I found a bottle of oil she used at night. The petals of the flowers floated around in the bottle—rose, globe amaranth, and currants. She had three different bottles of the stuff, along with numerous others, but she nodded when I showed it to her.
Warming the slick oil in my hands, I started to massage her from her neck down. She had a slim neck and a beautiful back—so well defined from years of training. Her shoulder blades reminded me of wings.
Her skin was smooth and flawless. Her hair was thick and long with a slight wave. She had a small waist, a slope to her hips, and legs that were slender, belying their strength. Her proportions were perfect, but not the typical ballerina build—she was shorter with more curves.
Still. There was nothing else she could be. She could’ve stepped out of an ethereal ballerina painting.
My hands were massive compared to her frame, and my skin so dark against hers.
She moaned and pressed harder against me as my hands worked deeper. I could feel the tightness of her muscles and the relief my hands offered. The oil was slick on her skin, and my fingers glided.
“That feels so good.” She sounded drunk, her eyes closed, limbs languorous.
“Time for bed, baby.”
She opened one eye and turned it on me. “What’s wrong, Fausti? Affected?” The hooded eye turned downward. The evidence was clear.
“Me, too,” she said. Her neck slowly swayed from left to right. “I need you before bed.” She gave me a hint of a smile. It faded from her face as my slick hands glided over her breasts and my mouth sucked gently on the side of her neck.
“I didn’t say time to sleep. I said time forletto.”
“Delirious for sleep—make me delirious.” Then she turned her head, brought my ear close to her lips, and said something that mirrored the tone of her mouth earlier. She told me exactly how she wanted it.
I made her delirious in the bathroom, up against the wall, and then twice in bed. She had become so delirious afterward that she couldn’t walk or form coherent sentences.
I dressed her and then pulled the covers around her—her mouth was parted and her eyes closed, already sleeping by the time I stood up.
“Sono una medusa,” she muttered in her sleep. “Sì.Ancora?Brando…”
I smiled to myself—I am a jellyfish, she had said.Yes. Again?Then she had said my name. The fireplace lit our room, and it made it seem like we were underwater. Shadows swam along the walls, and the crack of the firewood sounded like a head breaking the surface every so often.
She thought she was some sort of jellyfish or the real Medusa.
In the peaceful quiet of the room, I dozed with her until the noise of something vibrating against a hard surface brought me to the surface. I blinked away the sleep and realized it was my phone.
The number was unknown.
“Fausti,” I said, swiping a hand down my face. What time was it? The clock on Scarlett’s bedside table read three in the morning. I sat up, about to take the call downstairs so I wouldn’t wake my wife, but I didn’t have time.
I held the phone away from my ear when the voice boomed from the other side, calling my name. Music sent out a steady beat in the background.
“Brando?” the voice called again.
The voice belonged to a woman, attempting to speak over the cacophony surrounding her.
“Cerise.” I took a stab in the dark. She had been coming around quite a bit lately, but I didn’t think she had my number. She would’ve called Scarlett first.
“No! Soraya!”
I ran a hand through my hair, scratching at my scalp. Instead of going downstairs, I closed our door and took the call in the hall. Maggie Beautiful sauntered out of her room, hair all over the place, and she stopped when she saw me.
“What’s wrong?” she mouthed.
I waved her off and she nodded, going toward the steps.
The entire time Soraya had been talking, but I wasn’t listening. I had one thing on my mind. “Tell me how you got this number.”
“Oh,” she took a breather. “Your uncle.”
