Feverish 2

The Dream:

Watering my plants always reminds me of Angela. I putter with the watering can, clearing away dry leaves, placing tiny stakes of fertilizer in the soil, doing my best to nurture their little green lives.

Our first "date" was a tour of her spring garden...rows and rows of glorious irises, tulips, daffodils, and luscious spring fruit. I remember strawberries and tomatoes I tasted from her fingers. She made me hungry, and later, when we were in bed together, much too soon for polite company, she let me feed.

That throaty laugh, the conspiratorial tone she'd get on the phone. ."I'm closing up. Want to keep me company while I'm finishing up?"

Please. As though I had anything to say about it, having completely lost control of my hands, feet, and cunt. Fortunately my car could find its own way there.

I peered through the locked glass door, shielding my eyes with my hand on my forehead. She was bent over at the waist, lifting a large plant onto a display table. She was wearing her customary jeans and a green smock, the kind that went over your shirt and tied on the sides, with pockets in the front. Only there was something odd. What was it? Then I realized she wasn't wearing a shirt underneath. Or a bra. Just the smock. The brutality of this girl. My palms were already itchy, wanting to fill themselves with breastflesh, as I started to twitch under my clothes.

She turned the key in the lock and let me in, locking the door behind us. She turned away and began to talk, not even commenting on her partially-clothed state.

"I'm nearly finished. I've still got to mist the hothouse plants, but then I'm done."

"I'll go with you," I said, pulling her back toward me, wrapping my arms around her waist. I lifted her dark hair off her neck and kissed it, her tiny shiver vibrating against my lips. She placed her hands over my hands, resting on her hips, and began to "walk" me to the hothouse.

Reaching into the cooler where the cut flowers were kept, I picked up three yellow roses, their stems dripping. She raised an eyebrow with a smile. "I'll pay for 'em....damn!" I said in mock frustration, breaking off the blossoms and slipping them into her smock pocket, but my mind was working ahead to the hothouse.

My tongue was in her mouth even before we stumbled into the humidity of the room. Sweat started to dampen our upper lips, foreheads, under our hair on the backs of our necks.

My fingers moved to the smock ties at her waist, pulling them loose, stopping the kissing long enough to pull it over her head, sucking in my breath as I always did when I saw her bare. I filled my mouth, my hands with the bounty. Her eyelids drifted closed, her moans becoming more "little girl," higher-pitched, more keening.

I backed her up to the worktable, letting her ass rest on the rough surface. My clothes had vanished, vaporized. No, they were there in a pile, littering the hothouse floor, tangled up with Angie's jeans and panties. I took the rosebuds from Angie's smock pocket, fanning out the petals on the table, before tracing her mouth and nipples with the last blossom. She lifted her legs and swiveled to lie on the table on her back, her thighs falling open.

I cranked the handle to the misting system, and foggy moisture began to permeate the room. We knew it would eventually drench us. We'd be wet and shivering with the cool mist and the heat of our own need, with our sweat and honey. My fingers moved to the smock ties at her waist, pulling them loose, stopping the kissing long enough to pull it over her head....oh, godddd....sucking in my breath as I always did when I saw her bare breasts...succulent fruit...sweet, ripe...I filled my mouth, my hands with the bounty.

Her dark eyes flamed, locked on mine, before her eyelids drifted closed, her moans becoming more "little girl"...higher-pitched, more keening...

I moved around into position, parting my thighs over her head and reaching for her core with my mouth. Lowering my mouth to her hot, soft sex...taking her inner lips quite firmly into my mouth, sucking...she nearly sobbed into my own sex as her flickering tongue found my clit. She fed me again...as I fed her...licking all around inner and outer lips...tongues teasing the entrance to each other's cunts, slipping inside with tongue and fingers....clits engorged, taken between lips and suckled...moans becoming cries becoming screams...I came first, practically erupting into her bloom of a mouth...trying not to grind into her face too hard...wanting to take her there too....letting loose with a flurry of licks and tender, sucking nibbles...holding her ass in my hands to keep her from squirming away as she sometimes did when she got close to a really intense orgasm...making her take it, take it all...

She screamed once more into my cunt as she joined me....falling, falling....bucking into one another...the mist soaking us like a gentle rain....bodies slick, warm and chilly at the same time somehow...sated, fed.

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The Apartment:

I'm awake, and the room is shifting. Angles and lines are moving, every blink the aperture of a camera, photographing a moving target. Kerry's next to me, oblivious to my flailing, and to my failing. My hair is sweaty and matted against my neck.

Fuck.

Later, Kerry finds me on the couch, the dog snoring away, wedged against my belly.

"Rough night?"

I shift and stretch. "Yeah...I think my fever spiked in the night. Or the fucking antibiotics are making me restless."

"You're starting to worry me, Grace. Are you going to go back to the doctor?"

"Nah. It's only been a week. I've still got another week on the meds." I kiss her cheek and rub her shoulders for a bit. She's in great shape. Her back is broad and muscular, like a rower. I remember really loving those broad, tanned shoulders when I first met her. A strong shoulder. Somebody who can carry the weight. I liked it. I still like it.

She turns over, her torso in my lap, glances up at me. I do what I normally do when she's watching me too carefully, which is to tuck her head under my chin. Funny how such an intimate gesture creates distance, by keeping her from seeing my eyes. She knows what I'm doing, lets me get away with it. Kerry's great like that.

My stomach is sour. Fuck.

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The Memory:

I wonder sometimes what it was about Angie that left such an impression. I dated a lot of women during that time. Angie was beautiful, no doubt, but there were others who were beautiful too. She was earthy and vivid and passionate, but we were only together for a few months.

Angie's hands I remember, painstaking whether turning earth, pruning shrubs, handling delicate seedlings, or setting out bulbs. Her hands were rougher than the average woman's, calloused in spots, even a couple of little scars. You wouldn't see fake nails on her. What would be the point? Even when she was "cleaned up," her hands were a bit rough for real refinement.

But everything else on her was velvet. The touch of her tongue, the rich, husky brandy of her voice, the almost spongy softness of her belly, the taste of her need.

Her softness, her femininity brought out my warrior, made me feel protective and capable. I was her knight, and she was my lady. I would have slain dragons, warded off attackers, carried her to safety had she needed me to.

In return, she tended me as surely as any garden, coaxing more and more of me to burst through the surface of the earth to meet her sun, her food, her soft rain. She sweetly tormented me until I began to draw again, my crude, amateurish work delighting her. As fanciful as Kerry is practical, Angie found symbolism in everything--poetry in a teacup, music in the sound of the washing machine, dance in hard-driving sex.

Honestly, it drove me crazy sometimes. But I miss it now.

As impolitic as it might sound, Angie made me want to be a man. I have never felt that way before or since. I wanted to be inside her with my own cock.

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The Bath:

"God, what a day. Phone calls, endless meetings of people talking just to hear themselves."

I'm exhausted, still battling the infection, but going to work anyway.

Kerry sighs. "Just come home, Gracie. Come home as soon as you can, and drive safely. I'll take care of everything."

She meets me with a kiss to my hot forehead, a glass of orange juice, and a sturdy shoulder to take my things. She's drawn a bath for me, pouring fragrant oil under the stream of water. She's lit some candles at the tub's edge, and placed two fluffy towels on a warmer.

She helps me slip out of my clothes, her smooth, cool hands steadying me as I perform the required motions like an exhausted child, leaning back against that broad torso. She helps me step into the tub, then rubs some body wash into a mesh sponge.

She takes my hand and presses a kiss into my open palm, then works the sponge up the inside of my arm, then back down the outside, taking her time. My other arm, then each leg, are soaped and rinsed at the same unhurried pace, as she kisses the arch of my foot before setting it back down into the water.

The mesh sponge trails down over my breasts, squeezing warm soapy water over each peak, her tugging fingers behind each pass of the sponge. Then down my belly and between my legs, soaping, rinsing, then pressing two fingers inside while rubbing my clit with her thumb.

I sputter and gasp, gazing up at her as we both start to laugh.

"Baby...what're you doing?"

"Ummm, taking your mind off your day?"

"Oh, my mind is OFF, trust me!" My thighs part as I begin to chase her fingers with my hips, until I slip and nearly go under the water.

Howling with laughter, Kerry hands me a towel to dry my face. Still sputtering, I rest my sex against her hand. "Just don't let me drown, okay?"

"You won't go under, Gracie. I'll make sure of that."

I spread my legs wider, the spasms beginning to shake my body. Kerry closes her lips around a nipple, pulling and stretching as her expert thumb flicks my clit, faster and faster, her fingers curling, curling into the g. I cry out, grasping the edge of the tub. She drives her fingers into me, her palm slapping against my clit as she tugs my head back and back. I let loose with a half-sob, half-shout, falling into ragged spasms.

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The comparison:

Angie wasn't perfect. She was a little humor-impaired, she took herself too seriously, and for someone with her earthy sensuality, she was remarkably self-conscious about her body.

I remember once putting my hand on her belly, the loose skin of her stomach the result of a weight loss where the skin didn't become taut again. She squirmed and tried to push my hand away, but I held it there, reaching for her hand to place on my own soft abdomen. We sat there for a few moments, experiencing the rise and fall of one another's breath, before she disengaged herself from my palm, uncomfortable with the whole exercise.

The reasons we broke up were commonplace, prosaic. I got a terrific job offer out of town, she didn't want to leave her business, and neither of us was particularly good at the long-distance thing. She eventually hooked up with the woman who runs the local farmer's market. They've been together for years, and according to mutual friends, seem happy. I fucked around for a long time before I met Kerry through another mutual friend.

We seem happy too.

Kerry is all angles, a former athlete who has remained hard and firm all over. Analytical, irreverent, hilarious, and practical, she has a quick wit and a low bullshit tolerance. Unless, of course, the bullshit is mine, in which case she is more patient than I deserve. I always know where she stands, and where she stands is right beside me, always. Our sex life is really good. We're well matched in so many ways. I rely on her and adore her, which makes this all the more frustrating.

I glance over at Kerry's sleeping form and sigh. It's not fair to her. Maybe I should leave and get my head together. But what if this IS together, for me? What then? There has to be a place where Angie can live in me undisturbed, and undisturbing, tending to some tangled unknown gardens. Angie deserves that place. Kerry deserves my whole heart. And I deserve some serenity.

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The Hospital:

I am shaking, and my teeth are chattering. Kerry is already dialing. The words don't make sense to me, but I find myself hustled into some sweatpants and a t-shirt, and tucked into the passenger side of the car with a blanket over me. Christ, I'm cold.

I spend a couple of days in the hospital with IV antibiotics and fluids. I am lucky, the doctor says, as he lectures me on the stupidity of continuing to work when I was that ill. I don't feel lucky yet, but I'm working on it. Kerry's been here nearly non-stop.

I take it back. I do feel lucky.

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The Sketch:

It's early on the third day, and I know the fever has broken even before I open my eyes. I reach for the pad and pencils, and turn to see Kerry's tall frame forced into the unforgiving space of the hospital fold-out chair. The light from the hallway dapples her olive shoulder and neck, highlights the bit of gray in her close-cropped dark hair.

"Baby?"

Kerry stirs. "Mmm?"

"Wake up for just a sec, baby. I want to see you."

Kerry's brows knit together as the words fight their way in. She sighs.

"You mean now?"

"Yes. Now. I want to sketch you."

Her elbow bends to prop up the weight of her dark head. "Gracie, somebody'll see. You know they don't let you sleep fifteen minutes before they wanna..." she yawns..."put something in an orifice."

My laugh is followed by a spasm of coughing.

"Bitchtease. You had to mention orifices, didn't you? Look, you don't have to be naked. Just give me something to work with."

She reaches out from under the comforter, squeezes my hand.

"So good to hear you sounding like you, Gracie."

Kerry lifts the comforter and folds it away from the front of her body. She untucks the chambray shirt and works the first four buttons free. Braless underneath, olive cleavage and one brown nipple are visible. She slips a hand into the opened waistband of her jeans, moaning as she finds her damp core, even as she drops back off to sleep.

Sighing at the sight, wanting desperately to lift that top leg from where it lay along the lower leg and slip my hand between, I keep that thought between me and the night, settling for the glimpses of her before me. I lean back, trying to study every curve, every angle and shadow.

Amazing how easily and fluidly the lines draw themselves. I know Kerry's body so well. My fingers know every surface, every texture. Her topography is embedded in my hands.

Yet I can't help but sketch a vine or two in the background. I like the image of Angie working in me, quietly, invisibly, helping me untangle the strands of myself.

I cover Kerry with the blanket, prop the sketchpad up on the chair so she will see it when she wakes up, and I fall back to sleep with my hand resting on her head.