The balcony of the windows abbreviated

The balcony of the windows abbreviated

The residence Les Oliviers spread between cypresses and stone walls on a low hill. Irene had arrived three days earlier, hired to document the rural buildings in the area. At lunchtime, she shared the table with other residents: painters, writers and a violinist who played at night in the garden.

Raul, the violinist, had his arms dark and his hands neat. He never spoke much, but his presence was unequivocal; when he placed the instrument under his chin, they all remained silent. Irene, accustomed to measuring angles and proportions, discovered in each movement of him a different geometry: the curve of the shoulder, the neck line, the inclination of the elbow to hold the bow.

On Tuesday afternoon, a gale announced the storm. The sky turned plumb and the windows of the living room began to hit the frames. Irene went to the upper balcony to hold the shutters. Already there, she noticed that another person arrived for the same purpose.

"Let me help you," Raúl said, appearing at the sliding door. "He was wearing his shirt clattered; the wind stirred his black hair.

She stepped aside to give him the place. Together they closed the wooden leaf and, when turning, her shoulders were brushed. The contact lasted only a moment, but it was enough for Irene to perceive the heat of other people’s skin through thin cotton.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"We can wait for the rain to pass here," he replied, pointing out two wicker chairs arranged under the eaves.

The rain began to whip the tiles. From the covered balcony they saw the water turning the garden into a moving mirror. The two sat down. For a while only the drum of the drops was heard and, from time to time, a distant thunder. Raul pulled a linen handkerchief out of his pocket and dried his forehead; the gesture discovered a small mole in his collarbone.

"Do you like to watch the landscape transform?" he asked without looking at it.

"Always," she replied. "And what do you observe when you don't play?"

“The hands of others. I notice how they hold a cup, how they squeeze a door, how they lean on the railing of a balcony.

Irene looked down at her own fingers, now leaning on the arm of the armchair. She noticed that Raul was studying the gesture. A thread of current seemed to travel her neck.

When the downpour sent, the air smelled like a wet thyme. Irene rose up to go back inside, but he stepped forward and opened the sliding door with deliberate slowness. The wood brushed the floor with a soft sound. She passed by. At the moment she crossed the threshold, he stopped her with a question:

• May I?

She understood that the word did not refer to the door. She turned, finding herself half a step away.

"You can," he replied.

Raúl raised her right hand and brushed Irene’s cheek with the back of her fingers. The contact was mild, almost questioning. She bowed her head, accepting. His warm palm then fell on his skin, and his thumbs drew the contour of the cheekbone. Irene closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, Raúl was closer.

"Tell me if you want it to stop," he said.

"Don't stop," she replied.

They kissed without haste. Raúl’s mouth had the taste of the herbal tea they had taken at lunch; his tongue advanced with the same precision with which his hand moved the bow. Irene slid her hands down the wet shirt and felt the violinist’s body tense to contact. Between kiss and kiss, he led her into the adjoining bedroom. The threshold was left behind without either of them noticing.

The evening light sifted through the linen curtains; the drops attached to the glass projected tiny lines on the torn quilt. Irene sat on the edge of the bed; Raul knelt down in front of her and, without haste, took off a shoe. The thumb rolled the instep through the fine sock. She held her breath. He looked up, asking permission with his eyes.

"Keep going," Irene whispered.

Raúl unbuttoned the cowboys button from her, lowered the centimeter zipper to an inch and waited for Irene to lift her hip. The garment fell to the ground quietly. Then, he got on and took off his own shirt, releasing his broad shoulders. Irene stretched out her hand and drew a line from the base of the neck to the navel; the skin responded with a slight contraction.

They lay down together. The kisses became deeper. Raúl gently bit the lower lip of her, then the tip of her ear. Irene arched her back when the violinist’s fingers slipped under the shirt and found the lace bra. He unbuttoned it with a precise movement and released the breasts. Raul’s warm mouth descended to the collarbone, then to the left nipple, which sucked slowly and slowly. Irene buried her fingers in black hair and threw barely, guiding the rhythm.

When his hand went down to the waist of his panties, Irene opened her legs a little more, inviting. Raul slipped two fingers above the cloth and felt the moisture that already soaked it. She groaned, a low sound, almost surprised. Raul waited. Irene nodded with a head motion and he removed the garment, leaving it aside.

The yolk of his fingers explored the swollen folds, picking up the excitement. Then, with the same patience he used to tune his violin, Raúl introduced a finger, curving it forward. Irene contracted the internal muscles, catching the other's hand. He added another finger and began a slow movement of vaivén, accompanying each batter with a thumb rub on the clitoris. The pleasure went up like a contained tide; Irene breathed with difficulty, repeating her name between teeth. When the orgasm arrived, it was silent and prolonged, a tremor that swept him from the thighs to the back of his neck.

Raul withdrew his hand and wiped his lips with his tongue. Irene, still throbbing, joined and unbuttoned his pants. He released it, thick and hot, and took it with both hands. He stroked it from the base to the glans, picking up with his thumb a drop of preseminal fluid. Raul closed his eyes and let a sigh escape. She bowed and took it in his mouth, licking the crown first, then descending little by little until he felt the contact of the palate. Raul placed a hand on his neck without pressing, just holding.

After a few minutes, she turned away and looked at him.

"I want you to come into me," he said in a clear voice.

Raúl looked in the drawer of the bedside table for a condom. He unwrapped it and placed it with safe movements. Irene lay face up and opened her legs. He placed himself between them, supporting the weight on the forearms. The tip of the limb brushed the wet entrance, asking again without words.

"Now," she asked.

Raúl pushed slowly, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped by the inner heat. They both let loose a simultaneous groan. Once inside, he waited. Irene surrounded his waist with his legs and drew him deeper. Then the movement began: paused onslaughts that were gaining rhythm, accompanied by the wet sound of the bodies. Raúl kissed his neck, his breasts, the corners of his lips. Irene nailed his nails in his back, marking red lines that would disappear at dawn.

When Irene's second orgasm approached, she warned him with a short gasp:

• Raul... don't stop...

He increased his speed, hitting the exact point that made him tremble. The climax came with a choked cry against his shoulder. Raul waited for the spasms to cease before allowing his own pleasure to travel. He ran with a long grunt, burying his face in the hollow of his neck.

They remained still, tied together, as the rain hit the crystals again. The sweat cooled the skin. Raul came out carefully, threw away the condom and returned to bed. Irene snuggled against his chest. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then, he caressed her hair slowly.

"We can stay here until the storm stops," he said.

She raised her face and kissed him in the corner of his lips.

"We can stay longer," he replied.

Outside, the water continued to fall on the tiles. Inside, the pulse of both was at the same slow and safe pace.