London Twist: A Delilah Novella (11 page)

A long moment went by, then Fatima said, “Since what was done to my family, I can be a moody bitch. Sad. Depressed. Guilty. Angry. Sometimes, when I feel really good, like I do right now, I’ll suddenly be acutely aware of what happened to them. Of what was taken from them.”

“Yes. I had that for a long time after my brother died. And my parents… for my parents, it never went away.” As with all the best lies, though the facts were rearranged, the emotional essence was the truth.

“How long did you have it?”

“The first year was the worst. Then for another four years or so after that. Now, only infrequently. And I don’t really mind when it happens. It makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know. Still connected to him. He’s like a special memory I keep in a safe place, but that on certain occasions I get to unwrap and treasure, even if the treasuring involves sadness.”

For a moment, Fatima’s expression was so unguarded that Delilah was moved by it. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted… even her pupils were dilated. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly like that.”

“I don’t know. It may be different for you. The loss is still recent.” She sensed a possible opening, and decided to exploit it. “What about your other brother? Are you close?”

“We… used to be. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“But are you not even in touch?”

“Sometimes.”

The answers felt guarded. She wondered whether this was itself a form of honesty. If Fatima really wanted to protect her brother, she would have slipped into an anodyne cover story that would have raised no flags. It wasn’t an easy call on whether to push or not, but Delilah decided not to. The main opportunity here was the laptop. If she made Fatima suspicious by inquiring too much about her brother—inquiries that were likely to prove fruitless regardless—she might lose a chance at the primary objective.

She realized the laptop was all she really cared about at this point. Fatima could tell her anything at all about her brother and anything else, but if Delilah didn’t get that password—

She didn’t want to think about it.

She wished again she’d brought her camera. The light was so delicate, and Fatima, with her sad expression, so lovely in it. And then she had an idea—an idea that, even as it blossomed, she realized her subconscious had been trying to serve up to her for some time.

“Merde,”
she said, “I wish I had brought my camera.”

“The sunset?”

Delilah laughed. “No, my dear. You.”

Fatima took a sip of wine. “You’re way too nice.”

“Let’s go back to the room. We can take the wine. The sky is going to be gorgeous—lavender and indigo and with that crescent moon rising, too—perfect for the magazine. And I want to shoot you, too. In this light, I promise you will look sad and solemn and not at all fashionable. Nothing that could detract from your well-deserved activist image, all right? Nothing that could make someone suspect there might be another side to you.”

Fatima smiled—a touch nervously? “You think I’m hiding something?”

“I think you’re afraid of something, yes. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if you do, either. All I know is, you haven’t let me shoot you since we arrived.”

Fatima gave her a theatrical sigh. “All right, let’s go back. I don’t know why you like to shoot me so much, but at least I can keep you company while you work.”

Interesting. Not an acceptance, but not a refusal, either.

They took the wine and walked back to the bungalow. Delilah noted the laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch. Good. She brought her equipment out to the deck and began to set up. Fatima came to the sliding door and said, “You get your shots—I’m going to take a shower.”

Delilah smiled. “Don’t think you will escape me that easily.”

Fatima laughed. “Don’t worry, I don’t.”

Delilah used a tripod and a long exposure to capture some dramatic shots of Mount Otemanu, silhouetted by a violet sky and set off by the moon. The magazine would be pleased. When the best of the light had faded, she went inside. Fatima was coming out of the bathroom wearing one of the hotel terrycloth robes, her hair wrapped in a towel.

“If this is how you plan to get me not to shoot you,” Delilah said, “it won’t work.”

Fatima smiled. “How was the rest of the sunset?”

“Lovely. Though not as lovely as you.”

She set the camera down on the coffee table next to the bottle of wine and Fatima’s laptop. The lights were already quite low, and Delilah lit a pair of candles the hotel had thoughtfully left on the end table next to the couch. She sat, poured two glasses of wine, picked up both, and extended one to Fatima. “Join me?”

Fatima sat. They touched glasses and drank.

Delilah set her glass down and picked up the camera. “Look straight ahead.”

Fatima regarded her with mock suspicion. “Why?”

“Trust me.”

Fatima turned her head. Delilah raised the camera and snapped a shot. Fatima looked at her and said, “You’re really not going to let me stop you, are you?”

Delilah smiled. “When we’re done, you can take the card and do anything you want with it.” She poured more wine. “Here, this will relax you.”

Fatima laughed. “Do I not seem relaxed?”

“Maybe just a little tense.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“No. I want you to enjoy.”

Was there some double entendre there? She wasn’t sure. She realized she was a bit more drunk than she’d intended.

But… that concern she had, that Fatima might think she was coming on to her. She realized again this was something her unconscious was trying to tell her. If Fatima had any operational suspicions, any vague sense of ulterior motives, the possibility that Delilah might be attracted to her would provide a ready explanation her conscious mind could grab onto, to soothe the suspicions away.

Or was she rationalizing? She decided it didn’t matter—the dynamic would work either way.

She looked at the image she had just shot in the camera’s viewfinder. “Hmm, nice, but a little dark. Hang on.”

She got up, grabbed her iPhone, and quickly booted Kent’s app. Then she switched over to a light-meter app, which Fatima wouldn’t know she didn’t really need, and theatrically adjusted her camera and the two candles accordingly. She set the iPhone down next to Fatima’s laptop and took a few more pictures.

“Yes, that’s better,” she said, snapping away and checking the viewfinder. “I love this light. Here, take that towel off your head, all right? Yes, good. Now, shake out your hair. Ah,
oui,
beautiful.”

She stood, moved the coffee table aside, and circled Fatima, getting multiple shots from various angles. “Bring the glass to your lips. Yes. You’re contemplating something. Anticipating. Waiting for your lover. Yes, exactly like that. Now drink. No, don’t move your head, only the glass. Yes. Put the glass down. Now look at me. Head down, eyes up.
Oui,
like that. My God, girl, you are
éblouissant
. Stunning.”

And she was, too. As naturally smoldering for the camera as any professional model Delilah had ever shot.

Delilah lowered the camera and looked at her for a long moment. Fatima returned the look, her expression confident, almost serene, any hint of previous reluctance gone. Whether it was the wine, the setting, the company… Delilah didn’t know. But Fatima was past reluctantly surrendering to the shoot. She now seemed almost intoxicated by it.

Delilah felt her heart kicking harder. What was she doing? She had enough already. She didn’t need to go further. Kent’s app was active. When they were done with the shoot, she would hand the camera card to Fatima, and Fatima would plug it directly into her laptop. She’d type in her password, the app would capture it, the op would be done.

Delilah said, “Move the robe down one of your shoulders.”

Fatima’s mouth opened as though to say something, but she didn’t. She shook her head, once, wordlessly, her expression suddenly confused.

“Oui,
yes, I want you to. While you look into the camera. Do it slowly. Deliberately. Like you would to seduce a lover.”

Fatima’s lips were parted. Was she breathing hard? Delilah was.

Gradually, uncertainly, Fatima crossed her left arm over her body and lowered one lapel of the robe with her right, stopping when it was halfway to her elbow. The glimpse of additional honey-colored skin against the white robe was deliciously tantalizing.

“
Oui
, yes, like that,” Delilah said, snapping away and circling back to the couch. She kneeled on one of the cushions. “Now clutch the material close to you. Not because you don’t want me to see. Because you don’t want to
let
me see. Because you’re tormenting me with your beauty. Like that, yes. Yes, yes.”

She lowered the camera. She felt her heart pounding in her chest. She was so excited she was wet. What was wrong with her? She had seduced countless men. It was her job, she was good at it, she enjoyed it, it didn’t make her nervous. And yet now her hands were shaking so much she wasn’t sure she’d be able to steady the camera.

“Fatima. Lower the other shoulder of the robe for me.”

Again, Fatima said nothing. Still looking at Delilah, she reached with the opposite arm to the opposite side of the robe and lowered it as she had the first. She crossed her arms just below the curve of her breasts, the upper half of which were now beautifully revealed.

Delilah lowered the camera. “More,” she said.

She saw that Fatima was trembling. Her lips were parted, her eyes directly on Delilah’s. She lowered the robe further.

“More,” Delilah said again, her breathing hard, her voice husky.

Slowly, so slowly, Fatima moved her hands to her lap. The robe fell away entirely.

Delilah lowered her eyes to Fatima’s breasts. God, they were beautiful, rising and falling with the woman’s breathing. A tiny cry escaped Delilah’s mouth.

Delilah set the camera on the floor. Fatima watched her, saying nothing.

Delilah moved forward on the couch, leaned in, and paused a few inches from Fatima’s face. She looked in the woman’s dark eyes, moved by the nervousness and desire she saw in them. Then she leaned closer, closer, until their lips were touching. Fatima didn’t press forward, but nor did she pull away.

“I want you to kiss me back,” Delilah whispered.

“I… I don’t know,” Fatima said, her mouth still touching Delilah’s. “Delilah, are you… gay?”

The movement of her lips against Delilah’s as she spoke was amazingly sensual, and Delilah became aware of an ache between her legs. She laughed softly. “Not before I met you, no.”

“I don’t… I don’t know about this.”

“Kiss me,” Delilah whispered.

There was a pause, and then gently, tentatively, Fatima moved her lips against Delilah’s. They were so full and soft and hesitant… not at all like a man’s. Delilah could feel Fatima’s breath against her face, and realized the woman was as excited as she was, and even more frightened. The thought excited her more. She wanted to reach down and touch herself, but was afraid it would be too much.

Fatima opened her mouth and kissed her harder. Delilah felt a burst of surprise and delight. She opened her mouth, too, and their tongues met, touching, teasing, tasting. She turned her head and pressed forward and opened her mouth more, letting Fatima’s tongue all the way inside. God, it was delicious, she couldn’t remember a kiss that tasted anything like it. She heard Fatima moan… or was it her? She moved her head to the side and kissed Fatima’s neck, her collarbone. She put one knee on the floor, pulled the robe opened further, and kissed lower, lower, her hands dropping inside the robe and taking hold of Fatima’s hips. Her mouth found a nipple and she sucked on it. Fatima gasped and her hands came to the back of Delilah’s head, pulling her closer.

Suddenly the halter and sarong felt like a diving bell. Delilah pulled back, crossed her arms, and pulled off the top. Even before it had cleared her head, Fatima was leaning forward, reaching for her, and then her hands were on Delilah’s breasts, touching, caressing, exploring. She took Delilah’s nipples between her fingers and gently squeezed, and Delilah felt the shock of the sensation all the way down to her toes. She seized Fatima’s face in her hands and this time the kiss went on and on, headlong, passionate, unrestrained. It was extraordinary, electrifying, she felt like they were making love just with their mouths.

Somehow she managed to open the sarong and get her panties off. She thought she’d never been so wet. Still with one knee on the floor and the other leg on the couch, she broke the kiss and took one of Fatima’s hands. She guided it closer, closer, looking into Fatima’s eyes, and when the woman’s fingers touched her Delilah gasped from the pleasure of it. She moved Fatima’s hand, showing her how she liked it, moaning “
Oui, oui,”
in rhythm with Fatima’s caress. She felt one of Fatima’s fingers slide slowly inside her, in, out, the pressure there, then gone again, then back, teasing, satisfying, teasing again. It was maddening. She couldn’t stand it anymore and she couldn’t stand that it might stop. She leaned back, pulling Fatima by the hand with her. “I want you to taste me,” she said. “Please. Please taste me.”

Fatima put her free hand on Delilah’s chest and pushed her all the way onto her back. The armrest was under Delilah’s head now, and she watched as Fatima leaned in and moved down, down, her fingers still touching, probing, and she kissed Delilah’s belly, her fingers still moving, moving, then lower, and finally, finally Delilah felt her tongue, her teeth, the pressure of her mouth. God, had she ever felt anything so simultaneously gentle and intense? She lifted her hips and put a hand on Fatima’s head and moaned “
Oui, oui,”
coaxing her with her hand and her voice, showing her what she liked, what she craved, what she needed. And Fatima obliged her, eagerly, her tongue flicking, her fingers probing. She reached for Delilah’s nipples, pinching them, rolling them, making her insane. Delilah felt her orgasm building and whispered,
“Oui, ma chérie, oui,
like that… just like that, don’t stop, make me come like that,” and Fatima’s tongue moved faster and she squeezed one of Delilah’s hands in her own. Delilah grabbed the back of her head and pulled her closer and ground against her face and then she was coming, the intensity of it hitting her like a shockwave, and as it rolled through her body and redoubled in strength she arched her back and gripped Fatima’s hand and heard herself cry out, “O
ui, pour l’amour de Dieu, oui, oui!”