immobile. He felt his chest squeeze and forced himself to breathe out, a kind of protest. What would happen to him someday. When? Tommy surprised in a second, Georg clutching the table. Alexei jolting himself alert with fear, but already gone.
Leon started for the tram. What you thought about when you were exhausted. But in the doorway he and Alexei had been the same. Get on the tram and go back to Cihangir, watch the ferries, the room as quiet as the clinic. Lily’s garden, seeing ghosts, talking to them, receding. Then real eyes, darting across his face. Do something for me, she’d said, then brought his head down.
The conductor rang the bell, waiting for his straggler. Leon grabbed the pole, about to swing up, then stopped, remembering the doorway again, Alexei’s mask. He stepped away, waving the tram off, even the sleepy passengers now awake watching him. A scene, something noticed. Five minutes ago he’d been slinking around buildings. Now he walked through the lighted part of the square and into Sofyali Sok, still busy with late-night restaurants. Down to Mesturiyet, not looking behind, loud steps, nothing to hide. At the Pera, he went straight to the elevator. An American in a good suit, somebody who might be staying there. The elevator boy, in a pillbox hat and white gloves, took him up without a question. A birdcage lift, Parisian grillwork and red plush. He walked down the hall, not hesitating, a soft tap, then a louder one.
“Yes?” he heard from inside. A rustling sound, maybe belting a wrapper.
She opened the door, eyes widening. Her hair was down, brushed out, and she had taken off her makeup, her face still a little shiny from the cold cream, but flushing now, real color.
“You came,” she said, surprised, then clutched the lapels of her bathrobe. “I didn’t think you would come.” Her voice slightly out of breath.
“Is that all right?”
She was still holding the door, and he felt as if he might pitch forward, the momentum that had carried him from the square suddenly stalled.
“My hair-” she said, touching it nervously, a gesture so beside the point that he smiled.
“Your hair?”
She caught his eye but didn’t smile back. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say, come in.” He paused. “Unless you don’t-”
“No,” she said, shaking her head and opening the door wider.
He stepped into the room. A small lamp by the bed, the lights of the Golden Horn through the window beyond.
“I was reading,” she said, just to say something, closing the door and backing against it, as if he had pinned her there. “I’ve never done this before.”
He kissed her, leaning his body into hers, warm. “No?” he said, kissing her again, hands on her now, feeling her body move against him.
“No,” she said, breaking away for air.
“So why-” he started, but she had reached up, pulling him down again, her mouth on his, and his head filled with the taste of her, new, not like anybody else.
“I don’t know,” she said, the words in a gasp, near his ear.
He leaned down and kissed her neck, smelling the last trace of perfume.
“Just something. When we met. I thought-”
“What?” he said, still kissing her.
“Maybe it’s my last chance.”
“For what?” he said, raising his head, caught by the words.
“I don’t know.” She stared at him for another second, then reached over and slid his jacket off his shoulders. “Ask me later.”
Then they didn’t say anything, kissing in a rush, their breathing louder, ragged, undoing his tie, buttons, still backed against the door, as if they were hiding in a closet, stealing the minutes. He slid off her robe, the shoulder straps of her nightgown, letting it fall from her breasts, then cupping them, bending down to kiss them. Not fleshy like Marina’s, just filling his hand, but nipples hard already, all of her taut. One touch and you felt the skin move under your fingers, a string vibrating, little gasps of air over your head.
She pulled the nightgown the rest of the way down, crumpling the silk at her feet, and he reached behind, hands on her cheeks, pulling her toward him, kissing her mouth again, pulling the soft skin even closer, as if he could pull it inside of him. She moved a hand down between them, clutching at his prick, still in his pants, stroking the length of it until they both broke off, out of breath, and he threw off his shirt, starting on his belt, then kissing her again, backing her toward the bed, mouth still on hers, hands on her behind, and then laying her down, snapping off the light, shoes, socks, stepping out of his pants, standing next to the bed looking down at her, naked, just the light from the window. Her skin seemed to be rippling, not still, legs opening to the patch of hair, the lips beneath, already wet to the touch. He moved a finger over it, excited by the wet, some involuntary yielding, and then she reached up, grabbing him and pulling him to her, and he thought he might come then, her eagerness more erotic than anything Marina had ever done.
He moved onto the bed, his prick still in her hand, drawing him into her, not waiting, wanting to hurry too, moving her hand away so he could put the rest in all at once, the skin inside slick with sex, one sliding motion, then the warm softness closing around him. He stopped, dropping to his elbows and kissing her, not wanting to move inside, just feel her holding him, but her skin had begun to ripple again, moving against him, and he started moving too, finding her rhythm, then moving with her, only the movement familiar, the feeling something new, sex with her, not anyone else. She let out a sound, the most private thing there is, something nobody else ever heard, and he put his head near hers, wanting to hear more, the sounds urging him on, making everything go faster, so that he could feel the sweat now, the heat of it, and hear himself panting, his prick swelling with sensation, almost apart from him. When she cried out, he could feel her clenching then going loose, the string snapped, then more sounds in his ears, the wonderful abandon, not caring who heard, still moving with him, as if each thrust set off another release, then another, until finally he could feel it racing up in him, faster, then spurting out, an explosion of pleasure, helpless, leaving every part of him exposed.
He lay motionless for a second, and then he felt his weight on her, the sweat, and the world started seeping back. He rolled off onto his side, his heart still racing, then slowing down, waiting for the deflation that always came, embarrassed, back in himself. But she had turned to him, running her hand along his face, and it wasn’t Marina, something else.
“Thank you,” she said, so quietly that he thought he might have imagined it.
“No. You,” he said, moving his hand now, calming each other, like animals. “I didn’t mean to be so fast.”
She smiled.
He leaned forward and kissed her, hand at the back of her head. “Next time we’ll go slow.”
She touched him below. “How much time do you need?”
“Keep doing that.” Shifting slightly so that she could take all of him in her hand, hard again, then looking into her eyes. “Where did you come from?” he said, running his hand down her back, wanting to touch her everywhere, as if he could read her skin, know her with his fingers.
She made a little gasp, responding to his hand, a shivering as it crept lower, then fell back, letting him kiss her everywhere, her nipples, then moving below, everything slower this time, unhurried, his mouth moving so slowly that she shuddered when he reached her sex, teasing and kissing it until she was open to his mouth, moving against his tongue, and he went deeper, tasting the inside of her, smearing, until she made a sound, a muffled cry, and reached down with her hands to stop his head. “No, in me,” she said, her voice shaking, and pulled him toward her, then in, and this time even that was slower, a rocking, so that when they came, both panting, it wasn’t an explosion but an overflowing.
Afterward she lay with her head on his chest, both of them drowsy.
“A chance for what?” he said.
“Hm?”
“You said, ask me later.”
She was quiet for a minute. “To have something different, I guess.”
“Why me?”
“I liked you. The way you look. Your chin,” she said, putting a finger on it.
“That’s it?”
