for anything like this. Hold on, there's more. While not exactly a lie I also am not so experienced as you might think in these matters. I have implied a more impressive history than the truth. You are—well, you are an unwitting member of a very elite club, sir." She offers a small smile, but he gives nothing in return. "I was hoping by now, somewhere, I'd see the crack. The thing in you that made it easy to say goodbye at the end. When it did not come, I sought it. When I tried to provoke it and still did not appear? Well. I don't know. I don't know what to do about that."
Rising like a cat, she moves over to his side of the table and somehow snakes her way in between him, his extended arm holding the cup, and the table. When she makes contact with her ass, she slides all the way back, the back of her read resting against his left shoulder. "Please hold me."
He wraps his free arm around her stomach and she further presses against him. "Thank you."
They sit like this for a minute until he kills the rest of his cup. Then he puts it down, wraps his other arm around her and holds her. Hugs her. Is as close to her as he can be. When he feels her lips on his neck, on the base of his jaw, it stirs his cock to life. As soon as it shows that faint flicker, she moans into his ear and rubs her ass back and forth against him like a wave. Like the sea.
"I don't know who you are," he says. "I know less of who you are now then before I came."
Her left hand takes his cheek, presses against it, brings his face down closer to hers so she can continue to writhe against him while still being able to kiss up and down his neck. Finally she reaches his ear, licks it and whispers. "I am just a woman from a faraway land. One you knew would say goodbye to you no matter her feelings or desires. I'm just a dream. I'm just that last bit of it you can remember before you wake up."
She breathes hot, heavy air into his ear. Then cool. She licks it up and down again as her ass pushes more firmly against him. Her stomach juts out like a belly dancer before she takes the momentum of it and slides it back down her hips. Somehow, she manages to grab him through his pants, stroke his cock in such a way that he makes his first moan. "I may hurt you," she whispers, "but it will be so worth it."
Just to take some power away from her, he drives his right hand down past the waist of her jeans, under her panties, and strokes the very outside of her pussy. When she drives back, both shoving forward to meet more of his hand and pushing harder against him with her head, her shoulders—he knows to dig in.
Wet already, sleek and easy; he wonders if her pussy is ever anything else. A finger slides inside her without resistance and he bobs it up and down in the center of her. He pets her, strokes her, makes a "come here" motion with it to touch the upper ridges of her and tickle every one.
She slides against him, presses her ass in deeper, exclaims and curses. She whimpers and growls. She isn't even the same woman second to second.
After our hero shoves the second finger in, much harsher than the first, she grabs his wrist, tries to drive it and his fingers in and out. But he simply takes her hand, removes it, puts it back against his chest while she gyrates against his hand like a creature possessed.
