Highrise
By Evelyn Hale
Copyright 2012 Evelyn Hale
Smashwords Edition
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Twelve Storeys Up
***
She stood by the balcony window in the cold silver-blue of dusk. She looked down at the streets and the buildings and the lights. She saw herself, too, reflected in the glass, misted palely there with the lights across her face like a glittering mask of diamond dust.
It was that feeling of being in a strange hotel room, foreign but sexy, sleek-exotic.
Her name was Roselyn. She was old enough to know what she wanted—maybe a bit older than that. It didn’t matter. Not here and not now. And besides, she thought, everything worth having is worth paying for.
She stood there, stem-bodied and stylish in her lavender silk robe, window-lit, her clean skin seeming to glow, like ivory, and her robe clinging to her contours: her heavy breasts, her wide hips, the hourglass of her belly. Almost ghostly in this light. Her hair still damp from the shower, spilling blue-black across her shoulders.
Rose. Nothing about her red except the fullness of her lips—though a few things pink.
She heard the shower turn on. She smiled. While she had been showering Curtis had come into the bathroom, shedding his clothing, an almost surreal sight through the fogged lens-pattern of the shower glass. She watched him, the hot water rushing down her back, saying nothing, knowing that he could see her in the same way, maddeningly distorted, like an image broken by the ripples of a pond; yet so alluring, almost discernable as the nude object he so plainly desired. And she desired him as well.
But when he went to open the shower door, she flicked the latch to lock it.
He tried it a few times, his bewilderment comical to her. “Oh, come on,” he said.
She turned away from him, showing her backside to him in a hundred different misted lenses, and resumed soaping herself, humming a little tune.
He knocked on the glass. “Rose? Let me in. I need a shower.”
As if she didn’t know. Men were funny in that way.
“Wait your turn,” she said.
“Come on.”
“Say please.”
“Rose…”
She giggled. “That’s a strange way of saying please.”
He was silent for a moment; and then she heard him sigh.
“Please?”
She put down the soap. She turned to face him. She moved closer, her hands on the glass, leaning in, the water streaming down her fingers, branching crystal-clear down the fogged pane. The closer she went the more he could no doubt see, and he did likewise, leaning closer, resolving into almost-focus: the tan of his skin, the ripple of his prodigious muscles. The impressive organ recumbent between his legs.
They were very close. They could whisper under the steady static-hush of the shower.
“If I let you in here,” she said, “what would you do?”
“Anything you wanted me to do.”
“Would you kiss me?”
“Yes.”
She said: “Where would you kiss me?”
His voice became heavy. “Your lips,” he said, “your neck. Your breasts.”
“Would you lick my nipples? Would you bite them?”
She saw him hardening, and she felt herself responding as well. A tingle, at first; but it would build.
He said, “Let me in.”
“Touch yourself,” she said. “Do it slow.”
“You do it too.”
She smiled. “I was planning on it.” Cradling a soapy breast in her hand, she squeezed it, teased the dark bud of her nipple with thumb and forefinger. She slid her other hand down her body, along her flat shapely stomach, across the faded filament of scar there, and lower, beyond the trimmed thatch of her pubic hair and to the place where her tingling warmth bloomed.
She watched him. Watched him take himself in his hand, the length and the thickness of him, mosaic’d through the glass, ripple-split and libidinous. She used her middle finger on her slit, but sparingly, a languid come-hither motion calling self to self. And with a voice more throaty than before, she said:
“Do you want to come in?”
He worked himself slow and hard. He said: “Yes.”
“Do you want to get wet with me? Do you want to get dirty? Do you want to get clean?”