We get two steps down the cracked concrete stairsbefore a flashbulb goes off in my face. A slimphotographer with a long mullet is crouching down,taking our picture. I’ve seen him before, snapping shotsof me and Vera on our nights out but that was monthsand months ago.
“Why is Mateo Casalles meeting with Atlético?”the photographer asks but Pedro just smiles and raiseshis hand in a slight wave before turning to the left. I goright, and the photographer follows me, an easy target.
“Are you joining Atlético again, Mateo?” hepersists, and I turn slightly to give him a look.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I say, andkeep walking. He doesn’t bother following me beyondthe corner.
By the time I’m back at the apartment, the sun isoverbearing, and the streets, even in our neighborhood,the elegant Salamanca barrio, smell like garbage anddust. The building offers a cool respite, and when I openthe door to our flat, Vera is standing in the gleamingkitchen, stirring a pitcher of lemonade.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” I ask as I put mykeys on the table, remembering the particular Englishphrase.
She turns to me and gives me a big smile. She lookslike a housewife from the 1950s with the eyes of afemme fatale. She’s squeezed herself into a fittedstrapless yellow dress that shows off her full breasts andwide hips, and has a silk patterned scarf pulling hervoracious hair off her forehead. But her tattoos and blackhigh-top sneakers remind me that she’s not like anyother housewife I know.
“Very good,” she says, always pleased when Iremember the idiosyncrasies of her language. She raisesthe pitcher. “Don’t worry, there’s vodka in it.”
I grin at her and wrap my arms around her waist,pulling her up against me. “Of course there is.”
She yelps as a bit of the lemonade splashes over theside and onto the floor but I don’t let go. She manages toput the pitcher down before I bury my face in her neck,nipping and kissing at her delicate skin. She tastes likesunshine and citrus.
“So,” she says breathlessly, and I can feel her pulsequickening beneath my lips. I run my hand over theslope of her ass and give it a hard squeeze as I pressmyself against her. “Do I have to ask how it went?”
“I will tell you all about it,” I murmur, “later. Butyou’re wearing that dress and making me drunkenlemonade on this hot day, and I’m afraid I’ll have to dealwith you first.”
I bring my lips to the space behind her ear whereher newest tattoo is. It says, in Spanish, Love, in Spanishis you, something I said to Vera back in La Albercawhen I was first falling for her. It remains true to thisday. I run the tip of my tongue over the words, and sheshudders beneath me. She can never resist that, thoughshe never seems to resist anything.
I love that about her.
I grab hold of the zipper at the back of her dress andslowly start pulling it down until her breasts are free. Icup them, my mouth grazing her nipples that puckerbeneath me. I take my time, wanting to enjoy everyminute with them in this bright light, this cool kitchen,this hot city.
She moans as I run my tongue around in deliberatecircles, and she starts to run her fingers through my hair,tugging on it gently. It ignites nerves that shoot directlyto my cock but I’m already hard as steel and strainingagainst my pants.
With one smooth motion I pick her up and place herover my shoulder, caveman-style. She lets out a littlelaugh, playfully kicking her toes against my stomach andpounding her fists against my back. “Put me down, youbad man,” she says in mock distress.
I give her an exaggerated grunt and then drop heron the couch. She doesn’t have time to adjust herself;I’m on her in a second, pulling the dress over her headand discarding it on the coffee table. I stare down at herbody lying against the cushions, pale and soft and all forme, and grab hold of her calves, yanking her toward meuntil her ass and hips are propped up against the armrest,her legs dangling over the sides.