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."
He pulls me back to him, kisses still deep, but slower, uncommitted. The blanket falls to the floor. My hands wander to his shirt, and my shaky fingers try to undo a button. He stops kissing me and stands up straight, watching me fumble.
Cool as a cucumber, he helps me along by unbuttoning the top buttons with quick, smooth flicks of his fingers, then stops, "You have to unbutton the rest," he whispers, pulling my waist close to his. I swallow. My heart pounds. This means I have to... go... down... to... his pants, to see the other bald head. His partially unbuttoned shirt teases, taunts me, waving, 'Come on, you can go the rest of the way,' and underneath the lavender Oxford--a ribbed, white undershirt. Shit! Another layer between him and me, but he's breathing heavier now, so keep going. Dig closer to that scent of cinnamon and grass, so different from Plain Pete.
I pause, then continue down the buttons, down to his pants. I bite my lip, then look up at him.
"That's still your responsibility," he whispers.
I pull out his shirttails, inch by inch. He catches his breath. I so want to run my fingers along him, down below, but not yet. I have touched no one else besides Pete in the past ten years, and shouldn't, but the wetness through my cheap pantyhose says otherwise. Jimmy closes his eyes and I wonder if I ever had this effect on Pete.
Gently, I push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. I loosen the undershirt from out of his pants, and gently drag my nails up underneath the shirt and along his sides. He shudders, then throws his head back, "Shit, that feels good!" He feels smooth, solid and sculpted like a marble cherub, but he's no angel; this man is a devil.
His head lolls to one side, then he lifts his undershirt up over his head, muscles rippling over his ribs and chest. Handing me the undershirt, he unknots the scarf from my neck, and lifts my knit dress. He deftly unhooks my bra, and I catch my breath. I stand nearly naked before Jimmy in his little kitchen, steam from the whistling kettle drifting between us.
Jimmy flicks the burner off and returns to me, caressing my breasts softly, not squeezing them as if making orange juice. Still smiling, he takes the undershirt from my hand and pulls it over me. The tight white knit can't hide my hardened nipples and he keeps teasing them, brushing them with his thumbs. I close my eyes, my jealous pussy aching. He takes my hand and pulls me to the bed, lights a candle on the shelf, then points to the weight bench in the corner, "Go over there. Lie down on your back." I look. He points again. I pray I don't drip all over his bench, but I do as I'm told. Jimmy approaches, and I swear he glows while he looks down the length of my body. He gets down on his knees in front of my legs, which are bent with my feet flat on the floor.
"Let's get rid of these." His sculpted arms reach over my waist and he slips his fingertips underneath the waistband of my pantyhose. I lift up so he can pull the hose down, freeing one leg, then the other, from the nasty nylon web.
Wow! Now I'm really, really naked in front of this guy, giving him the gynecologist's view, sexy.
"Move down a little," he whispers, his warm hands guiding my hips until I barely hang over the end of the bench. I turn my head to one side and clench my eyes shut. My God, am I really doing this? He penetrates me with his fingers and I gasp. No warm up, no warning; he goes right in, a little rough, then he slows down, gliding in and out. I breathe hard--it feels so good, and it's not quite cheating yet, is it? I peek at him. He's got that engrossed look he had when applying the lipstick earlier. I move against his hand while his thumb brushes my clit, sending me into a spiral.
Lying on the narrow weight bench, my arms have nowhere to rest, so they flail about for something to hold when I feel Jimmy's free hand grab one of mine. He massages me expertly, coaxing a flutter out of me I didn't know I could feel. Or it had been so long, I'd forgotten.
"Mm, Jimmy...Jimmy?" I shake now, grateful that he's holding my hand while I travel somewhere I've never been. "Oh Lord, Jesus!" I pant, "Please, I want to do something for you..."
"You will."
Withdrawing his fingers and releasing my hand, he gently pushes my legs farther apart, his silky tongue barely touches me, flickering, then he pushes deeper, moving with my contours, thrilling me not with pressure and force this time, but with warmth, with satin. He gives me a tender kiss, then a rush of cool air curls around my thighs. I hear what sounds like the click of a belt buckle and the zip of a belt pulled through one loop, then another, then another.... I wait for the zip of a zipper, but it doesn't happen.
Shuddering, yet feverish, I open my eyes. He stands, head cocked with a wicked bad-boy smile, pants still on and hand outstretched. He helps me to my feet, then guides my hands to his pant's button. I work it open, staring at the long, thick bulge beneath the closed zipper. I take a breath as he leans back and rests his wrists on my shoulders. I still have time to leave.
"Stop," he orders, "Before we go further, I just want to hold you for a minute. No rush, here."
