“I have an amazing idea,” Lina says, eyes sparkling at me and Frankie. Her entire being seems to be in hi-def (high def, ha), her skin glowing bronze and her orange bikini vibrant, and it feels almost like having a religious experience, a mirage in the desert, a goddess appearing amongst us mere mortals. “Wanna play hide and seek?”
Everyone yells some variation of an affirmative response.
“Rinse off before you go in the house,” Tita Gloria commands.
* * *
This is how I find myself in the pitch-black closet under the stairs, behind a bunch of coats and sitting atop dozens of sneakers and what might be a broom or a vacuum cleaner digging into my back. Frankie will never find me. This spot is unfindable. I shall prevail.
The door swings open, blinding me momentarily, until my eyes adjust and I see a pretty pair of tanned feet with red painted toenails just past the coats.
“What the fuck, Lina,” I hiss, “you’re giving me away.”
I’m greeted by the rustling of a bag of potato chips, then, “Dom?”
“Get in or get out!”
The door slams shut, blanketing me in darkness, but the potato chip bag sound is closer than ever. I sniff the air, feeling like a predator whose smell is heightened.
“Salt and vinegar?”
She munches. “Yes.”
“Get down here. Behind the coats.”
What happens next is an all out assault on the senses.
The smell of salt and vinegar chips and coat closet mustiness and whatever Lina’s coconut heaven shampoo or soap or lotion is.
The sounds of hangers tinkling, fabrics rustling, chip bag crinkling.
The pain of getting a coat button in my eye, a zipper hitting my tooth.
The pleasure of the soft silk of Lina’s skin on mine, when her barely covered body topples onto my shirtless one.
Supple. Lush. Velvet. Succulent.Juicy. My brain becomes a thesaurus for the sensation that now surrounds me and leaves no room for any other words.
She finally stops moving. The pillowy flesh of her ass on my lap, her back on my chest, her creamy thighs on my legs. My hand on her stomach.
“Holy fucking shit,” I manage.
“Am I crushing you?”
“Itisas soft as it looks,” I whisper, dragging my hands back and forth over the expanse, dipping my finger in her belly button.
“I feel like this is crossing the line.”
Fuck. I snatch my hand back and shove it under a bunch of shoes. “Sorry.”
“No,” she whispers. “Please don’t stop.”
My fingers twitch on their own accord, then land on her stomach again. Someone moans. It might be me. “Is this even your real skin?!”
“No, this is my fake skin.”
I circle around her belly button. Once. Twice. Her head falls back onto my shoulder. I’m hard as fuck and she knows it, based on the way she wiggles against me, the quiet whimper rumbling from her throat. My nose goes into her hair, rubs against her ear. I grip the flesh at her waist, wondering if I’ve ever felt anything so soft. Then I clear the area next to me of shoes and gently shift her down and away.
She takes a deep breath, blows it out.
