The wind was in the east, scurrying down the narrow streets of Old Havana, swirling colorful tourists like autumn leaves from the Plaza down the alley. The small bar captured an eddy of humanity. He sipped his drink, letting the taste of the rum slide over his tongue, the tartness of the mint puckering his cheeks. Girls in bright dresses fluttered like tropical fish in the tide, chattering like finches. Three girls caught his eye and he lifted his head. Tourists, one in a wide red skirt, white cotton blouse and large dark sunglasses, gesticulating towards the square. The second shook her head, plucking at a pleated tube dress over pointed breasts, her face hidden in a deep straw hat. The third girl had seen him lift his head and her eyes whipped over him like a hawk seeing movement in a thicket, like a snapper seeing a fisherman on the rocks.
Dark eyes flashed under a tight straw hat, blonde locks tangled around a mouth where laughter lay shallow like a bubbling brook. Her indrawn breath tightened the blue striped top over an ample chest, showing off the strap of her bra in the deep cleavage. She turned into the bar, calling over her shoulder to her friends, and he caressed her figure with his eyes, taking in the lean, muscular flanks, the sweet peaked belly above her supple hips. Tight striped pants encased, outlined supple legs that twined as she sat down, gestured to her friends, laughed at their protests.
The girls pointedly ignored him and chattered about the functional décor, laughed at a message on a telephone, prodded each other about some acquaintance. He caught a few words that confirmed what he had thought: only French girls would have such total confidence in their sexuality.
His phone camera caught the moment when their drinks arrived in the trademark mason jars, and he watched as she stood up to take a picture of the drinks, throwing remarks to her friends. As she bent to frame the photo her cleavage showed the weight of her breasts, and she shifted her weight, opening her legs in a delicious revelation of the width of her hips, and his phone clicked again.
He looked at his photo as she sat down, and he watched the girls chatter over her photo and whom it should be sent to.
He finished his food, called the waiter for the bill, and scribbled a note: "Thank you. Please feel free to copy this if you wish."
The waiter passed the phone and the note to the girls, and for a moment they were still, then the others looked at him. Laughter erupted again, and he smiled as she tapped at his phone, then passed it back to the waiter.
He finished his drink, bowed to the girls, and walked down to the harbor. A half hour later his phone pinged. The message was one word: "Why?"
The originator showed a name: Marie. He replied: "Homage to beauty needs no justification."
Sunshine glittered over the rooftops the next afternoon as he handed his paperwork in to the port captain's office. His phone pinged: A message. From Marie. A photo: A mason jar with a mojito. The one she had taken the previous day. He replied: "In 30 minutes."
He waited ten minutes before she breezed in, looking as if she owned the place. She wore a white linen suit, cut as the striped outfit had been, but if anything more daring, showing skimpy underwear as she moved.
He rose and bowed, asking: "The same as yesterday?"
She nodded and he gestured to the waiter. She smiled at him, a little unsure about what to say, so he said it for her: "Even more beautiful than I remembered. Thank you for the suggestion,
mademoiselle
."
She laughed delightedly, and asked: "You know that I am French?"
He smiled back. "I could not fail to draw that conclusion. I have lovely memories of Paris, but your accent suggests the north. Normandy, perhaps?"
She pouted. "Dunkirk, if you must know."
For half an hour they spoke of France, of this and that, of the weather and the world. Then he stood up. "May I interest you in a view of the old harbor? A history lesson, perhaps?"
She nodded. "History is important. I used to have a history teacher. So serious, and so charming."
The battlements of the old fort were almost deserted at this hour, and afforded some shelter from the east wind. He pointed out the careenage, the old forts, the ruins left over from the pirate attack of 1775. She nodded and leant back against him, safe in the angle of the old walls. His right hand went to her hip, drawing the lushness of her body against him. She followed, granting him permission, and his hand flowed to the softness of her belly, feeling the tightness of her muscles, caressing her as her right hand reached back to catch the back of his head, drawing his face into her neck. A soft sigh escaped her as he nibbled her ear, then he kissed her neck.
A sage had once remarked that a kiss on the jugular vein went straight to the brain. She relaxed against him, reaching for his other hand, drawing it up, under her top, under the skimpy bra to find the heavy elasticity of her breast. He found her erect nipple as her lips found his, and she rocked back against his growing erection.
His right hand eased down over the tautness of her belly, finding the slight roughness where she had shaved, teased the neatly trimmed patch, discovered the beginning of her mount.
He whispered into her ear: "May I pleasure you?"
Her slight moan as he found her clitoris was answer enough. She rocked again against him, rubbing against him, holding his mouth to her neck, trapping his hand on her breast. His fingers traced the softness of her vulva, stroking the tiny erection, circling her opening. Her breathing was becoming ragged, and she released his hand on her breast to open the button on her pants. He stopped her hand searching his buckle, and instead guided it behind him to grip his hip, drawing him tighter against her.
She had begun to ride his hand now, rhythmically rocking, seeking the caresses of his fingers, trying to drive them deeper against her. For long moments he teased her, avoiding her sensitivity, then plunging into the warm, slick opening that offered itself to him.
She arched her back, gasping to the skies: "
Mon Dieu
, that's good. Just so. Oh my... and again!'
He sought to hold her on the peak where her body bucked against his hand, but she squeaked, laughed shakily, and whispered: "Enough, now. Enough."
For long minutes he held her tight, her body still moving softly, her vulva rubbing against his finger, then she half-turned and embraced him. Her lips were soft and warm. "I leave tomorrow."
He nodded. "Air France leaves in the afternoon. And I also leave tomorrow. But we have the night."
She held back. "How so? You are also flying out? Perhaps..."
He shook his head. "I wish. No, I am sailing. The wind is going to turn, see those clouds like tulips? They are the signal. When the trade wind return I can sail to the east, to carry out my research."
At her insistence he pointed out his small sailboat in the harbor, and explained the research he was conducting for a book on pirates. She skipped along the harbor wall, then pirouetted. "So cute, your little boat. May I see her?"
He smiled at the sight of her slender form, dancing in the wind. "Of course. May I invite you to dinner on board? I see Ramon is back with what looks like a good catch."
