Part I:
Celia tried to go about her business like she didn't care, but it was hard. She had written a few cheery notes and sent them off to a couple close friends, wishing them a special day. The day before, she had ordered a box of chocolates to be delivered to her daughter who was living two states away. Earlier that morning, she had slipped a chocolate bar to each of her employees at the small café she ran. They had been up late with her, baking an endless supply of every kind of delicious confection imaginable. The little cafe had been crowded since they opened their doors, locals flocking to their favorite hang-out, knowing that Celia's desserts could not be beaten.
But now the day was done. Evening had come and she had locked up, then walked home slowly, alone. There was a dusting of snow over everything, making a beautiful, glittering fairyland of the deserted streets. It was 9:00 when she arrived home, but even though she hadn't got much sleep the night before, Celia made no attempt to get ready for bed. She knew she would only lay there, her eyes hopelessly unable to close, the room dark and empty, the bed too big and cold.
Instead, she cleaned. Bustling about her modest little house, she swept and dusted, organized and scrubbed. By 10:30, her home held the odd echo and slight scent of soap that accompanies a brand new house being shown for sale. At a bit of a loss now, Celia wandered through the rooms, at last stopping in front of the hall mirror.
She regarded herself sadly, meeting the dark, pool-like eyes, rich, but veiled with sorrow. Reaching up one hand, she pulled the pins from her disheveled bun, one by one. Once, she had been beautiful. Her face was soft and finely featured, her cheekbones high, eyebrows arched. Even now, at 49, she looked regal. Tall and slim, her hips were curvy, her breasts giving and full. She had not lost her figure with the years—she was far too active, her muscles as toned as they had ever been.
Slowly, her long, raven black hair slipped down over her shoulders, thick and lustrous. It had many thick streaks of silver shot through it, but then, her hair had started slowly going white over twenty years ago. She let out a quick, harsh sigh. It was now twenty-one years to the day. It was hard to think that she had managed to continue for so long. Somehow, she had clawed her way through life, never forgetting, never able to escape the day her life had changed.
Celia absently unbuttoned her blouse, sliding the soft red silk from her shoulders. She unhooked the black, unadorned bra she wore underneath and let it drop to the floor. Regarding herself pensively in the mirror, she cupped her breasts tentatively. They were on the small side, but this had kept them from sagging with age. Her olive skin was smooth, rounded, still firm, her breasts still holding that youthful bounce. Running her thumbs over soft, caramel areolas, she slid her hands down over her torso to the waist of her skirt.
In the mirror, her face was frozen, expressionless and cold. Her skirt fell around her ankles and she peeled away the thick wool tights she had been wearing for warmth, her panties pulling away with them. Blank-faced, she studied her form in the full-length pane. Once, she had been a very sexual woman. But she had not so much as touched herself in all those twenty-one years. The pain it brought when she tried was too much to bear. She had stopped thinking of herself as beautiful long ago, stopped caring if she looked anything other than presentable.
Abruptly, she laughed—a grating, hysterical bark. The irony that she had lost the love of her life on the day for lovers, on Valentine's Day, had never left her. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the celebration and gaiety around her on that day: the anniversary of the death of her heart. The day her Cam had died. It was too cruel a joke the fates had played on her, and she would have followed him to death that very day if it had not been for her daughter. Little Lila was only three at the time, and her mother could not leave her orphaned no matter what pain it cost.
Lila had a wonderful childhood. Celia had devoted herself to her baby with veiled desperation. She poured all her thought and feeling into raising her daughter—his daughter—in the best way possible. Eventually, Lila had grown up, a happy, healthy young woman, and ventured into the world on her own. Now she was married to a wonderful man who made her happy beyond belief and they had become the parents of a beautiful baby boy. Celia's work was done.
Gently, Celia ran her fingers over her skin, her body shuddering slightly at the contact. She had once had so many dreams, so many desires, but they were gone now, even her most primal desire and urge lay dormant, bound with grief. She felt a great weariness, right down to her scarred soul. Surely now she could join him? The thought crept into her head. Her daughter had her own life now, her own family. Celia had given her all she could. Now she was left only with an empty house, empty eyes, and an empty heart. She wondered briefly how many suicides there were on Valentine's Day. Probably more than one would think. It was hard to live without love, especially on a day when everyone else was flaunting it.
Her body wavered in the mirror. She had a bottle of sleeping pills upstairs. That was what she wanted: to endlessly sleep, and dream of him. All these many years, her love had not wavered. She was a twisted, living proof of true love. Sometimes, for her own sake, she wished that it could fade, that she could move on. But always, it felt as if not a day had passed since she lost him. She could not bring herself to wish that she had never met him. Even if life without him was a living Hell, life without ever meeting him would have been Purgatory.
For the first time, she let her mind wander to the morning on that last day without fighting it. Tears silently painted thin slashes over her face. Sinking to the floor, she rested her forehead against the cool, hard glass of the mirror, her eyes staring unseeing at the worn wood of the front door. Slowly, the memory engulfed her.
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A wash of sunlight spilled through the windows, muffled slightly by yellow curtains. The whole room was lit with the soft freshness of morning, the balm of returning sun smoothing edges and hard lines into a rounded, dazzling haze. Celia peered around the room with still droopy eyes. She knew that there was a wonderful, one-foot-thick layer of new snow on the ground outside, but the bedroom was a warm, golden cocoon, a world away from any cold.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Celie."
Rolling onto her side, she met the sleepy smile of her husband. Barely out of dreamland, he had thought of her instantly. Yawning, he stretched luxuriously. Celie shivered with pleasure as she felt his hip graze over her thighs, his skin warm and soft as velvet. Cameron was hardly done yawning when Celie leaned over to smother him in kisses.
Softly, she ran her tongue along his lips just inside his mouth. His hands wandered up to cradle her breasts, kneading steadily like a happy cat. Drawing their bodies together, the pair rubbed skin against skin, legs entwining, feet teasing each other. Cameron nibbled lightly at Celie's ear, his hot breath sending a thrill through her body as he moved his lips down to the soft indent just beneath her earlobe, then to the slight rise of the veins in her neck.
Breath faltering, Celie ran her fingers up and down his back, then over his chest and belly. Unable to resist, she pinched at his nipples lightly, eliciting a small gasp of delight. Slithering further down under the blankets, Cameron buried his face in her breasts, cupping them to his mouth with his hands, licking in a slow swirling spiral to the pale brown center on first one, then the other. Only then did he clamp his mouth over her hardened nipples and suck in earnest.
Arching her back, Celie pressed into him, relishing his thick hardness pushing between her legs. She shrieked as he suddenly drove under the covers, flashing her a wicked grin. Giggling helplessly, she writhed as he kissed her toes, sucking each one into his mouth, the feeling both sensual and ticklish at the same time. Winding his way up her legs, caressing her skin with his mouth, he finally reached her moist folds. His tongue flicked over her outer lips, barely touching. With a lunge, he enveloped her clit in the warmth of his mouth, making her body jump as she moaned. Her hips lifted up off the bed as his tongue swirled quickly over her throbbing clit.
Celie's body was on fire. Her pussy was dripping warmth, opening slightly with desire. She wanted him to fill her with a burning, white-hot need—her pussy was pulsing open and closed, desperate to feel him enter her. Biting back screams, she bucked as she reached the point where she thought she could take no more. He kept going, and she trembled as she passed point after dizzying point, hardly believing that her body could feel such pleasure. Pulling at his shoulders, she tried to draw his body up between her legs.
