That was the little grade school up by the intersection. That was where he and Paul had first met.
"So you like to write too...Could I - look at them sometime?"
"Sure."
Wow. It seemed like Jonah wasn't really into keeping secrets. He just didn't volunteer anything. I felt a little easier about having read his poem that day in the forest.
I took the pile in my hands and placed it carefully into a box, marking it so it would be easy to find later. Then I moved on to the next drawer.
We carried the empty dresser to the truck, and ended up strapping it to the roof, because we needed the interior for all the boxes and the nightstand. It was a great little truck, but not as roomy as I had hoped it would be when I bought it. But we managed to get it all in one load, and said good riddance to his former abode.
We were tired when we arrived home, and left it all for unloading later. The sky was clear, so I didn't worry that the dresser would get rained on.
I flopped across my bed, ready for a rest, and Jonah flopped down beside me. I closed my eyes and realized I had a headache. Not a bad one, but obviously some residual tension from the afternoon's project.
"I have a headache."
Jonah reached over, pushing his fingers gently into my neck and the base of my skull. He followed the contours of my scalp, threading his fingers through my hair all the way to my forehead and temples. My body immediately responded, releasing the tension. It amazed me the way his touch could put me into such a deep and immediate state of relaxation.
At his suggestion, I took off my clothes and lay on my stomach. He began at my head, then moved to my back and arms, stroking softly up and down, back and across, kneading and nipping, soothing and smoothing over my shoulders and shoulder blades, down my spine to the small of my back, over my buttocks, down my thighs and calves to my feet.
He took a long time when he got to my feet, massaging each one top and bottom, the instep, the heel, the pad, the ankle, each little toe.
Then he turned me over, moving from my feet up my legs, over my pelvis, up my abdomen to my chest. He stroked my arms, and spent a lot of time with my hands, pushing his thumbs into my palms, following the bones all the way from the wrist to the ends of my fingers.
Then he followed my arms back up to the shoulder joints, pressed the juncture between joints and chest, then circled my breasts, beginning at the breastbone, moving the spiral slowly up to the summit.
He tripped down my stomach and pelvis to my thighs, spreading my legs, stroking the tender inner skin until he reached the hollow, gently petting the frizzy hair.
His touch was warm and sensuous; and as he continued to move his fingertips closer to my center, the pervasive languor began to give birth to little twinges of ecstatic arising. The capricious sensations were scattered at first, but soon coming with a steady beat, and I could feel them rising in him also.
He began to tickle with the tip of his tongue, to lick and swirl, moving into the soft skin, taking the lips between his lips, nibbling closer to the inside. He took his tongue and slid up the crevice between one lip and the jewel in the center, then down the other side. He ran it over the tip of the jewel, followed the ridges up and down, up and down, then flattened it against the center tip.
Then he closed his mouth over it, sucking, and plunged his tongue into the swollen opening, thrusting with the same motion he used with his larger member.
I moaned, repeating the atonal notes over and over with the sensations, which were now a profusion of light and color. In the midst of them, in the very core, I could feel his desire for me, his driving, pulsing, conquering thirst. It drew everything out, like a flower opening with layer after layer of petals, until he reached the pistil in the very heart.
My pelvis arched and rose toward his mouth, drinking him in as deep as I could, contracting and squeezing his tongue with the rhythmic pulsations as they broke, sudden and ineluctable. I continued the cantillations over and over, until the sensations had faded, like the recording of my favorite song.
I lay still, and he shed his clothes and slid up beside me, resting his arm over my waist. His distended pole poked demurely at my thigh.
I looked at him. "You want in?"
He grinned. "Is the pope catholic?'
I spread my legs again, turning them toward him. He eased inside, finding it ripe and mellow.
I relaxed, while he began a long slow ascent, taking his time, fanning the embers until they caught again, warming me, bringing me back to the boiling point. Then we came together in a slow-motion cascade that rumbled and resounded, echoing all the way down the canyon.
