and coming, as I came, her face scarlet, the blindfold of white cotton glowing in the dark, her lips shuddering, some little curse or prayer coming out of her with the word God. I said, 'Say my name, Lisa.' 'Elliott,' she said. She said it again. Her sex was locked to me, shuddering like her mouth as I lay still inside of her.
After a little while, I got up and turned on the shower. Nice, good blast of warm water, the little white tile bathroom full of steam immediately. I was soaping all over and thinking about everything, trying to shake off my postfuck, drug-sleep feeling. She startled me when she appeared outside the glass door, and then I opened it for her. She came in, sleepy-looking too, her hair all tangled, and I put her right under the torrent of water. I rubbed the soap well into the washcloth and I started to bathe her. I rubbed it over her shoulders and her breasts, gently washing off all the butter, and I could see her awakening, losing all control. She kissed my nipples, then stroked them with her hands. Then she wrapped herself around me. I kissed her neck as the water flowed over both of us. I caressed her sex with the soapy cloth, washing her sex in slow, rough strokes with it. 'Come,' I whispered, 'come in my arms. I want to see you come.' I didn't think I wanted to make it so soon again, I figured you had to be in prime shape for that, coming three and four times a day, the way I did at the Club.
I felt happy. I loved the feel of her against me, naked and slippery and shivering, the water flooding over her hair. I felt her sex open as she went up on tiptoe. I felt her arms go down my back, her fingers moving into my backside, massaging, then opening me and slipping very gently inside. That raw, inexpressible feeling of being opened up, being fucked there. She had two fingers inside me. She went deep, deep, easy as she had with the phallus before in that first scene at The Club, touching just the right place, finding the gland, pressing it. I dropped the washcloth and went into her. She came in violent red shivers. Her mouth was open against my cheek. The sobs were caught in her throat. I fucked her against the white tile, her fingers still inside me. She came again, if she'd ever stopped coming, her breasts as red as her face, her face speckled with water droplets, her hair flowing down her shoulders and her back as if it was water. 'I meant it when I said I love you,' I said. No answer. Just the heat of the shower flooding us and our own heat and then her upturned face and her lips kissing me, and her head on my shoulder. Good enough for now, beautiful. I can wait.
The River Queen Lounge was pleasantly crowded when we got there, but she was easily the most ravishing woman in the room. She had on a little black Saint Laurent dress, and spaghetti strap heels, and her hair was all tousled and witchy. The diamonds around her throat made it look long and exotic and positively biteable. I guess I was no slouch myself in a black tuxedo either. But that wasn't what made everybody look at us. We were like a honeymoon couple, necking almost as soon as we had our drinks, and pushing onto the dance floor glued to each other, in a swoon among the polyester husbands and wives. The place was softly dim, full of pastel light, the city of New Orleans an ocean of glitter outside the plate glass windows, the band Latin American, steady and sensuous, real dance music with all those extra rhythmic sounds. The Champagne went to our heads. I kept them playing through the break with a couple of hundred dollar bills, and we did rhumbas and cha-cha-chas and all kinds of stuff I'd never have been caught dead doing before. Her hips sung gorgeously under the black dress, breasts shivering in the silk, feet pivoting on the stiletto heels. We had fits and fits of laughter. We went back to the table bent double laughing after we did the cha-cha-cha.
And we drank all the gooey, disgusting, ridiculous tourist cocktails. Anything with pineapple or little paper hats or coloured straws or salt or