Blistered Lips

Lydia stood at the rail of the wrap-around balcony outside Joe’s cabin. Looking out at the water, watching the half-moon’s reflection repeating itself across the surface, she sighed. Joe hadn’t exaggerated. Everything about this cabin was opulent, especially this view.

“You like?”

“Mmmm…I like. I like very much.”

Joe was beside her, handing her a glass of wine. “You were right,” she said as she took the glass, “this is divine.” Lydia turned back to the rail, her elbows propped at its edge, again looking out at the ocean. “And this view, well, it’s incredible.” She could hear her daughters’ laughter above the low-playing music coming from the open doors behind them. “Well, it sounds like Lonnie is finally starting to loosen up; that’s good!” Then, “Where’s Bill? I thought he was going to follow me out here, once he got a drink.”

“Lydia,” Joe teased, as he slid an arm around her waist, “You’re breakin’ my heart.” He nuzzled her neck, murmuring into the brown silk of her hair, “Forget about Bill. I’m right here, right now.” Moving his hand around her waist and resting it at her hip, he pulled her up against his side.

“Joe! Stop it! I’m old enough to be your mother.” She pushed her elbow back into the cradle of his, while shifting and pulling her shoulder out from him, as if to disentangle herself from his grasp. Instead, she found herself being twisted into and against him, as her right arm—the one holding the wine—was cocooned between their chests. She was captured in his embrace, looking into his eyes, seeing the intensity there.

“I want to kiss you, Lydia, and I’m pretty damn sure you need to be kissed. In fact, I’m pretty damn sure you want to be kissed.”

Before she could protest, his lips were covering hers; quick, unexpected, almost harsh in their urgency. She found herself responding, returning his kiss with the fullness of her open mouth. He was pushing her back against the rail with the force of his hips, his chest, his full body, and she was letting him, wanting him to. Not thinking, just feeling and wanting, wanting and needing. Their kiss deepened as he pressed in even tighter. The heat of his chest, his arms, radiated through his shirt, against her, around her, a bundled mass of flexing ripples.

She could feel his hand traveling up the back of her dress, finding the zipper. Slowly breaking their kiss, easing his mouth barely away from hers, he looked deep into her eyes. His breath was hot and ragged against her face. “You are so fucking sexy, and you don’t even know it,” he hissed. With his free hand, he took the wine from the weak clutch of her fingers and placed it behind her on the rail. “I don’t think we need that. Now where were we? Oh, yes.” He began easing down her zipper.

As if she’d finally caught hold of her senses, Lydia abruptly pulled back. She reached behind her and grabbed his arm, stopping the zipper’s journey half way down her back. “OK, this has gone far enough, Joe,” she said. She twisted to the left while pulling at his wrist, wresting herself free. Backing up slightly, she busily brushed at the front of her dress, as if smoothing its wrinkles would erase the unguarded passion they’d just shared.

“Lydia.”

“No, Joe.” She’d reached for the wine glass and was now tracing its lip with the tip of her manicured nail. Don’t look at him, she thought, just don’t look at him. “I can’t do this. It wouldn’t be right.” While she’d succeeded in escaping his embrace, Joe’s hand still rested on her bare arm. She could feel it there, like a burning ember. Perhaps, she mused, it would leave her red and scarred; her scarlet letter. She tried to ignore it. “It’s time for me to gather those two girls of mine and get back to our cabin. It’s very late.”

“Lydia, look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want me.”

She could feel his fingers starting to tighten on her arm, but before he could get a firmer grip or say anything else, Leia pulled free and took a step back. “No,” she repeated, and turned, walking away. Joe watched, slowly shaking his head. Right before she was about to disappear through the doors, she stopped, turning to look at him.

“You know,” she said, smiling wryly, “I did want you.”

Joe smiled back. “You still do.”

“You’re a very wicked boy.”

“Yes. I am.”

With that, Lydia gave a toss of her head, as if to say he was incorrigible and turned to go inside. What she saw before her—one foot already through the door—stopped her in mid-motion. Her flexed calf hovered in the air, her foot inches from the carpet below, its strappy heel dangling precariously.

Joe cocked his head, studying her. Now, what in the hell is that about, he wondered. Slowly she lowered her foot, still staring at whatever tableau was before her. Curious, Joe quickly traversed the distance between them, stepping up behind her to look over her shoulder. “Well, what do you know, Lydia,” he whispered, “looks like I’m not the only wicked one around here.”

Stunned, she couldn’t answer, was barely conscious of him sliding up against her, circling her waist with his arms, his breath at her ear. She was helpless to stop him. Together they stood there, his chin resting on her shoulder as they watched—Lydia mesmerized and immobile—the carnal spectacle taking place before them.