The following “spicy” story is my response to Kevin’s No Theme Thursday 2/8/24 challenge . Thanks for the amazing, inspirational art, Kevin!

Ibiza, Spain.

I walked out to the sea’s edge, dressed in my borrowed costume, the frilly hem wet from the small waves crashing along the shore. The light was perfect. I could hear the party revelers behind me, enjoying the return of their famous son, if only for a few weeks. I knew he was back there, waiting, probably watching me as I danced, and my heart filled with joy and contentment. I closed my eyes and continued to twirl, enveloped by the scent of the sensual, beckoning night-blooming flowers, the sounds of faint music and twinkling laughter, the whispers of lovers floating on a zephyr, and the assurance of an equally sublime day to follow this. They were all palpably present, and they were magical.

✨

The next evening…

We dance in the Square, under the twinkling strands of coiled lights that run from the store fronts across the way to our old world, charming hotel behind us, crisscrossing back again, forming a cozy, shimmering roof over our heads. The tiny white lights cast a warm glow onto the bright white sidewalk beneath our feet, the latter of which have no agenda other than to move with each other, and to the live music being performed in the distance. Older people stroll by, glance and smile at us, knowing him, of course, and wondering about me, the curvy, auburn-haired vixen with an American accent. He’s not a very good slow dancer, nor am I, and our height difference is appallingly noticeable, but when we dance, we laugh, and when we laugh, well…we love. And so it is: I love to dance with him.

We sway with the music as I feel him take my hand and turn my palm face up, anticipation showing itself as shivers up my spine. His head down, hair falling into his face, his smoldering eyes holding mine as he lands his sensual mouth in the center of my palm. His lips linger there for several seconds, so I feel the full effect of his kiss; I draw in a quick breath of surprise. Every nerve ending I have a screaming out to him, “Me! Me! Me! Kiss me next!” He must hear them, for his lips then travel to my wrist, where he opens his mouth slightly, and I feel the tiniest tip of his tongue dart onto my pulse point. “Oh, my,” I mutter as I breathe in another rush of air. He smiles against my flesh, I can feel his teeth on my arm as he does. He nips the skin on the inside of my arm so gently, it feels like a child’s tentative touch. By the time he reaches the inside of my elbow, I have had three shivers cascade up and down my back and have weak legs that threaten to give way. “Max…” I breathe as I stare, dumbfounded, at the top of his shiny mink-colored head, darker still in the night. His hair smells like that wonderfully fragrant shampoo I bought yesterday, and it makes me want to bury my face in it. “Shh…” he orders me and continues on his determined way. “You are trying to make me turn into a puddle of piddle, aren’t you?” He smiles again, this time against my neck, before attempting to produce what feels as if it would be the biggest love mark in the world (we’re talking Guinness Book of World Records). “Don’t make semi-permanent marks on me, Maximillian,” I warn him sternly. Then I whimper.

My voice fails me, but my thoughts rail against my skull rapidly. “You’re funny,” I manage to giggle, before he cups his broad hands around my face, and landed a decisive, almost possessive kiss on my mouth. It is rare that he kisses me this way; usually it’s not unless he hasn’t seen me in a while, or if he’s about to leave me for a while. My mind reels. I don’t know where he learned any of this, but I definitely approve. I think.

I notice now that he’s got full, dark lips in the muted light, swollen from kissing me so hard, shining with the remnants of my lip gloss. His eyes are expectant, and maybe a bit satisfied with himself, no doubt because he can see the look at my eyes.

“You like?”

I nod slightly, but nothing more

“Do you want me to do it again?”

I nod again, weakly.

He reaches for my other arm, but I stop him.

“No. You can do whatever it is you’ve just done, and yes, please, but not here. Surely you must realize the effect your mouth has on me. “

He smugly grins. “Maybe I do.”

I lean up on my tippy toes and run my hand through his hair to move it away from his ear. “Let’s go into the hotel now, Max. I really want to go now, don’t you?” I whisper in the nape of his neck. He nods and laughs once, suddenly going quiet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he replies.

We make the short journey to the hotel then climb the stairs rather than take the elevator up to our floor. I feel a warm hand sweep under my dress to my calf. I continue to climb the stairs quickly, almost tripping.

“Wait.”

“What?” I turn, alarmed by the severe tone of his voice. When I look at him, his eyes are blue, and piercing into mine. “Oh, Maximillian, please don’t look at me like that – not here.”

“Go to the roof,” he says and moves closer, staring into me with those eyes.

“Go to the roof,” he repeats, this time with more authority.

“But I thought we were going inside.”

“First, let’s go to the roof,” he says gently, and I glance at his full lips and messy hair, and I walk myself right on up to the roof. I’m such a sucker.

“So now what?” I ask gently as I cross my arms over my chest to shield myself from the chilliness. It’s windy on the roof and I don’t want to be here. I throw a glance to the twinkling lights below, and to the stars above, and despite a 1000 watt desire to be snuggled in 600 thread count sheets with a 200 pound man, the view really is quite lovely. Alongside me is my own modern pirate, dark and brooding, and for the love of God (who/what/where), if He’s in attendance, is directly across the street shaking his head at us. And why can’t Max control the amount of testosterone he’s sending out?

Max moves closer and reaches out to touch my face; his hand is shaking, which I find peculiar. Just beyond him, I see the cathedral, illuminated by a spotlight aimed at the blue lead glass.

“Max, no.”

“Why?” He mumbles into my neck as I shut my eyes tightly to block out the church, as much as to savor his mouth on my skin.

“God is watching.” I feel silly as soon as I say it, and I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, he just keeps tracing the side of my face with his finger.

“God watches us always, whatever we do,” he tells me, like I need schooling.

“Yes, I realize that, but – maybe He doesn’t want to see us out here, on the roof, getting our freak on,” I attempt to explain.

“Why not?” he asks, now tracing my lips with his finger.

“Do you love me?” he asks bluntly.

“Yes. Like I love summertime and sleeping and books and dark chocolate.”

He snickers. “And I love you like I love ice cream, PlayStation, and tennis.” I have to smile at his childlike simplicity; to be ranked among those items must mean good things for my standing.

He leans against the stone wall and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to know what I think?” He asks me casually.

“Yes, I do.” I’m still studying him closely, wondering what he will say next. I never know.

“Well, I think love is God and God is love. That building is only one symbol for God; there are many others,” he says softly as he nods in the direction of the church. “The sea is God, the sky – when I am with you like this, or when you are in my arms, I feel God in these moments also, because my heart is full of love for you. Is that wrong or bad?” He asks it, but he is sure of his beliefs, so it is really only for my sake.

I understand now. My limbs feel weak, I need to lie down and my heart wants to dart out of my chest, but I get it. “You brought me here, to make love on the roof, to show the universe what our love is like; to share what we have, because you’re sure love cannot be wrong, even though there are obstacles we must overcome, yes?”

“Yes, in a way, that is part of it.” I guess I still don’t have it precisely right, and it seems like he wants to keep his reasons to himself. That’s all right; I think I understand enough. He reaches for me; I nestle into him, feeling like a child learning a lesson I should’ve already known.

“And also to share with my family who have died and my ancestors who came to this island long ago.”

“Pirates?” I ask as I rest my cheek against his chest, feeling the smooth, heated cotton scented with love. (Love is also the blazing heat of a man and his scent, and the effect of it on a woman who is under his spell.)

“Maybe” he teases. “And maybe your ancestral people are here too, or they come to visit you sometimes.” I feel his hand brush my hair and hear his voice vibrating in his chest as he talks; it transports me back to times long ago, leaning on my father’s chest, listening to his voice rumble, feeling the gradual pull of sleep tug at my tiny eyelids. It happens even now as I’m associating that memory with the present.

“Max, do you want them all to see? I mean, some things are private.”

“But it is love between us, and all the people who have come before have done what we do. It is nothing new. Besides, they see us anyway, if we are on this roof, in bed, or sitting at dinner with everyone else.”

“I kind of hope they shut their eyes at certain times.” He laughs quietly and squeezes me tighter.

“Maybe they do, but God does not.” He turns my face to his. “Are you ready to go to bed now, or do you want to talk more?” He searches my eyes and I want to get lost in his. Well, his everything.

“Yes, I want to go now.” As he takes my hand and leads me to the stairwell, I steal a glance at the blue lead window, some 50 feet away. At that moment, the spotlights flicker out and jolt back on almost immediately.

“Max. God just winked at me.” He gave me one of my own looks of exasperation executed very well, and we giggled all the way to the bed.

✨

This was a scene that came to me as an inkling of a sequel to my first novel, Love Match, tweaked a bit for this challenge. The second book has not yet come to fruition, but I hope you enjoyed this snippet.

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