Passions Prologue
By Dana Keylits

Chapter Four: Exploring You.

I don't know for how long I had dozed, I only know that when I awoke the sun was flooding the tiny apartment with its brightness and warmth and I was alone in the bed. I reached out, my arm moving like a windshield wiper along the silken sheets searching for her, but she was gone, and the apartment was quiet, only the muted sounds of the world bustling by outside filling the spaces around me.

I blinked my eyelids open, my vision hazy and unfocused, my body still humming and pulsing, vibrating, and then I sat up and looked around. The bathroom door stood open, and she wasn't anywhere to be found. I was about to panic until I saw a piece of paper fluttering in the morning breeze on top of her small painted kitchen table. I swung my legs out of bed and walked over to it. The cool hardwood floor felt good against my feet.

I picked up the note, which had been held down by a can of soup, and quickly read it. She was out getting bagels and coffee and would be right back. I set the note back down and looked around. Her apartment was like one living, breathing work of art. The place itself was a crappy little studio, but she'd fixed it up, decorated it, turned it into an urban monument to rival anything hanging at the Met. Everywhere my roaming eyes landed, I saw something interesting and unique to look at.

I suddenly had to pee, badly, and I padded into the bathroom, my eyes scanning the walls and shelves and tabletops as I went. There just wasn't any ledge or corner or expanse of space that didn't seem artistically planned, and I sat on the toilet in awe of her eye, her coordination of color and texture, furniture and adornment, both practical and whimsical at the same time.

I wiped, flushed, washed my hands, dried them on a towel, and then looked at my reflection in the mirror above the small freestanding porcelain sink.

I looked happy.

I had always been a happy person, and, other than the normal drama that most teenagers experienced, my growing up had been quite wonderful. My parents loved me, accepted me, nurtured me, allowed me to be who I was, or wanted to be, or thought I was. And, while my mother had a penchant for saying, "I told you so," beneath that, she always wanted me to succeed; even if it was at something she thought I shouldn't or couldn't or wouldn't do.

I have known people who hated their parents. That has never been me. I cherish them. I always will. When they are old and grey and I am fighting with my mother over how to raise my own children, I will still love them with my whole entire being.

For that is how they have always loved me.

But this kind of happy was something new, something different, something that bubbled just below the surface. Perhaps it always had, I didn't know, all I knew was that it had been culled and coaxed and harvested from within me by the expert husbandry of Better Porter.

And, I was loving it!

I wandered around her apartment; she had an eclectic style, much like mine but with a much finer eye. I strolled, still naked, past the bookcase, my fingers thumping along the spines of highbrow titles like Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthurs Court by Mark Twain, and Anna Kerenina by Leo Tolstoy. She also had books like The Stand by Stephen King and Lady Chatterly's Lover by D.H. Lawrence.

A large hardcover book caught my eye and I plucked it from the shelf, Dead Man's Chest by Richard Castle. I opened the front cover and read the summary. Flipping to the back cover, I was startled by the handsome man smiling back at me, his bright-blue eyes clear and shiny, a dusting of stubble over his chin and upper lip. I stared at the lively photograph of the author, my eyes narrowing, vertical lines forming between my eyebrows, and I felt as though I knew him, as though I should have known him, and something inside of me stirred, surprising me.

I shook my head (what was that?), and opened the book to the first page. I wandered over to her couch, covering my bare flesh with the soft red throw that adorned the back of the sofa, and settled in to read. I had gotten through the first three pages before Bette came bustling in through the front door, her arms full of grocery bags. I watched her look towards the bed, and seeing that it was empty, swinging her head around to find me on the couch.

"There you are," she purred. "I'm glad you're up." She set the groceries on the small kitchen table and then crossed to me, reaching for my hand. I stuck my finger between the pages of the book so as not to lose my place and then stood. "Hi," she said, smiling, her eyes falling to my lips.

"Hi," I smiled back.

She kissed me. Slowly, sweetly, her tongue wandering and curious as it coasted past my lips and into the cavern of my mouth. She tasted like coffee and chocolate, bitter and sweet. When we parted, I looked at her quizzically, "Have you been eating candy?"

She giggled, "Mmm hmm." She glided over to the table, her long legs looking silky and inviting beneath her short skirt, "I picked up some Godiva chocolate. You want a piece?"

I nodded, following her, the blanket draped loosely around my body, my bare feet making soft thumping sounds against the polished hardwood floor. She pulled out a chocolate bar, breaking off a piece, and held it in front of my lips with her thumb and forefinger. I opened my mouth and she slid it onto my tongue, her finger lingering as I wrapped my lips around it, then a slow extraction as I savored the taste of her combined with the sweet chocolate.

I looked at her from beneath the long fan of lashes that framed my eyes, a knowing glint shining at her; I flipped the chocolate in my mouth so it was tucked in one cheek. "You're dangerous," I accused.

She laughed, slipping her finger into her mouth to suck the remnants of the chocolate from her fingertip. She leaned into me, her mouth hot on my ear, "And, I'm only just getting started."

I made a noise that probably sounded like a cross between a laugh and a grunt, because she placed both hands on my cheeks and pulled me in for another kiss, shorter, sharper, harder this time. She pulled away, searching my eyes. "Oh, Kate. We're going to have so much fun together."

"Promise?" I teased, my eyes flickering between hers. My mouth still sucking on the rich chocolate.

She slowly peeled the blanket from around my naked frame, her eyes scanning me deliciously from head to toe, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. I felt a shiver run down my spine, excitement building as she ogled my naked body. She fanned her fingertips, feathering them along my chest, between my breasts, across the ladder of my ribcage, to my abdomen, a sea of goose-bumps rising in their wake. Then she coiled her arm around my waist and pulled me to her, her lips skimming along my jaw, the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose, before tripping along the shell of my ear; more shockwaves rippling through me. I lost my breath, clumsily dropping the book on the table.

"Promise," she whispered.