Swim, Butterfly
Chapter 3
(Dear Reader, just to let you know, Swim, Butterfly is a finished manuscript, total 31 chapters plus epilogue, so there's more to come as I reset chapters for Literotica.
Also, I frequently use italics, which I've learned have to be set a little differently on Literotica. Sorry, learning curve! Also, whenever I use a phrase in another language, I follow it with the English translation so the reader knows what was said. The characters aren't repeating themselves. Thank you for your patience!)
Stay with Me
The doors of the elevator in the warm brown lobby open. Watching me, Jimmy gently pulls me in, as if I might bolt. Guiding me into the corner, he turns with his back to me, legs spread. I peek around him to see him press nine. His arms reach back, find mine, and pull my arms around his taut torso. Embracing him, I inhale his sweet spiciness as my chilly hands slide beneath his jacket. I close my eyes and rest my head between his shoulders. Pine, bergamot, musk. Riding and flying and dreaming, and no one knows the better of it. The elevator slowly cranks up the shaft.
"You'll stay with me tonight?" he asks.
"Yes," I murmur.
"You won't punish yourself in the morning?"
"I don't know."
He pulls my arms tighter around him. The elevator stops, the doors open-- fuck it! I don't want to feel guilty. I split my world--one half wherein I'm married and upstanding; the other half here with Jimmy.
He releases my arms, and I follow him out of the elevator and into the dusky hallway. We walk a few doors down, Jimmy casting a glance in either direction, jingling his key ring. He unlocks two locks on the pale yellow door and opens it.
"First one."
"First one what?" I ask, eyes wide.
"First woman I've entertained at my apartment."
I hesitate, "Really?"
He laughs, "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything crazy that you don't want me to, but you'll see why I don't entertain here."
A nightlight over the kitchen sink of the studio apartment barely illuminates the space. I expect to see the dark stains of blood-spattered walls or some other sign of Patrick Bateman, but I don't. I see stacks of books. Stacks and stacks of books along the walls of the tiny apartment. There's a chair at the far end, by a window, a weight bench, two clothes horses and a bureau along one wall, a twin bed along the opposite wall, and a small table and two chairs in the kitchen area. And that's it.
I turn and smile. "Yep, I see why." I take a few more steps inside, and jump when he shuts the door behind me. Click... clack... clunk... locking the locks. I try to take a deep breath, but quietly. Stupid, no one knows where you are. I turn to watch Jimmy, and don't take my eyes off him.
"Here, let me take your sweater. I have something else you can wrap up in if you're still cold."
I obey, peeling off the dumpy sweater, which he folds neatly and lays over the back of a kitchen chair. "Make yourself at home. I'll start the coffee."
I pry off my sneakers and push them underneath the little table. Jimmy fetches a small blanket from the clothes horse and wraps it around my shoulders.
He points to a door by the kitchen, "Bathroom's right there, if you need it. It's there if you don't." He points to the left, to the single bed neatly made up in white, "Bedroom. And straight ahead, living room. Explore--you won't get lost," he grins.
I have no desire to explore his apartment because I can see it all from here. I want to stay put, right next to him. My hip resting against the counter by the sink, I watch Jimmy fill a kettle with water. In the cool blue glow of the nightlight, I watch the water splashing over his hand and dripping off the angle of his wrist. He places the kettle on the stove, and with a flick of the fingers, turns on the burner under the kettle. Then he pulls a French press and a coffee can from the cupboard and unhooks two China cups from underneath the cabinet.
His little kitchen is spotless. My heart beats fast again as I study every detail of his face in the low light, like I'm not really there, but a ghost spying on him. I watch his eyes, how they move from object to object; study the curve of his lashes; follow the path of his upper lip with the slightest hint of mustache. He seems totally comfortable with me watching him in silence. I reach up, pause, then let my fingertips brush the back of his head.
"Ever touch a bald head before?" he smiles, one brow raised.
"Not one that wasn't in a pair of pants."
He sets the coffee can down with a thunk on the counter, laughing, "Wow, you really are a funny one... here, warm up my bald one," he grabs my hands and puts them on the back of his head. His own hands hold my face and he leans into me, kissing me, softly, slowly at first, almost reluctantly, then teasing my lips apart with his warm, silky tongue. I hold him by the back of his smooth head, my fingers sliding up over the cool skin, catching a slight stubble, his kisses deeper. Inside, a flutter grows and I wish we could merge, like two people made of mist, forever mingling, one within the other.
The faucet trickling, he hustles off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. We kiss harder, wetness creeping from the corners of our mouths. I want to cradle his chilly head between my warm boobs and giggle at the thought.
He backs up, eyes big, "What?"
"Oh, nothing, Pete... oops." My face heats, so I shut off the trickling water to defer Jimmy for a moment.
He smiles, "I don't care. Use me any way you want, call me whomever you want."
