Big Orange Dewdrop

At that moment, we both stopped. I was so fired up. She'd been adamant, so stubborn and unwavering, teetering at the edge of her good sense. My heart was pounding wildly. The vein on the side of her neck was ever-present; it only showed when she got really mad. I clenched and unclenched my left hand to repress its trembling. The tension in our new one-bedroom apartment was palpable. It made the place seem even tinier.

Dara was steely-eyed. Her pretty mouth had flecks of white at the corners. Strands of normally auburn hair were dark-brown, moist with perspiration and matted to her cheek. Her lovely breasts were heaving as she tried to control her breathing. Our words still hung in the claustrophobic air, as evidenced by the ringing in my ears.

The slash of paint drying to my fiancé's bicep and right boob was called Lemon Yellow Dewdrop. A neon ribbon wound itself 'round her wrist, down to her fingertips where it dripped onto the newspaper we'd used to line the hardwood floor. Splattered across the front of my Giants t-shirt—soaking through to the skin—was a color known as Big Red Barn.

In the next instant chairs might fly. New dishware risked becoming airborne as well. There were likely to be further taunts and jeers, a good chance of feet stomping and hair pulling, a high probability of more paint flung, and even an errant knee to a sensitive region. Dara scowled and I glowered right back. The apartment was shrouded in desperate silence apart from a

drip

,

drip

,

drip

of paint from her fingertips.

Summer stings and sweat burns. We'd just moved in, still waiting on the power company to hook us up to the grid. Already, the heat was getting to the two of us -- straight out of college and moving in together ... nuts right? Maybe it had been a little impulsive. At least that's what our friends said.

The place just didn't let in enough sunlight. It screamed for an ultra-bright color to liven things up. She'd insisted the poor exposure could be offset by the use of thin drapery and cleverly arranged track-lighting. The vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors, she reasoned, would be best enhanced by a juicy, yet mellow tone. At the home improvement store, we'd arrived at our respective epiphanies in the same instant: she wanted red, I wanted yellow.

I surveyed her bespattered arm and breast, proud of the wound I'd inflicted. I imagined these could be the opening volleys of inter-planetary war. She was the cruel yellow-blooded alien—I, the noble, red-blooded human. Granted, if the gooey splatter across my chest was actually blood, in all likelihood my guts were bound to be hanging out. Nevertheless, I couldn't let such injustice stand.

Dara had been that way since we first met. She'd insisted on choosing the restaurant where we enjoyed our first meal together, shared our first dessert, and over whose candlelit table we'd had our first of many unforgettable kisses. She's the kind of woman who tells you exactly what's on her mind. And sometimes yours. Sure, she's thoughtful, but unquestionably opinionated. She never met a point she didn't want to make to the stake.

I, on the other hand, the reserved ones. I enjoy great conversation and even the occasional debate, but I'm not as likely to go to such linguistic lengths as she. Her way fits her lifestyle, she's an attorney after all. I'm an accountant. We do have a good thing going. She makes the money, I keep track of it.

When I proposed, there was some concern among our friends. That's right,

I

proposed. Popped the question after we'd been together—already making plenty of love and war—for eleven incredible months. Our friends wagered on how long we'd make it, but we didn't mind.

We thought we had it all figured out. Little did we know, we'd chosen the hottest summer on record in which to christen our new lives together. The house was a fixer-upper, a real shithole, but we were determined.

Dara was biting her lower lip. She had a tendency to do that when feeling uncertain. She doubtless saw that my hand was shaking, regardless of my attempt to press my palm to my thigh. What goes on in the heads of two lovers calculating whether to bring out the heavy ammunition or wave the white flag is scary stuff. It can be the difference between make or break-up.

**

For Dara and me, one of the secrets to a successful relationship, so far, is being able to read the tells. Tells are signs, or little windows. Patient lovers had better learn in short order how to look through those windows and into the heart and mind. Doing so yields valuable advice on how best to proceed with emotions running high. And because there could potentially be some really nasty thoughts racing through one's mind during an argument or tense moment, reading the signs can save a [love] life!

I'd first seen her on a little stretch of beach known as Calf's Pasture. It's the sort of place you don't go to until sneaker soles are sticking to the street on account of the fact that it's more of a rocky shoreline than a white sand beach most are used to. She was sunning herself on a yoga mat when an errant wind blew the sun hat from her head and deposited down the coast not far from my own towel.

I wish I could say the first meeting was effortless, a real love at first sight affair. Sadly, it wasn't even close. I was so completely overthrown by her beauty that when I tried to make conversation it was a disaster. Thankfully, Dara preferred sputtering to spitting game otherwise that would have been the end of the story. Still, I let her get away that first time and nearly lost her. Now, some might call it fate or destiny, but despite my returning to that beach every day for two weeks, I didn't run into Dara again until she almost literally bumped into my coming out of the Post Office.

By then, I'd all but given up hope of every seeing her again. I was so shocked that she stood before me, I didn't even have time to clam up. I asked her to dinner on the spot. Which might have been strange if she didn't remember me from the beach, and for a moment, it dawned on me that was going to be the case. But as it turns out, she'd been hoping to see me again. We didn't even plan a date; we headed straight for a coffee shop down the block. The rest is, as they say, completely boring, and not at all why you're here!

**

I breathed slowly and cleared my throat to break the chokehold silence had over the room. Dara shifted her weight, favoring one hip. She was wearing a pair of holey denim 501s, through which tantalizing pieces of thigh, knee and ankle were visible. The rise and fall of her breasts through that thin cotton tank top, the way she stood—her posture was so defiant—the furrow of her sharp brown brows, all of it was intoxicating despite my anger. I caught a glimpse of her tongue as it passed between her chapped pink lips. Her gaze traveled down my body and I could see the hint of a smirk forming behind those sparkling green eyes. We each gave a little, and it happened to be just enough.

An innocent bystander might have been showered and splattered with red and yellow specks when Dara and I collided with frenzied passion. She tore at my shirt, I hooked my hand over the waist of her blue jeans and clothes went flying. She laughed and slapped my chest, made red-yellow marks on my cheeks and left her fingerprints on my upper body. We squirmed over the floor, stirring up newspaper until we were both naked, and I kissed my way down her stomach to her navel where I spread her legs and finger-painted an arrow along her inner thigh, aimed at her blushing vagina.

She laughed and batted my hand away. "Put your mouth on me," she said throatily, and I complied. I muffled through her neatly trimmed muff, sucked her puffy lips between my lips and slid my tongue up and down the length of her deliciously steamy slit. The air hissed through her clenched teeth as I probed and nuzzled her pussy. When I trapped her distended button and rolled it between my lips, Dara jerked violently and cried out. She pressed her thighs to my face and giggle-quivered as I snuck a finger in beneath my tongue and buried it to the knuckle inside that hotbed of flesh and nerves.

She squirmed, alternately caressing my face and trying to push me away. "Oh, oh, oh, it's too much," she gasped. I dragged my tongue back and forth over her rigid stamen, and drilled her with one, then two fingers. Dara slapped the floor with her palms, gathering bits of newspaper and shredding it with her hands, singing, whimpering and cursing me.

"Oh, stop teasing! Just give it to me!" she cried at last.

I moved over her, and she arched her torso greedily as I entered her. She gasped into our kiss. My fiancé's lips were salty, her mouth sweet.

"I love to taste myself on you," she cooed. As our tongues dueled, I pushed myself deeper inside her, coaxed by the way she clung with her hands to my butt. We groaned and grunted, made love fast and feverishly, slowing only a moment to grin into each other's paint-streaked faces, to kiss and nibble from mouth to chin to ear.

"I love us like this," Dara whispered as I moved slowly within her. I ground hard, and she had to catch her breath before continuing. "Do you think we'll always be this way?"

"We will," I promised, withdrawing almost fully before burying my cock in her lovely oven once more.

She kissed me with greater fervor, then opened her mouth to moan, "Don't you love the red!?"

I growled and drew my teeth down on Dara's neck. My desire was more intense than ever. She squealed under the assault of bites and nibbles, and pushed me away. Then my lover quickly turned over, crawled on hands and knees to the wall, placed her palms to the white undercoat and thrust her butt toward me. She threw a devilish gaze over her shoulder.

"Take me from behind," she crooned. I pressed my body to hers, clutched her tightly, and plunged my cock into her yielding pussy. She reached between our legs to cup and gently massage my swinging balls. I roamed her body with one hand and found her swollen clit with the other. All the while, I gazed down her tight gluteal curve to watch my dick disappearing within the crack of her ass, unable to resist the succulent pop we made with every thrust.

When Dara began to climax, her hand on my testicles retreated. She shoved her fingers through mine and began diddling herself in a fast, circular motion. The wall before us was streaked with ghoulish handprints. My eyes watered and blurred as I groaned and began to come.

"Yes, baby, fill me," she begged. Wrapping my arms around my fiancé's hips, I was thrusting hard and deeply, awed at her pussy muscles, which she used expertly to milk every last drop from my pulsing tool. When finally we collapsed, panting and exhausted, we lay in a heap of shredded newspaper. The crossword puzzle was stuck to Dara's ass, and I had a page from the want-ads plastered to my penis like a hobo's flag flying at half mast.

Our flesh was a red and yellow roadmap of caresses, fondling and foolishness. We were content, if not a little relieved, that our argument had finished as it had, and far from what it could have been. But if you ask me, the outcome was never in doubt.

Love is about compromise. It's about doing everything necessary to make many things work. It's about those moments when you've no alternative but to shout, 'Time out! Let's go away for now, and come back later with clearer heads.' Or those fortunate moments when jumping on one another—and

emptying

one's head—does suffice at breaking a stalemate. These things are only possible when two people truly respect one another, and are very careful with each other's feelings. That's our secret.

Later that evening as we retreated to the porch and waited for the house to cool down, we sat and watched the sun melt into the horizon. You may remember, Dara wanted the Big Red Barn while I was in favor of Lemon Yellow Dewdrop. Staring into sunset, it suddenly dawned on us ... orange ain't half bad.