The smell of cedar in Alvaro’s studio

The smell of cedar in Alvaro’s studio

Álvaro Mendoza was forty-eight years old and the hands of the one who has worked the wood all his life: wide knuckles, rough palms, precise fingers. His studio occupied the ground floor of an old warehouse in the Las Letras neighborhood, a place with high ceilings, high windows and the constant smell of cedar, varnish and coffee. It was Saturday afternoon when the bell rang. I was not expecting anyone.

He opened the door and there was Teresa Valdés. Forty-three years, coat of gray wool, the brown hair collected without pretension and that look that he remembered of when she commissioned him, months ago, a walnut desk for his office of architect. They had then talked about measurements, of veins, of natural light. They had also talked, without saying it at all, about other things.

"Forgive me to come without warning," she said, stepping in. "I was close. I thought... maybe the desk was ready.

Álvaro smiled barely. “The desk had been finished for two weeks. She knew it too, or she sensed it.

"It's in the back room. It's fresh out there.

The rain began to fall with that gentle insistence of Madrid in October. Teresa took off her coat. She wore a fine sweater and a skirt that reached her knee. Álvaro forced himself not to look too much, and failed. She noticed it and did not turn her eyes away.

As he showed him the piece — the perfect board, the drawers that closed with a clean click — they were too close. Her shoulder brushed her chest. Teresa’s smell was clean skin and a dry perfume, without sweetness. He smelled of wood and himself after a day of sand and oil.

"It was beautiful for you," she muttered, passing her fingers through the edge of the board.

"You imagined it first," he replied.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was dense. Teresa raised her face.

Álvaro... I didn't just come by the desk.

He nodded slowly. “I felt the pulse in my throat.”

"I know. And I didn't let you through the desk alone.

"Then tell me what you want," she asked, without cheap flirtation, with the frankness of those who no longer have time for useless rodeos.

"I want to touch you. I want you to leave me. And I want to know that you want it, too, no doubt.

Theresa breathed deeply. “He took a step and leaned his palm open on his chest, on top of his worn flannel shirt.”

"I wish. For months now. With you. Here. Now. Yes.

That was enough for him. Alvaro kissed her with the slowness of those who waited long enough not to rush and, at the same time, with the urgency of those who no longer want to wait. Teresa’s mouth opened naturally. The taste went to coffee and rain brought from the outside. He surrounded her against the edge of the newly finished desk—ironic and perfect—and she left herself, raising a leg just to fit her body better.

Álvaro’s hands went up the skirt carefully, touching the heat of his thighs. Teresa was not wearing stockings. Her skin was warm. He murmured against her neck:

• Tell me if you don't like something.

"I like it," she replied, already with the lowest voice.

They took off their clothes without theater. He, the shirt and the belt; she, the sweater and the skirt, remaining in black panties and the bra that he unbuttoned with two firm fingers. Teresa’s breasts were generous, made of a woman, with dark nipples that hardened as soon as he rubbed them with the yolk. Álvaro kissed them, licked them without haste, listening to her breathing cut off. She opened her pants and touched him over the underpants, then inside, wrapping her thick, hot erection with her hand.

"Fuck..." he whispered, sincerely.

"That's right," she said, smiling against her mouth.

She knelt down between Teresa’s legs and lowered her panties. She looked into her eyes before lowering her face. She nodded again. Then she licked it with adult precision: slowly at first, recognizing the taste, the heat, the tremor of the belly muscles. Teresa’s fingers were entangled in the gray hair of his temples. Alvaro put a finger, then two, curving them while the tongue worked the clitoris with a patient constancy. He was not looking for a spectacle; he was looking for the exact groan, the one that came out to her snoring and content.

• So... don't stop.

She didn’t stop until she felt it squeezed around her fingers, until she heard her name spoken between teeth. Teresa ran with her body tense and nails on her shoulder, and he held her still touching her until the tremor went down.

When she joined, she was already drawing him up.

I want to feel you inside.

• Are you sure?

• Completely.

She put on the condom that she pulled out of the drawer of the work bench—a provision of a man who did not pretend innocence—and placed himself between her thighs. She slowly went in, looking at her. Theresa was narrow and wet; the heat swung over her and tore off a severe gasp. She began to move with long, deep, without a rush of a boy. Every time she pushed to the bottom, she raised her hip to receive him better. The study now smelled of sex, wood and rain entering through the window crease.

"Stronger," she asked.

He obeyed. He took her by the hip with one hand and with the other he caressed her chest, neck, mouth. Teresa sucked her fingers without breaking the rhythm. The sound of the bodies, wet and rhythmic, filled the place. Álvaro felt the orgasm rise from the base of his back, heavy, inevitable. He held on long enough to take her back to the edge again: he rubbed his clitoris with his thumb as he pushed deep and she came back, quieter, deeper, squeezing it inside with force. Only then was he allowed to let go, nailing himself in it with three final strokes and a low groan that came out of his chest.

They were tied on the blanket, sweating, listening to the rain. He withdrew carefully, got rid of the condom and fell back to his side. Teresa leaned her head on his shoulder.

"This has not been a dead afternoon slip," she said after a while.

"No," replied Alvaro, passing his fingers through his hair. "It hasn't been for me.

• Not even for me.

He smiled, tired and contented in a way he had not remembered for too long.

"The desk is yours when you want to take it. You... can stay a while longer. Or come back. If you want.

Teresa raised her face and kissed him, slow, without urgency anymore.

"I'm going back," he said. "And next time I lock the door.

Álvaro rio remained. Outside it was still raining. Inside, the smell of cedar had forever mixed with hers. And that, at forty-eight years old, seemed exactly the kind of job well done that was worth it.