A Veil of Glass and Rain (23 page)

smolder my skin.

Her puckered nipples poke at my chest. My

cock pulses between our heated bodies. The

impulse to just lose myself in her warmth

grows impossibly strong. I ignore it. I hold her

until her shivers abate.

Before moving away from me, Brina presses

a tender kiss to my lips. Then she turns and

bends, until she's on her hands and knees. She

glances at me over her shoulder and wiggles

her ass playfully.

“Little minx,” I mutter.

She giggles. The sound turns into a small

cry, when my fingers trace her slit and dig

within her damp folds.

I want to make sure she's ready for my

invasion. She's probably tight after a month

without my dick inside her. I'm not planning to

hurt her. But I want to posses her. I want to

fuse our bodies. I want to keep her. Forever.

I shove a finger inside her cunt. I add

another, then another. The inner muscles

ripple around my digits. Her liquid warmth

seeps through my skin.

“Fuck my hand, Brina,” I instruct.

Her spine and hips wave and dance. Desire

chokes me, as Brina's weeping walls clench

around my fingers. I brush the pad of my

thumb across her swollen clit. Her neck arches

backward. Her strands tumble like a murky

waterfall along the pale skin of her back. Her

lips part on a voiceless cry. So sensitive. So

graceful.

As I slowly withdraw my hand from her

shivering cunt, Brina bows her head forward.

Her tresses cascade over the wooden floor,

painting it with black smudges. Strength

abandons her arms. They curve. Brina hides

her face between them. Her heavy panting

punctuates the air.

I pet the length of her back with one of my

hands, while the other guides my erection

inside her quaking body. Her pussy resists the

invasion at first, but then it sucks my dick in.

Brina whimpers and pushes backward, taking

even more of me inside her.

I want to comfort her with my voice. I want

to praise her beauty, her courage, her trust.

But I don't. I can't. Numerous words crowd my

head. Words of longing. Words of hunger.

Words of love. They bleed out of my skin. They

blend with the sweat beading along my

quivering muscles.

I missed you. Never leave me again. I need

you.

My control crumbles. I grasp her hips. I fill

her in one, hard shove. I fuck her. Our

colliding flesh submerges the small apartment

with erotic sounds. Even if my thrusts are

unrelenting, her depths are ever accepting.

The tightening tendons of my neck bow. I'm

humbled.

We sob our pleasure in unison. I lurch

against her again and again. I give her my

release and my soul. My bliss and my pain. My

anger and my heart.

We both collapse onto the floor. Eventually,

I roll to the side, bringing her with me. Still

wedged deep inside her, I cradle her against

my chest. Her delicate limbs, as soft as petals,

humid with arousal and fatigue, tremble

against my body. I curl my entire being around

her.

“I understand why you had to leave. I do.

And I'm proud of you,” I gasp against her

shoulder. “But I also hate that you left me

behind.” The admission bruises my chest. For a

while Brina doesn't say anything. At length, she

whispers, “I love you.”

I nuzzle into her hair. I nip at her nape. I

murmur her name along with my words of love.

She awakens me with the sweetest of kisses.

Her soft mouth brushes across my slightly

parted lips. At first, the contact is as faint as

a feather. Then, it becomes more insistent.

Her tongue strokes over mine once, twice,

three times. She utters small sounds of

pleasure, that stoke up my desire. Her silky

body blankets my skin. Her nipples graze my

chest. Her hands slide along my shoulders, my

neck, my face. They leave burning shivers in

their wake.

My pulse quickens. My breathing falters. I

loop my arms around her lithe frame and I

crush her against my chest. I deepen the kiss. I

devour her mouth. I swallow her needy cries.

Brina shifts and squirms, then her hand

slides between our bodies. Her fingers curl

around my semi-hard cock and guide it inside

her pussy. As her velvety heat envelops my

sensitive flesh, I pour my groans into her

mouth. Then I break the kiss.

Our eyes open and meet. Our gasps blend.

“Thank you for running after me, Eagan,”

she says against my lips.

I smile and trace my fingertips across her

chin, her jaw, her eyebrows.

“You speak my language, Brina,” I tell her.

“Your mother speaks Italian. Your father

speaks French. And yet you speak mostly

English. Because of me. For me. You're been

running after me all your life.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. Her cunt

spasms around my aroused dick. I thrust up

into her, just once, before lapping hungrily at

her salty drops. They belong to me. I claim

them.

“Take me,” I demand against her rosy

cheek.

Brina kisses me once more. Then she makes

love to me.

I'm a kid.

I'm wearing a yellow raincoat and yellow

boots. I'm standing beside a huge, dark pond.

On the other side of the pond I see twenty-

year-old Brina. She's wearing a purple

sweater, jeans and sneakers. And she's holding

a purple umbrella.

But it's not raining.

“If I jump in the water and disappear, will

you jump after me to bring me back?” I ask

her, my voice is feeble.

She smiles. “Of course.”

The pond disappears.

Brina unfurls her fingers and lets go of the

umbrella. It soars and fades into the sky.

I rush toward her and wrap my arms around

her waist. She cradles me close to her chest.

“I love you, Brina.”

“I love you, Eagan.”

I feel safe.

Brina.

The air inside Neal's club vibrates with

cheering voices, approval and adrenaline as

Ivan concludes his piece.

Tonight yellow and purple lights illuminate

the theater. The two colors clash and then

mingle in absolute accord. They dance along

the walls, on the floor, across the stage,

bathing the audience and us, the musicians,

with the same dreamy intensity.

Ivan motions for me to approach the mic.

Even as I expose myself to the eager eyes of

the crowd, I let my gaze wander and seek the

bright blue regard I adore. The moment I find

it, warmth seeps through my skin and my soul

slowly uncoils. My fingers graze the strings of

the blue guitar once, then I announce, “The

song is called
A touch of cinnamon
.”

I love a boy who lives in a cinnamon home,

Neal, wearing a white tuxedo and a white

top-hat, makes his way through the waving

audience, until he reaches Eagan. The lights

smudge Neal's pristine outfit with yellow and

purple stains. A vehement conversation, full of

nervous gestures and sharp nods, arises

between my lover and his friend. Eagan

glances repeatedly at the stage, regardless, his

eyes avoid my stare.

A wispy, but pungent thread of ice worms

through my veins.

He leathers his body with cinnamon scented

soap,

Neal keeps talking and gesticulating.

Eventually, Eagan heaves an evident sigh. He

glances at me and mouths unintelligible words,

then he turns and follows Neal, until they both

fade into the crowd.

He wears the scent wherever he goes.

I need him, I long for him, I crave him,

For a fugitive and yet infinite moment, the

cold fingers wrap around my throat and

impede my voice; not even my constant

puppeteers, experience and technique, are

able to pull at my vocal chords. But then my

eyes focus on the audience and perceive their

dancing bodies and their passionate gazes.

While I drink it all in, a different sort of heat

bleeds into my skin. It melts the veil of frost

around my neck and it imbues my veins with

courage.

My soul soars anew, even as I spread my

arms to the kind unknown.

My cinnamon boy builds cradles around my

frozen skin,

He shields me from harm and from pain,

He lets in only the rain,

I need him, I long for him, I crave him,

I love a boy with sun-kissed hair,

With ocean storms in his bright blue eyes,

I love a boy who drinks my tears when I cry,

I need him, I long for him, I crave him,

Through veils of grass and tears,

In a cradle of velvet and steel,

I love a cinnamon boy who can melt my fears,

I love a boy who can break my icy skin,

And protect the petals hidden within.

After the concert, I surrender to the impulse

to walk away from my audience. I leave the

glory to the twins; they know how to handle it.

My thoughts are a confused meld of anger,

disappointment and excitement.

Before I can step out of the club, Hans the

bartender touches my arm to catch my

attention. He tells me that Felia is the reason

why Neal and Eagan had to leave; apparently,

she's in some kind of trouble. When I ask Hans

for additional explanations, however, he's

unable to provide them.

So I thank him, and then I plunge into the

Berlin night.

Neal's huge bed is soft and comfortable, but

my sleep is troubled, for I miss my familiar

cradle of velvet and steel.

When the sounds and noises of the morning

steal inside the apartment, intimate sensations

veil my body; the beloved scent of cinnamon,

and the heat seeping from Eagan's strong arms

curled around my frame.

My eyes flutter open. Our gazes collide. We

stare at one another for a long while.

Disappointment and confusion don't reside

within my soul any longer, and I hope Eagan

can perceive it, for his bright blue eyes seem

troubled. The moment he gives me his easy

smile, my heart leaps and rejoices.

“What happened?” I demand.

Before answering, he dusts kisses all over

my face and across my lips.

“Neal's been busy lately. And Felia is trying

to get his attention. Last night she took a

walk, naked, down the streets of Berlin. The

security guys that Neal hired to keep an eye on

her called him. And Neal asked me to go with

him, because he doesn't know how to deal

with his sister anymore.”

“Did she talk to you? Did she say anything?”

I prompt.

Eagan shakes his head. “We took her to her

apartment. And we kept her company until she

fell asleep. Then Neal kicked me out and told

me to rush into your arms.”

Eagan inhales and exhales a long breath,

then he buries his face in the hollow of my

neck.

“I'm sorry I missed your performance,” he

murmurs.

I stroke my fingers along the back of his

neck and through his hair.

“Don't be. I'm proud of you. They're your

family. And you take good care of them.”

“Neal keeps saying that now you're family

too. The Medwin siblings are crazy. You're in

trouble, kitty-cat,” he mutters.

I laugh softly. “Bring it.”

I feel Eagan's grin unfold against my skin,

then I sense the wet rasp of his tongue, as he

licks my throat.

“Sing me your song,” he requests.

I press my lips to the tender shell of his ear,

then I sing for him.

I love a boy who lives in a cinnamon home.

Brina.

18 months later.

We spent an entire week traveling across Egypt

with our parents. We admired the pyramids,

the desert and the Nile river. We discussed

about history and ancient civilizations. And we