The lamp of the map room
The rain fell oblique on the slate roofs when I pushed the wooden door of the guest house. The smell of wax and wood immediately enveloped me. I had arrived later than expected, with the coat soaked and the hair glued to the back of my neck. At the counter there was only one lamp of copper lit and behind it, a man of about forty years of age was checking a map spread out with careful fingers.
He looked up. He didn’t smile right away. He looked at me as he looked at something that was not expected to be found and that, however, fits. I held that look for a second more. I felt my neck warm under the neck of the wet shirt.
"Clara Méndez?" he asked quietly. "The attic room is ready. I am Andrés. If you want, I will raise your luggage while it dries a little here.
I accepted. He disappeared down the spiral staircase and I took off my coat. The water dripped over the tile floor. When he returned, he brought a thick towel and a cup of herbal tea. We sat in front of the map table. The lamp projected a golden circle that barely reached both of us.
"Restore cartography," I said, pointing to the scroll.
“Yes. This house was a small family file. I now receive guests and, at night, work. Rain helps to concentrate.
We spoke without haste. He did not ask any more; neither did I. I liked the way his hands avoided touching the paper with the buds, only with the sides of his fingers. From time to time our breath crossed in silence. Every time I looked up, mine was already there. It was not fast flirting. It was mutual attention that settled in the chest and slowly lowered.
After midnight the storm burst. The wind struck the windows. Andres offered to show me the adjoining room, where he kept mounted sheets. I accepted. The room smelled like varnish and old wood. He lit only another copper lamp, smaller. The light drew the contour of his jaw and bone from my collarbone when I took off my sweater because the air had become dense.
I stopped in front of an 18th-century sea map. He stood behind my back, not touching me yet.
"If at any point you want me to retire, I will," he said, without theatricality.
"Stay," I replied. "My voice came out firmer than I expected." I want you to stay.
His fingers then rubbed the side of my neck, barely a touch. A chill came down my spine. I noticed how nipples hardened against the thin fabric of the shirt. I breathed deep. He waited. I turned my face and looked for his mouth. The first kiss was slow, exploratory, with a taste of tea and rain brought in the clothes. His lips opened when I asked with my tongue. My hands went up to his chest and I felt the strong heartbeat under my shirt.
We moved to the couch under the window. I sat gagging on his thighs while kissing him. He caressed my back under the cloth, going up to the back of my neck and going down again. Each brush made me concentrate on the exact point where his palm stopped. When his thumbs rubbed the lower edge of my breasts, a dense heat accumulated between my legs. I asked more with a hip movement. He unbuttoned the buttons on my t-shirt one by one, looking at my eyes between each one.
- Tell me if you don't like something.
"I like it," I whispered. "Keep slow.
Andres’ mouth went down my neck, stopping in the hole where the vein beats. He kissed the end of each nipple through the bra and then removed it carefully. The fresh air of the room contrasted with the heat of his tongue. He sucked softly first, then with a firmer pressure when I arched my back and took his hands to my waist. I felt the clitoris beating against the seam of the pants, a precise pulsation, almost painful of so concentrated. I rubbed my sex against his thigh, looking for exactly the angle that made me close my eyes.
He helped me to take off my pants and underwear. He laid me sideways on the couch, faced him. His hand went down my belly and opened between my thighs. Two fingers toured the already wet lips without entering yet. He described slow circles around the clitoris, barely brushing the sensitive gland. I groaned against his shoulder. Breath became irregular to me. Each circle raised a wave that started from the lower belly and went up to the throat.
"More pressure," I asked.
He obeyed. The middle finger slipped inside while the thumb kept the rhythm on the clitoris. Inside, it curved slightly and found that point that made me tighten my knees. Outside, the thumb did not rush. I moved my hip to the compass that I myself marked. My nipples rubbed his chest every time I inhaled. The smell of rain mixed with that of our skin intoxicated me.
When the pleasure really began to concentrate, I opened my legs more and held his wrist to guide the depth. He kissed my ear and the edge of the jaw without stopping to move his fingers to the rhythm that I imposed. The tension went up in waves more and more together. I felt the neck burn, my breath slit into small groans. Orgasm came as a deep contraction that departed from the clitoris and spread through the uterus, forcing me to bury my face in his neck so as not to scream at all. My walls tightened his fingers again and again while he kept the exact caress, without accelerating, until the tremor subsided.
I stayed on his hand for a while, breathing. Then I kissed his mouth with slow gratitude. I wanted to return the touch, but he denied gently.
"Tonight is yours," he said. "Only if you want to later.
I snuggled against his chest. The copper lamp kept burning with that still light. Outside the rain subsided. He covered me with the couch blanket and passed my fingers through my wet hair of sweat and storm. We did not talk much more. The silence was comfortable, still laden with the echo of my own pleasure.
Toward dawn I woke up with my arm still around my waist. I slowly crept in, dressed myself and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. When Andrew appeared at the door, he smiled with the same calmness of the night before. I held a cup for him. Our hands were brushed as he passed it.
"If you want, I can show you the real file this morning," he offered.
I accepted. It was not a promise of forever. It was the certainty of having been seen and desired to the exact rhythm that I chose. The lamp was still out already, but the heat of its golden circle remained under the skin, in the neck, in the nipples still sensitive, in the precise memory of how my own body had asked and received.
We went out together to look at the wet olive trees in the first light. I took the initiative of the passage. He walked beside me, attentive, without getting ahead. And that, more than anything else, made me smile inward.
Comments