CHAPTER FOUR

THE REPORTER

She shoved him on his back to the floor mat.

She mounted his lap.

She yanked him by his necktie so their lips forced together in a locked steamy kiss.

Their animal noises rose and fell, grunting together, gasping in places they could get air, giggling or chuckling over how they went at each other. They nipped and tugged. They bit down until one winced then smooched the pain away.

They wrestled their tongues round and round, back and forth, in unending power struggle for one or another's mouth where everything felt hot enough to melt candy. They swayed their heads in tandem to the waves of their tongues' wrestling match. When she pinned him to the base of his mouth, she pushed. When he thrusted into her throat, she pulled.

They took turns to discover the roof, walls, and teeth of each other, taking sweet time to taste each other and share saliva.

In the meantime, she ripped his shirt open by its buttons. His pecs seemed to shine in the cool dim light. He was covered with dark hair.

She moved her hands to either side of his neck where she started her progress downward. His firm chest yielded to her touch when she pushed him to the mat, but the upper body strength she found was dense enough, he could have refused. She played with a bear of a man who permitted her on top, for now.

She broke their kiss as she slid her touch down his ironed abs, honed by a mixture of exercise and testosterone.

She rode his lap and grunted with satisfaction. The pressure beneath her swelled to greater and greater force the longer they went. She unharnessed him by yanking apart his belt. It hissed through the loops of his pants as she took it off, and she discarded it.

Craving ruled them in unison. Their shared lust made throbs of chi the longer they spent together. Unseen energy pushed and pulled, crested and ebbed, back and forth from her chakras to his and back to hers. They grinded up and down, their bodies flowing in streamline, bending each others sexes to their respective wills.

He stopped time when he flattened his palm at the base of her neck where it met her collar bone. Their smell of near-sex and cologne mixed. Her harvest leaf-brown hair framed her cheeks and neck. Wisps hung over her brow. In the near-dark, her eyes resembled onyx gems wavering at the moment with uncertainty. She wore only underwear, a bra that supported her breasts with firm cups and panties that clamped around her lower body. She panted for air in a way that made her chest rise and fall. Sweat oiled her such that the frame of her muscles, every mass and curve and sinew shined on their own.

She placed both hands on his shoulders, then climbed into the back of his hair.

He asked, "Can I?"

Her breath hitched. Her root chakra boiled. Her desire screamed to be satisfied.

She answered against his lips that tasted like the champagne she had been downing an hour ago. That spark stuck her to him in drunken stupor. One word slipped from her into him that inspired the rest of their consensual sex, one word that made all the difference.

"Yes."

They engaged and they swelled and they burst, going on and on and on into the early morning.

The next thing the reporter knew, he awoke face-down on King-sized bedding. Fleece sheets were strewn around him. Air conditioning cooled his back, shoulders, and calves. A ceiling fan spun at low speed that gave off an ambient hum. Bird song came in through the closed windows, through the curtains that let in slivers of morning light. He inhaled the residue of their sweat and their sex and their orgasms.

A black bath robe with red and yellow plaid hung on a clothes hanger from the bedroom door. He cozied into it, wrapped himself up, and spread one of the curtains.

The bedroom stuck out from the main house like an atrium with windows going all around a 270-degree view. It overlooked a mountain peak that sloped down and up, banked in waves for miles on end, each one lower than the first. What resembled at first green fur carpeted the mountain range, every square mile verdant with spring foliage, until they turned into tree-tops grown so close together, they let no other room for a city. Sky above went on for azure miles without a cloud in sight.

He entertained the idea of Miss Sato as a hiker or a lumberjack or a wildlife preservationist, but he scoffed with amusement.

He left the bedroom, crossing polished tiled floor in his bare feet, making only the gentle pat, pat, pat of footsteps into a common area.

Save for the frost-white tiles, the rest of the lounge was made with a rich aesthetic of steel-gray, brown, and teal. Windows forty feet tall let in daylight from a balcony. Mezzanines on the second and third levels overhead looked down on him from their railings. Steps descended in the center of the floor to a sitting area made of padding and leather and drink holders. One wall of the common area had a bar with which to serve drinks, benches along another wall, and an empty stage with metal poles going up to the ceiling. A fountain made of glass, a marble basin, and a technicolor light show ran constant water from ceiling to floor.

Footsteps approached from one of two corridors ahead of him.

A dark-haired man wore booty shorts showing off his thicc thighs, oiled to gleaming and shaved. His fern-green vest missed its top two buttons where it exposed his barrel chest and shoulders made of peak bulk. He had braided his beard with tassels and sugar-coating of gold. Make-up glossed his eyes and lips. Foundation defined his cheeks and forehead. His high-heels forced prominence into his calves, rear-end, and chest. He had draped a plastic dry-cleaning bag over his left arm.

He sounded chipper and clean-cut when he spoke. "Good morning, buddy! Here's your suit that we got dry-cleaned and pressed. We also have a vehicle outside to take you anywhere you'd like to go. I made some snacks if you wanna take some with you. Who can resist sea salt caramel pretzel turtles, huh?"

As the reporter accepted his dry cleaning with a bemused smile, he did not know whether to be more taken aback by the condition of his clothes or the man-servant. "You must be the famous Bolin. Pro-bender. Actor. War hero."

"You recognize my work? That's amazing!" He gestured down the northern corridor that went to the front door and opened the way for his guest to lead.

"You've accomplished so much in your prime," the reporter went on without moving. "You could be doing anything with your middle-age. You have career choices more than ninety-five percent of people can ever dream of having. But Ms. Sato orders you to pick up the dry-cleaning?"

"I do anything and everything Ms. Sato requires." Bolin gestured again with both arms and continued to speak with renewed emphasis. "I even take out the trash! Will that be all, sir?"