“Two?” Hmm, that was better than I’d expected. “And what happened to the other?”
He flipped me around, until I was once again staring at the mirror. “You’re looking at her.”
His broad palms covered my breasts. “The woman in that mirror has haunted me since I first saw her Cobra pose and imagined how she, you”—he gave my breasts a squeeze—“would look doing the Bhujangasana while nude, riding me.”
I started to sweat from the inside out. “Shall we find out?”
Suddenly, the strands of bamboo clacked together. Taek whipped me behind his naked body, where I stood on my toes and investigated his intriguing tattoo with my tongue.
“I’m loathe to interrupt, but I’ve had three complaints already. Maybe you two should get dressed before we lose any more clients.”
I snuck a peek over Taek’s shoulder and saw a handsome Asian poking his head through the velvet drape. Another Yang brother, I realized, seeing the same tattoo I’d been exploring adorning this man’s neck. My fingers tightened on Taek’s waist. “Your tattoos, what are they?”
“Smells like a damn orgy in here.” The newcomer pushed through the curtain. “Forgive me, but my tai chi class starts in twelve minutes. I’ve got to light some incense, try and disperse the stench.”
Grinning widely, Taek handed me his shirt, which I quick
ly slipped over my head. He drew on his shorts and pulled me to his side. “Chae’s just jealous. His girlfriend’s out of town.”
Chae gave us a dark look, got the incense smoking, and left.
Stifling laughter, Taek hauled me to him and gripped both sides of my bare ass. Desire hit me again. I covered the smooth swells of his pecs with my hands and leaned forward, nipping the tight muscles with my lips. “The tattoo?”
“They stand for balance. We all have one.”
Indulgence is mine, I thought.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked, his fingers teasing the humid crevice between my legs.
“You bet.” I wiggled, positioning one finger just where I wanted it. “I’ll bring the margaritas.”
Past Reclaimed
RENÉE MANLEY
AFTER LAST YEAR’S SPRING holiday in Tobuan, Pangasinan, a two-week period of Catholic mysticism and erotic voluptuousness in Joaquin Madrid’s company, I decided to go for broke. When schedules were posted for the new academic year, I bit the bullet and marked my calendar for Christmas. It was the most expensive season for Philippine travel, thereby negating any other vacation possibilities for the rest of the year. I convinced myself that those week-to two-week-long breaks between school terms could be better spent cleaning my apartment while my checking account remained untouched for a little while longer.
For a part-time lecturer who spent more of his time driving between three different campuses than teaching, traveling during the holidays could be seen as a means of self-punishment, crammed in coach class with homebound natives and globetrotting tourists for a fourteen-hour flight. But I wanted to go—needed to go—felt the compulsion. My head swam. My cock stirred under the influence of an endless stream of delicious prospects.
“So what’s going on?” Cyndi asked. We marched out of our shared office, arms piled high with student essays.
“I’m flying back home for Christmas.”
“You managed to squeeze in the time unlike last year?”
I grinned and shrugged, heat creeping up my cheeks. “I have to. Taking an entire term off just to fly home for Holy Week really screwed me over financially.”
“As if this is going to be any better.”
“I’m not taking time off from work. Making up for the gaping hole in my checking account won’t be as traumatic as last year.”
We’d reached the staff lot by this time. It was a chilly evening, and I took in several deep breaths to revel in the crisp autumn scents, wondering how Christmas would smell in the Philippines. It had been several years since I celebrated the holidays back home. For all the visual memories that sprang to mind when I made an effort to remember, no olfactory connections could be made. I hoped to rectify that this time around, expecting Joaquin to be a huge part of my experience. A familiar heat stirred in my jeans at the remembrance of Joaquin’s scents—skin, sweat, heat, semen, all commingling deliciously with the calm and somber atmosphere of Holy Week, undefiled beaches, nipa huts, and faceless flagellants.
“Are you seeing your school friend again?”
I looked at Cyndi. She’d gotten into her car without my being aware of it, and she’d rolled down her window to lean out, a mischievous grin creasing her features. Even her freckles seemed to smile with her. I chuckled, shifting my burden in my arms.
“I am, yeah. I’ll be spending time with his family, too, which will be an interesting way of spending my time—some of it, anyway.”