Chapter 14 Seashells
The sun begins to kiss the horizon and the salt in the air stings the fresh pink of my cheeks as I listen to her laugh. The shore licks at her toes and the breeze blows dark locks of hair into a tangled mess we're going to struggle with later, without a doubt. Her cheeks are bunched, dimples popping, as her sure, confident steps squish sand between her toes. She's going to complain for days to come when her cane tracks the trapped sand everywhere she goes, but, right now, all I can do is relish in the way she bends down to explore every rock and seashell her cane clacks against. Her fingertips vibrate against the various textures as she lifts each one to her ear, taking in each sound.
Her hums travel through the air as though there is a bridge built specially for those sounds to reach my ears. A gasp escapes her lips, but I'm too busy watching the way her hair tickles her lips and how the wind sways her skirt in soft ripples. Her voice is soft and questioning when I realize she's asked me something.
Her smile is smirking and coy and incredible when she realizes I had been staring at her, and I blush, "What'd you ask, baby?"
She taps her cane against a shimmery conch shell and giggles, "That isn't a normal shell, B. What is it?"
"It's called a conch shell. They say you can hear the ocean's heartbeat when you put it against your ear."
She's hesitant to touch it, but I can tell she's itching to, "Is it safe to touch?"
"Of course. Come 'ere," she smiles as we bend at the knees and the warm, wet sand gives way under us. She's warm from the sun against my front and I laugh out loud as she presses my cheek against her lips for a wet, lingering kiss.
"Is it sharp?"
"There are ridges and spikes, but the spikes are pretty dull from weathering," she nods as her fingers tickle my wrist, inching ever so slowly toward the shell. "Follow my fingers to the inside of the shell. It's so smooth."
"But, where does the shell come from? Why is it so large?"
"It's kind of like a snail that builds its own shell from chemicals in the water. They just grow and grow."
"The shell reminds me of braille; I can almost read this conch's life," her voice is full of wonderment as she traces the spikes and flares and ruffles.
My breath hitches in the same way it did when her voice cracked and her hands shook in those few moments alone in that dressing room. Her fingers are reading the shell the same way they read me; thoroughly, deeply, without hesitation. They've long since forgotten about the conch. Her arm stretches back from her position in my lap, her fingers webbing and caressing and conforming to the side of my head. She smiles an openmouthed smile against the kiss I press against her lips and giggles, twisting her body to fall with me into the sand.
"Hi there," she squirms and buries her face into my neck as my, her laughter increasing and vibrating against my skin.
Her whispered "hi" is soft and warm against my ear. My heartbeat thunders in my throat as her skirt flares out and her thigh comes to rest low across my belly.
The sand and sea water glisten against her sun-kissed skin, and her nose scrunches as I brush bits of sand from her eyebrows.
"We're gonna have sand everywhere, aren't we?"
"I guess we'll have to do something about that," her tone is playful and raw and lilting.
"Oh? What'd you have in mind?"
"You sure are in the gutter, Mrs. Wife."
"Oh, huh. I guess me and my gutter brain will just have to wash this sand off all by myself," I try to remain serious but the way she gasps and pulls her thigh tighter against me has me laughing into her hair.
"You wouldn't dare. That's my job."
"You're job, huh? You just want me for my body." I gasp at the way she shrugs in joking agreement, "I knew it."
"Let's go, Britt," she husks as she starts to sit up, "I'm really good at my job."
I groan. The sticky heat and salty air have me particularly dehydrated, but her words seem to send whatever moisture I have left in me south.
"San," I can't remember the last time she had me this flustered. She looks so smug and I practically trip over my toes to keep up with her retreating figure.
Her cheeks are warm against my palms, her breaths heavy and concentrated as her nose grazes mine. The heat of the bathroom surrounds us, cocoons us. The wet material of her skirt hangs low on her hips, slipping with every backward step toward the shower. Her hand grasps for the knobs, slipping and failing many times before the cool of the water calms the sting in our sun-soaked skin. Her skirt slinks to the floor and her grip is firm on my shoulders as she kicks it against the tile with a reverberating smack.
Her fingers trail against the long, tile wall as she gently walks me backwards. I feel the strings of my top loosen and her lips trail the path of beads of water. Her fingers read me like a story, eager to glean each gasp and sigh and moan like a voracious reader devours plots. She kisses a trail of fire in the water's wake, her fingers slipping the bow on my hip loose. The skin of my thigh erupts in goosebumps and she hums as I moan. She nips at my hipbone as the bow on my other hip loosens and she tosses the material away.
My knees almost buckle at the warmth I feel between them. She's gentle and slow, a great contrast to the nails forming crescents in the thigh she slips over her shoulder, and, soon, the bathroom feels with more than steam as my moans echo against the walls. She breathes short huffs into the inside of my thigh, kissing and soothing as my hips calm. I'm not sure where my strength comes from as I right myself to loop my arms under her thighs as she stands. She gasps at the sudden upward movement but it's not long until her head is falling against the tile and her hips shaking in an arch between the wall and my hand. She presses a fist against her mouth to stifle her noises, but understands when I thread my fingers through hers and press them against the wall above us. She doesn't dare hold back again as I untangle our hands to brace her sturdily against the wall.
In this moment, hearing these sounds, feeling the way she feels, it's hard to hold back the lump that forms in my throat. Her pulse is racing in her throat and her gasps burn a permanent home in my memory. Her hips stiffen and the skin of her ribs ripple. And, as she arches against me, fingers sure to leave bruises, I realize she reminds me of the arches and ridges and ruffles of seashells: breathtaking, ever-growing, and magnificent.