Jonathan Bond: The Terminus experiment

She turned from the block and crossed the large, open studio, her bare footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors and bouncing off the high, white stucco ceiling.

She walked to the trid, past the midnight-blue futon couch that was the large room’s only furniture, except for easels and worktable. She slipped a chip of Cool Phantom’s “Millennium Bygones” into the rack, letting the lead singer’s soothing voice pour out of the wall speakers. She swayed to the music as she made her way into the kitchen.

A surprise August drizzle spattered against the window pane, clouding her view of the tire retreading shop across the street. It was cool in the kitchen, and she felt a tightening around her nipples as the chill did its work on her skin.

She poured two cups of fresh-brewed soykaf into the mugs she’d gotten Warren for Christmas that year.

“Babe?” From the bedroom, Warren’s voice was an early morning rasp, harsh against the background of soft music and slow rain; still, it made her smile.

“What?”

“You making ‘kaf?”

Rachel’s smile stretched into a grin as she looked out the kitchen window at the early morning drizzle. “Already made.”

She could hear Warren shifting in bed. “You bringing me some?”

She laughed. “Already poured.”

“I worship the ground you walk on.”

She picked up the mugs, ready to head for the bedroom, then hesitated an instant, looking out at the cold rain. There was something perfect about the moment, and she wanted to let it linger, like the scent of perfume hangs in the air after the passage of a beautiful woman.

But the moment passed, and she sighed as she crossed to the bedroom, holding the steaming mugs in front of her.

The bedroom looked as if a small hurricane had hit it. The walls were crammed with prints of various artists, but the dominant force was Michael Parks. His surreal pictures hung at angles, overlapping the others.

The futon, twin to the one in the studio, was opened into a bed and occupied the center of the room. Sprawled across it was Warren, his long, dark hair spreading against the white pillowcase as he turned to look at her.

Rachel paused, her sense of the sublime triggered. It Still amazed her that they were together. He was gorgeous; he was an artist. What had she done to deserve him?

Warren stared back at her with gawking admiration, and Rachel felt self-conscious. She smiled and put the coffee mugs in front of her breasts.

“Oh, that certainly covers up a lot,” Warren said, laughing. “I can still see your-”

“You want kaf or breakfast?”

“Kaf first,” he said. “Breakfast later.” He struggled into a sitting position, revealing his tightly muscled stomach.

Rachel handed him one of the cups. “Black,” she said, “with tons of sugar.”

Warren blew on the soykaf, making the steam billow out gently. He took a sip, then another, but his eyes never left her body.

His look was devilish and aroused the first stirrings of desire. Her skin tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from a chill. “Just ‘cause they’re hard,” she said, “doesn’t necessarily mean I’m horny.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

Warren laughed. “And just because I’m looking at the menu doesn’t mean I want to order.”

Rachel moved fast, grabbing a pillow with her free hand and targeting Warren’s face with an expert throw. The pillow hit him in the side of the head.

He grinned and set his soykaf on the floor beside the bed. “Oh course you know…”

“Yeah, yeah… this means war.” She leaned over and set her mug on the lamp stand. Then, with a laugh, she was on him. She swarmed over him, her naked body covering his. She pushed him onto his back, her desire for him suddenly urgent.

They wrestled for a moment, Rachel straining to pin his arms above his head, and finally succeeding. I’m getting stronger, she thought. Those workouts with Flak are helping.

“I win,” she whispered.

Warren’s breath was warm on her face. “The battle, maybe.” He kissed her on the lips, softly. A brush of skin on skin.

She released his arms and returned the kiss, a little more forcefully, then harder and harder.

Warren’s skin was warm against her, and he smelled of sleep. He tossed the blankets off and pulled Rachel onto him so that she straddled his hips.

Rachel brushed her fingernails along the ripples of his stomach, then bent to take his left nipple in her mouth. Her hair tumbled over his chest as she bared her teeth against his nipple and suddenly bit it.

Warren gasped, and grew hard against her.

Rachel looked him in the eye, resting her chin on his chest. “Are you ready to order now, or do you need some more time with the menu?”

He reached down and took her face between his hands. Pulling her toward him, he kissed her fiercely, suddenly out of control.

She plunged her hands into his long hair and kissed him hard, sucking his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of fresh soykaf.

Warren ran his fingers down her back, making her shudder and moan into his mouth.

He pulled back. “Miss, I’m ready to order.”

Her voice had grown throaty. “Oh?”

“I think I’ll have the special, with orange juice in a tall glass.”

She laughed again, and began a smooth rocking motion of her hips. “One special,” she said. “Coming up.”

She leaned over Warren, her hair cascading down over his face. She covered his mouth with hers, biting his lip as she pushed her hips down over him.

Warren moaned, holding her tightly, forcing her to take it slow. Prolonging her pleasure.

By the time they were done, their soykaf was no longer steaming. Rachel was covered in sweat, her hair a damp tangle down her back, which quickly chilled in the cool air. Her throat was dry. “Water,” she croaked, as she fell off Warren and lay on her side.

Warren laughed and got out of bed, the sheen of sweat on his back making him look like he’d been dipped in oil. He returned a few moments later with two bottles of mineral water, and Rachel chugged half of hers before pulling the bottle from her lips.

Warren lay down beside her, and she ran her fingers through his hair. “Baby, that was so rocket.”

He smiled, and gently reached out to tweak her nipple. “You say that as though it hasn’t been good every time.”

“Well, your mood this past week has been pretty fragging dark.”

Warren shot up suddenly and started pulling on his clothes. “Oh, drek!” he said.

“Were are you going now, Storey? You can’t just jam and run. I’m not that kind of girl.”

Warren threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt. “I completely forgot about something I’ve gotta do today.”

“Forgot?”

“Oh, I’ve got this damn funeral.”

Rachel was suddenly sorry she’d been joking. She stood and hugged him. “Oh, baby.” She kissed his neck softly. “I’m sorry.”

Warren reached for his black engineer boots and pulled the right one on, without socks. “Don’t be, He was a real prick.”

“Whose funeral?”

Warren pulled on the other boot. “You remember the telecom call I got from my dad, about a few weeks ago?”

Rachel frowned. “The same guy?”

Warren nodded.

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t get it. If he died back then, how come they’re just burying him now?”

Warren shrugged. “There was some big investigation, something to do with the way he died. Lone Star wouldn’t release the body until now.”

Rachel reached out and touched Warren’s shoulder. “Do you really have to go?”

He twisted to look Rachel into the eyes. “Rachel, believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than stay here and make love to you until some time tomorrow morning. And barring that, I was hoping we could catch some breakfast, and then maybe a matinee.”