Limbo leaned against the bathroom door, silently observing the picture in front of him. Bright morning sunlight caressed Teuta's soft reclining form on the bed they shared for the week, as they spend a weekend away in his parents' beach house down from New Sieg.
It is late Summer, and there is a cold breeze blowing early in the morning over the open, sandy expanse. Whispering flutters of the curtains made the sunrays dance teasingly over her skin. His fingers flickered in anticipation and ridiculously foolish jealousy.
How could a man in his right mind be envious of sunlight? Fuck, have I completely lost my marbles? He considered in frustration.
She was sleeping. His wife, the love of his life, rested peacefully.
"Lucky." He grudgingly muttered under his breath, fighting, in vain, his morning craving for her.
She was unaware of her husband's predicament and, therefore, blissfully unperturbed. The man drew a slow and supposedly calming breath. He waited a minute to see if it worked, but noticed no effect.
Limbo's stormy gaze crept ever so slowly over his wife's silhouette. Teuta slept entirely nude, due to their lewd activities the night before. As the sun goes up, it is revealed that only the tangled silk sheet snaked around her lower thighs. Every delicate curve, every gentle line, every contour was exposed to him.
He knew every angle, every cavity and every subtle peak or dimple of her body intimately, and, luckily, he owned every delicious inch of it. A possessive smirk graced the lawyer's lips at this thought.
Standing in this position, enjoying such a depth of knowledge, is no product of dumb luck, of course. No, certainly nothing like that. It had taken a lot of careful planning, intelligent opportunism, and hard work to attain possession of something as precious as Teuta Bridges. However, as every man, woman and child in the Eastern Seabord knew, what a Fitzgerald wanted, a Fitzgerald would get, eventually. They are an impetuous bunch, no doubt.
In this particular case, Limbo had known exactly what he wanted, and so, naturally, the rest was only a matter of time and the mastery of his skills. Actually, it was quite a story.
When Limbo turned fifteen, his father took him alone to Europe, to Paris, to be precise. It was quite odd, since he had been preparing for the admission exams at that time, and he was kept quite busy with basketball and his numerous social engagements.
Nevertheless, Mr. Fitzgerald deemed it necessary to take his son to a fine art museum in Paris. Why? It was a mystery. His father was always a mystery to him. At times, Limbo does not understand his father at all.
Limbo had, of course, visited a museum before, as his parents were patrons of numerous institutions in the Americas. He was not much of a plastic arts kind of guy, his interests laid squarely on music, and therefore everything in the Musée d'Orsay looked rather queer to his eyes.
Once there, his father seemed to have a very clear idea of what he was supposed to see. They quickly moved from one hall to another until eventually they reached their destination.
The works of French artists covered the walls in vast numbers. All were executed in one particular style, in light strokes, slightly off focus, as if the artist did not see very well and needed glasses, or that at least was his impression. Piece after piece, artist after artist had managed to create the annoying cacophony of bright and muted colours, flowers, women, men, children which reverberated in his head. He was convinced that a few more minutes and nasty headache would have him.
So, the young man, exhausted of artistic education, let his eyes wander. And that was the moment at which he saw her. It was a painting of an aristocratic couple of the end of the XIX century, dancing gracefully. He did not notice the man, though, only the girl, twenty to twenty-five years old, strawberry blond hair, white and soft skin, strong arms and voluptuous waist.
Limbo could not tear his eyes from her. She was utterly magnificent. Soft, lavish, with perfect curves, all peach and rose coloured. Every single feminine line was exquisite and flawless, especially the curves of her hips and breathtakingly delectable skin.
Limbo remembered how, to his dismay, his body had begun to react right there in the museum. Oh, God, how embarrassing it was: to stand in the middle of the museum with his rather evident "excitement" on display. It was literally trying to break free from the confines of his trousers, and he had no jacket to cover it. Terrible.
All the same, the female body on the painting was imprinted in his mind forever. He even went to such length as to find out whose work it was. The name of the artist was Auguste Renoir, Danse à Ville.
And that was it. All it took was the father's crazy caprice, although his motives remained forever obscure, and the son's fate was sealed. From that day in the French museum, the young Fitzgerald knew exactly how his future wife was supposed to look. Sure enough, he was not going to settle for anything less than an exact replica.
Ever since, Limbo had searched. Patiently and thoroughly, he flipped through all eligible girls at the New Sieg Academy. The poor boy started early in school, keeping in mind the amount of work ahead of him. Then, there were college girls, which was, again, a hell of a lot of work.
Alas, all his dedication to the ungrateful cause came to no avail. He did not find anything even closely resembling the image in his head.
All the poor boy wanted was simply everything. Rosy-peach coloured skin, soft curves, rounded hips and a heart-shaped ass, with the last especially being an unnegotiable must. He felt that it was a small thing to ask, as many years of spoiling had him desensitised to most frustrations not imposed on him by his older sister.
Over the years, he almost gave up. Honestly, it was not easy to search and to hope, each and every time. Sometimes all his hard work seemed fruitless, futile, and just simply exhausting. Not counting a few stray orgasms here and there, that is, he is not an ascetic and had not signed up to be one.
He continued on with his daily life, he graduated and made a name for himself at the local justice circuit as the Crooked Lawyer. That is, until one day at the court, when he was defending a politician against corruption charges at the mayoral office, he saw her, or, to be precise, he saw her back. The line, the curve, the colour and the softness: everything was there. He could almost imagine her derriere.
He was sure it would be the exact match, delectable, heart shaped, and promising the infinite pleasure he sought.
Hypnotized and dazzled, Limbo went directly to the target only to discover that all these treasures belonged to someone who for many years was here, right beside him, always around, so close. Oh, how stupid, stupid he was! There, standing tall and looking straight at a TV camera, was Teuta Bridges.
A freelancer, small fish on a big pond. If not for his dedication to know all the players on his high-paying clients' trials, Limbo is sure he would have no clue who this person was. He remembers that she was doing a job for Channel 1 and asked for an interview with him, which he, naturally, denied. The network had supported his client last elections and were counting on her screwing the coverage up. He was not about to involve himself in it any further.
It was hard work to win Teuta over, not at all comparable to the mindless flipping through other girls he had undergone. No, this mission required all the fine skill in seduction the Fitzgerald men had acquired over the centuries.
Immediately, he began to strategize, hoping to assure himself of the best possible result. He treaded carefully and delicately, hoping to set up a "fortuitous encounter" that played the best into his hand. He had her investigated and placed upon himself the duty to learn all there is to learn about her and all there is around her.
Work makes the dream work, and he was never afraid of getting his hands dirty. If there is something that he could do to improve his chances, he did it.
When the young woman appeared at Harry & Keith telling him of his impending and gruesome death, however, it had been a surprise. One that, however, came to his advantages, as his secondary line of work is very good in entrapping people in its network, more so than any other situation he could have created.
The Fitzgerald gladly rolled with it, and everything else they went through together was of his own creation. The fire at her apartment, his bitter old friend from the past, the nanobots, even the selection of the name of her cat had been carefully manipulated by him.
After that much hard work and all the resources he disposed, he had succeeded, of course. Eventually, after a year of a masterpiece on the elaborate scheme of seduction, he had her, and, indeed, her heart-shaped ass at his disposal. Teuta Bridges became Teuta Fitzgerald, and now, he looked at her.
His treasure, his Renoir's beauty, was sleeping. Limbo came closer and gazed at her. She was breathtakingly sensual.
One of her exposed light-pink peaks drew his attention. He lightly touched her nipple with a tip of his finger, and it immediately turned a darker shade of pink. The brunet quietly kneeled in absolute fascination near the bed and flicked his tongue over it.
Ah! Delicious!
Teuta stirred but she did not wake up. The young Fitzgerald carefully crawled onto the bed behind his wife. He simply could not contain himself: he desired her, craved her, needed to feel her. That was the point, after all, to touch, to feel, to possess and be able to devour.
Very, very gently, Limbo touched her, running the tips of his fingers over her skin. Next, he traced the line, his beloved line, from the nape of Teuta's neck to the rounded peak of her tailbone.
Now, it was his tongue's turn. First, a small swirl in the nape, just to tease his wife blonde tresses there, and then down, down and down, all the way to her sweet and plump ass. There, for a second, the man froze in indecision, which plump cheek to trace first.
If all the questions in the universe were that easy… It must be the closest one, of course, decided Limbo and, armed with the knowledge, he continued his journey.
His tongue left wet, slightly glistening trails on the skin of his, only his, sweet, sweet woman.
While flicking his tongue over Teuta's soft curves, not missing any spots, any secret dimples, Limbo mused on why it is that a woman's body has so many hidden, intimate places: under the breasts, for one, under the buttocks, behind the knees and, the most sacred, between the thighs, his personal centre of the universe. Amazing.
When the considerable area of her delectable body was wet and simple licking was not enough anymore, the Crooked Lawyer began to nibble on her delicate flesh, starting from her smooth calves, going up… Oh, her beautiful, beautiful bum, plump and ripe enough to eat.
Limbo could spend an eternity there, happily nibbling and licking. Honestly. If only his eager friend did not bother him with his other needs.
At last, unable to stop his tongue from plunging between Teuta's thighs, he completely succumbed to his overpowering craving for her. The faint sigh announced his wife's awakening. A moment later, she arched her body into his waiting hands.
And, oh God, was he ready for her…
Much, much, much later, extremely satisfied, Limbo walked into his father's living room and said, "Father, Teuta's birthday is coming up next month. Would you say that I could find a way to buy one of the paintings of this French guy, Renoir?"
The older man silently looked at his son over his reading glasses with a bewildered expression.
A moment later, he muttered, "And I always thought I would be the first in our family to lose my sanity. No matter…" and then, more loudly, "If you so insist. Come Son, let's see what we can find."
