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Continued sexual journey of brother and sister and friends.
Now I knew. Marty's eyes smoldered with desire. They were dark and intense and I couldn't look away. I could only stare back in wonder.
His lips were on mine again, more insistent than before. He parted his lips but didn't deepen the kiss, just molded his mouth to mine, playing with each lip in turn.
I don't know how long it took but I suddenly realized that my hands were in his hair, holding his head, running over his neck and shoulders, his face. His own hands were not still. The hand at my back ranged over my shoulder blades down to my hip, caressed my ribs and slid under the waistband of my pajamas. His other hand was in my hair, on my face, neck and shoulder.
Slowly, I pulled away and placed my heated forehead against his chest. I tried to slow my breathing and pounding heartbeat. His hands rubbed my back and I could hear his ragged breathing start to go back to normal.
"Wow." I sighed shakily into his chest.
"Yeah." His voice didn't sound too steady either. My face flushed with happiness, that I could make him feel that way.
His chin rested on the top of my head. "What have I been missing?" He whispered. He gently tilted my chin up with one finger so that I could look into his eyes. "Well?" He was smiling warmly, his face still slightly flushed.
I swallowed audibly. "Well, what?" I was having a hard time stringing coherent thoughts together. "I . . . well, uh . . .what?" I noticed then that he didn't have a shirt on and the clean smell of him was making it even harder for me to think, let alone that incredible kiss that had scrambled my brain. As I slowly came to my senses, I was embarrassed that one of my hands was pressed to his heart, while the other had slid into the waste band of his jeans. "Well, I guess we should eat."
He let me go.
I had a hard time keeping up my side of the conversation as we ate breakfast. My head was spinning as I picked at my half of the omelet.
"Hm?" I said with a blink? I think he had asked me something.
"Well, what do you think?" He said again. "Hello! Where did you go?" He was laughing at me.
I tried to remember what he had been saying a moment before. "Oh, sorry. Um . . . What were you . .?"
"The park? I said we should take a walk in the park today." He reminded me.
"Right." I finally remembered. "The new gardens. We should do that . . But it's still raining." I pointed out.
"Ah, come on." He encouraged. "You love the rain. Get dressed, I need some fresh air." He hopped up and went to get dressed himself.
He was right. I did love the rain. I loved the smell of the wet soil and the sounds. Especially the sounds. The thud it made when it came down in thick, sparse fat drops. The whooshing noise when the wind blew it hard against the windows and the shushing sound it made when it was a light even spray. I wished I could paint the sound of rain.
We were soon trudging over the damp sidewalk on our way to the park. I had on a rain slicker and waterproof boots. I was well prepared. But Marty hadn't brought anything but what he'd had on last night. The coat was dry enough but his shoes would be soaked before long. I loaned him one of my ratty baseball caps to keep most of the rain off his head.
It was only drizzling when we reached the new gardens. The soil was dark and damp, the plants gleamed with the wetness and it all smelled so clean and fresh.
I inhaled deeply as we walked through the rough stone path, "It smells so good." I sighed.
"You should do a series of paintings inspired by the gardens," Marty suggested. "Like the ones you did about the Griffith Observatory. I really loved those."
It warmed me inside to know that Marty enjoyed my work. I used to think he was just humoring me about liking them but over the years he's talked me up to some pretty important clients and sent a few customers my way. I owed him for that.
"You know, you still haven't picked out a piece for yourself," I reminded him.