Page 148 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Hello,” she says with a giggle.
I drop my backpack and pull her in close and kiss her with more passion than before. She mirrors my actions and grabs the back of my head, pulling me close. She puts her hands through my hair, which sends a tingle up my spine. I break away for a second, breathless, and mutter what I’d been trying to make sense of the past few hours.
“Creo que te amo.”
“Creo lo mismo.” And she kissed me again and I know she feels the same. I lead her back over to the rock and trip and stumble on the backpack. We both laugh at my complete lack of elegance. Laughing is universal. I hadn’t thought of that before now. I take out the sleeping bag and unzip it so we have a place to lie down. I stand back up and guide her down to the blanket. I’m holding the back of her head and she stops kissing me to look into my eyes and smile. There are no words exchanged, but I know exactly what she meant. This is perfect. This is happiness.
I see her biting her bottom lip and it takes no time at all for my body to respond. I kiss her again as I remove my jacket and sweater, hardly feeling the cold. She reaches over to her bag and takes out a huge blanket that she throws over top of us. She tosses off her sweater and I’m kissing her neck, while she is taking off my thermal shirt. She lifts her dress over her head and pulls her head out from the blankets.
“¿Mucho calor, no?”
“¡Sí, mucho!” My basic Spanish is coming in handy, as I fill my lungs with the cool beach air. I glance over and see her whole body framed by moonlight. I want to remember this. As she’s taking off my pants, I mutter the other half of what I’d been practicing in the tent.
“Soy virgin pero te ame desde el momento en que puse mis ojos,” I say, truly embarrassed for the first time. Although “I’m a virgin” is much easier to admit under the cloak of a foreign language. I don’t think I could have said it in English.
“No te preocupes, mi amor, ese es perfecto.” And with that she pulls me on top of her. “Just follow me. Like dancing,” she says with her ever-present smile.
We’re back in the love cocoon created by her giant blanket and two warm bodies. She’s on top of me, kissing me down my neck, down the middle of my chest. I can feel her warm breath on my skin, and it makes me squirm; the anticipation is killing me. She’s moving her body against mine and I’m following her lead and it’s impossible to get any closer. We are one person, one being. I’m lost in her body. I’m lost in her hair as it falls down around me. The scent of lavender. I know that we’re both liable to lose control at any moment, and then right before, I’m struck with the idea that this is ecstasy. How could anything be better?
We’re both catching our breath and I’m trying to gather my thoughts, when she turns her back to me and wraps herself in my arms, embracing my warm afterglow. I’ve never been this at peace and comfortable.
“¿Eres feliz, mi amor?” she says with a grin.
Feliz? Feliz? I’ve heard this before but where . . . oh, Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas! Yes, I am quite merry, or happy; is it happy?
“Si claro que si, that really was perfect. Te amo para siempre.” She rolls around and we’re face to face. She caresses my lips with hers and I drift off, grasping my necklace as the ocean laps in the background, lost in those eyes that will forever substantiate my dreams.
About the Author
MARK PERINI is a New York City-based author debuting his first YA novel, Halfway Perfect.
Mark began his career as an international fashion model eight years ago, while simultaneously obtaining a business degree from Seton Hall University. He has a passion for traveling the world, and he’s made a blood pact with friends to see all seven ancient wonders of the world before he’s thirty. Four down three to go.
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Love in an Elevator
CARRIE RYAN
“HOLD THE ELEVATOR!” I shout as I dash across the lobby, juggling three cartons of takeout, two drinks, and a dripping umbrella. One of my heels slips out from underneath me as I round toward the elevator banks and for a few precarious moments I’m about to bust ass on the wet marble floor. I just barely recover as the elevator doors begin sliding shut.
There’s a group of guys crowded inside, all of them from my summer intern class, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I make eye contact with one of them. He slips a hand between the doors, batting them back open, and I slow down a bit as I make my way across a slick puddle of rainwater left by one of their dripping umbrellas.
The doors start to slide closed again, this time accompanied by a buzzing alarm, and when the guy attempts to push them back open one of the other guys punches him on the arm with a “Yo, I gotta piss, man.”
Shrugging, the first guy withdrawals his hand and gives me an “Oh well, what can you do?” glance. I kick out a foot in an attempt to wedge it between the doors, but all I succeed in doing is throwing myself off balance.
One of the drinks slides across the top of the takeout containers, right toward my face. I lift a hand to grab it, realizing too late that I’d been using that hand to hold my broken umbrella closed. It pops open, flinging water everywhere.
There’s a small shout of protest from the guys in the elevator, which quickly turns into raucous laughter when the drink tips, its lid sailing free. A cascade of ice-cold Coke splashes down the front of my shirt, instantly soaking it. I jerk back, which only causes the second drink to fall, dousing my skirt.
I freeze, gasping against the sudden chill.
In front of me, the elevator doors settle shut, but I can still hear when one of them laughs and says, “Oh my God, did you see her face?” and another counters with, “Did you see her rack?”
I can only sputter for a few seconds before finally growling, “What assholes!” But it doesn’t matter—the elevator is long gone. I sigh, but it comes out a bit wobbly as a burning starts to tighten the back of my throat.
I glance down at my blouse, now stained and plastered against my chest, wondering if it’s ruined. I’d just bought it last week with my first paycheck and today is the first time I’ve worn it. Even my skirt is drenched. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes.
