LITTLE BIT OF IVORY

JL Merrow

She’s got perfect skin. That’s what I remember most about her, when we’re apart. Perfect skin, the color of new ivory. Long, long limbs and crazy hair, all piled up on her head as if she wasn’t tall enough already, the bitch.

(I don’t mean that spitefully, by the way. I love her.)

She never lets that hair tumble around her shoulders when we’re out together. Not when she’s out without me, either—and she’s out too often without me, has to be in her job. She travels, you see. All over the world, charming people (men) with her smile, her witchy green eyes. Seducing them into giving her love tokens, a name on a dotted line.

(I’d give her my name, if she asked for it. Or take hers, if that was what she wanted.)

Me? I sit at home, and I wait. I tap my fingers, and words flow out, although the effect is little even after much labor.

(If I told her that, she’d laugh and call me her own dear Jane. I do love to see her laugh.)

But then she comes home to me, when my shoulders are stiff from typing and her hair’s just beginning to droop. I meet her at the door (kick the junk mail out of the way first, should have tidied, too late now) and put my arms around her neck. She smiles that smile that makes her eyes go brighter, that shows the lines around the corners. (They’re mine, those lines. I was there for all of their births.) It softens when my hands creep up to take out the pins, the clips, all that holds back the avalanche of burnished copper.

Her hair cascades, and her whole body relaxes, shudders. “Mmm,” she says. “Missed you.”

“Missed you more,” I tell her (it’s true). “Hungry?”

She darkens her eyebrows when she’s working. Thinks they’re too pale. But they’re perfect, just like the rest of her, and when one quirks up I want to kiss it (it’s a bugger being short). “Had a sandwich on the train. I’ll keep.”

“No, you won’t,” I tell her, pulling her by the hand. Kicking the door shut behind her.

It’s only seven paces down the hall to the bedroom (I might have measured it, once). It takes us seven ages to get there. Her coat falls to the floor, an early casualty. Her shoes seem to have walked off by themselves. (They’re black patent, wicked heels. I’m sure they could do a deal all on their own, if she’d let them.)

I kiss her, tasting mint and ChapStick. (She knows I love to see her in lipstick. She also knows I don’t love the taste of it. I imagine her now, taking it off on the train. Moisturizing her lips again. Pressing them together, then checking in the mirror she keeps in her bag to make sure she’s perfect. Was there a touch of sweat on the brow of some paunchy, middle-aged businessman sitting opposite, sneaking a glance on the way home to his disillusioned wife?)

Her tongue darts between my lips. Shy, tentative. (Oh, it’s a liar, that tongue.) I meet it with mine, relearn the contours of her mouth. She’s soft, so soft, where I press her to me. Her breasts, smaller than mine, don’t need much support. When I knead one with my hand, I can feel her hard nipple through the thin material. I shiver and have to pull at her top. “Off,” I tell her, and she laughs but pulls it off anyway.

(I take mine off too. There’s no sense in wasting time.)

Her bra’s pretty, but it’s got to go. I unhook it gently. Cherry red nipples tease me, so I bend to taste one. So sweet and hard, and I can feel heat rising in my core, just as if it was my own breast being suckled. She moans, her hand reaching for my breast, slender fingers sliding into the cup of my bra. When she squeezes my nipple, I feel like I’ll explode.

I reach around to the fastening of her skirt. Undo it and help it over those flaring hips. She’s wearing stockings, black nylon held up with lace, the contrast stark with the pale perfection of her skin. I hook my thumbs into her panties and ease them down, leaving her bare but for her stockings.

“So beautiful,” I murmur. I don’t remember getting to my knees. I nuzzle into the fiery hair at her groin, all neatly trimmed (she used to wax, but I like her better like this so now she doesn’t bother). She shudders, and I hold her tight as I lick her lips. She tastes of musk, and want, and mine.

“On the bed,” I say, and she lies down, naked but for her stockings, her suspenders and her smile. One leg bent, the other straight, and I can see all of her, all her beauty.

“Time you got those jeans off,” she says, and I scramble to obey. (Sometimes she likes the feel of rough denim against her skin. Today isn’t one of those times.)

I kneel between her spread thighs and run my hands over her hips, her waist, her breasts. “Tease,” she says. I know what she wants.

I circle her opening with my finger, teasing her lips and her clitoris. There’s a flush of pink on my ivory canvas now, and her breasts rise and fall with her quickened breath. I push my finger inside her and her head falls back, her hair a waterfall of flames.

“More,” she breathes. I add another finger, work them in and out. She’s slick, warm and welcoming, her inner walls caressing me. I add a third finger. “More,” she demands.

Four fingers. I add some lubricant and go cautiously now. I don’t want to hurt her. (And she loves it when I tease.) My fingers still inside her, I bend over to kiss her breast, to tease her nipple with my tongue, my teeth. She groans, her body shaking. I brush her clitoris with my thumb.

Her hands push at my shoulders. “Not yet. I need all of you.” (I know what she means.)

I suck hard on her nipple, bringing it to a reddened, swollen peak. Then I leave it alone, for now. Squeezing my hand as small as I can, I let my thumb slip inside her. Her hips jerk up.

“Yes. More.”

Between my legs, I feel like I’m on fire. I push into her some more. So wet, so hot, she pulls me in. Slowly, so slowly, I watch my hand disappear inside her. She shudders and groans. “Yes.”

I move my hand—quick little thrusts, just how she likes it. Her slender fingers scrabble and clutch at the sheets.

“More?” I ask. (I already know the answer.)

“God, yes! Now.”

I lick the thumb of my free hand and gently brush her clitoris. She arches, crying out, and clenches around my fist. Strong, rippling contractions squeeze me, caress me. She comes and comes, leaving me slick with her juices. When she pushes at my shoulders again, I slide my hand out of her (slowly, so slowly; I don’t want to leave her). She pulls me up to kiss me, her tongue now honest, demanding, invading. Her heart beats fiercely against my breast.

“God, I feel properly welcomed home,” she says, her voice breathy and broken.

I nod. “Then my work here is done.”

She laughs. “Mine’s not.” My pulse quickens as she rouses orgasm-languid limbs and slithers down the bed. “Lie back.”

“And think of England?”

“Bitch. Think of me.” (She knows I always do.)

I gasp as her warm breath hits my groin. Her tongue’s turned wicked now, teasing as it tastes. My flesh tingles at its approach and bursts into flame at its touch. She stokes my fires with practiced skill. (What would the men in suits think now if they saw her, I wonder? Would faces flush, would hands creep into boxer shorts?) Her fingers on my hips steady me, write their own Braille across my skin. (I’ll read it later, with love.)

There’s a bed beneath me. I know this. Wrinkled sheets and a pillow under my head. The air in the flat is cool. I feel none of it. All I feel is her: her tongue, her hands. The ecstasy she spins out of straw. I want to paint her with words, my little bit of ivory, but my brush is fine, so fine, and all I have is pure sensation. Wordless, I cry out as she takes me to the peak and carries me over in her arms.

My limbs tangle with hers. I’d tie that knot so tight, if I could, that no one would ever be able to undo it.

And then I’d pull on the trailing thread and let it all unravel, let her go.

Just for the pleasure of having her come back home to me.