[Adult] Words Behind Closed Doors

[Jesús de Torres y Pineda]

Jesús did not hesitate as Zelda went to move his wrists, though it was perhaps a shock to the system to be so abruptly pushed aside like gone off food. And it did not help that she claimed him as a Spaniard when he was so passionately a Catalan above all else. With a furrowed brow he moved back by several steps, a groan muffled behind closed lips as she left him there in her damned bedroom that he had only just stepped into. The mention of his relationship with Rafael was pushed aside, the idea of knocking on her door as a ploy simply to fuck white-washed into something unreadable… In retaliation, Jesús straightened himself out and put his hand in his trousers to rearrange and hide the desire and arousal that throbbed through him like a headache.

He followed by a few paces, staring into the back of her head as one did when trying to formulate something intelligent (or at the very least, coherent), before his gaze dropped to where she put the kettle atop the stove. Swallowing words that were half-baked and stupid, Jesús put his hands to his pockets, running his tongue against the wall of his cheek before finally speaking.

“Well, I came to say that I am sorry for causing offense at lunch… And if there is anything I can do to right the wrongs I have committed, I am listening,” Jesús announced, his own dark eyes yet shadowed by a heavy brow and the lines of his forehead, a frustration following the draw of his veins as he watched the flames flicker beneath the kettle itself. He would not accept a denial without reason, and he had wasted too much time wondering what she was, who she was or where she had been to leave now.

[Zelda Rhodes]

Her back yet to Jesús, Zelda considered the kettle where it sat warming before her. Had her reaction been overblown? With even a scant handful of minutes to consider, perhaps. Jesús was swimming in deeper waters than he realized, kept afloat by stubbornness and the buoying scraps of their initial acquaintance. As she stared at the kettle, she considered whether he deserved a reprieve, and why the notion felt so damned dangerous.

"I've already told you, I'm not upset about the lunch," she replied without turning around. She'd also expressed there was likely nothing he could do about any of it. Yet he remained when he could have marched back out the front door: As stubborn as ever, hovering in her kitchen doorway with his proverbial cap in his hands.

Oh, fine.

She turned and leveled him with a steady gaze. "On your knees."

[Jesús de Torres y Pineda]

He had met and slept with women who took their pleasures from the submission of a man, but such desires had always been prefaced with a discussion or some word that told Jesús what to expect. He knew Zelda was domineering, that she was possibly the only female curator to work at the Museum was enough of a hint to tell the Professor the fact of the matter. But he had gone into it blind, his feet latched to the shadow of what had once been.

When she made her command, Jesús was blinded by the transition of her scarlet hair to the pale colour of her face, transfixed as if he was set before a theatre performing something modern and previously unseen. With wide eyes he considered ignoring her command, to be as stubborn as he had been. But, Jesús was almost far too eager to settle the disputes between them. For himself. For Rafael. Even for Farah in some odd sense.

Without a word or even a noise of disgruntlement, he slowly lowered himself to his knees, leveraging his weight against the floor as he breathed through his nostrils in slow exhales, his mouth parting if only to shape words between his lips before closing them in an abrupt pause. Laying his hands on his thighs, Jesús looked up at Zelda with expectation, curiosity and perhaps even an inch of annoyance.

[Zelda Rhodes]

She was nervous, Zelda realized. The sensation was odd enough to feel foreign at this point in her life, and in what she would think of as her personal progression. Not much surprised her these days, and more the strangeness that it was coming from within herself.

Oh Christ, she thought, even as she was padding over to Jesús on bare feet. This is a mistake. It had to be, hadn't it, to evoke an emotion like this? Or was it perhaps one of the few contexts she hadn't yet tried?

With care, she lifted his glasses from his face, and then stepped across the room to the little kitchen table to deposit them there. She took hold of one of the chairs and dragged it across the hardwood of the floor so that it was placed alongside Jesús where he still knelt on the floor. Without preamble, she untied the front of her dressing gown and let the fabric flutter open to her sides. She was quite proud of her physique, despite that she was a bit skinnier than was the fashion — Well-formed breasts topped by rosy nipples, hips wide enough for a good hold, and not a hint of hair between strong thighs, her cunt having been shaved smooth during her bath.

Any other time, anyone else, and there would be nothing to letting all of herself be seen, but as she watched Jesús, her stomach dropped again.

She lifted one slender leg to brace atop the chair seat, parting her cunt to the cool air, and reached to twist one of Jesús's dark curls around her index finger.

[Jesús de Torres y Pineda]

Jesús was a stubborn person, that everyone knew, so why had he felt his knees hit the floor so quickly? His breath caught in his throat, leaving his heart to drop into his stomach as he watched Zelda from below — obeying her instruction like a boy as he felt his toes curl involuntarily behind him, still kept to those worn in shoes he wore daily, on unimpressive and normal days that rarely entertained a situation like the one before him.

His eyes dropped to Zelda’s feet as she walked toward him, every inch of her a splendour of what Jesús had once yearned to covet despite himself, despite those stingy rules and stipulations concerning his then-boss and superior. So eager to strip himself of his reservations, Jesús tipped his head up toward her, his eyes closing for a moment as her fine hands went to pluck his glasses from his face — it was almost torturous, he thought, to keep his hands to himself, to be something akin to a pet for Zelda to play with. And wait, had he not come… Well, talk to her, rather than have himself exposed from the inside out! But did he stop her? Did he cease looking at her as if she were the eighth wonder of the world?

No, he didn’t.

He watched as she drew a chair close, as she relieved him of the power of imagination to expose herself in waves of silken fabric. Before he could have been given the time, or the space, to realise what was what and how he had come to that point, Zelda had become nude before him. It was by the luck of the heavens that Jesús did not groan out loud for her to hear, for he was not sure if he could withstand another chiding from such a woman as his pupils enlarged themselves to expose but dark, bottomless eyes upon looking at her — with the smallest tilt of his chin he gazed upon her breasts, her stomach and then her tender thighs before inhaling to smell whatever scent she had rubbed into her skin earlier that afternoon. He felt almost incapable of thought, feeling or act, but the twist of her finger into his hair coaxed him back to the surface, leaving him less like a mindless fish and more like someone with a sense of himself.

Slowly, as if in sudden terror of making the wrong move, Jesús leaned forward, lifting a hand from its solitary position on his knee to tentatively touch Zelda’s thigh in order to steady himself, his fingertips slow and full of anticipation in case, like before, Zelda would recall her thoughts and leave him out to dry. Still, Jesús felt a powerful ache curse its way through his body, as such there was very little he could have done to prevail, even if he had tried his utmost to win. As such, he leaned close enough so the hair of his face brushed the outer curve of her leg, his nose nearly pressed against the skin to smell, to touch, to engulf himself as one would a sumptuous buffet.

Without casting his lips against her, Jesús looked up toward Zelda for… what? Instruction? A word of longing? Before he cast his right hand against the stretch of her thigh, his thumb extended to touch upon the inner flank to test what he was allowed to touch — waiting for her word, her approval like a pet at a bowl.

[Zelda Rhodes]

This is a mistake, Zelda thought again as she stared down at Jesús' beatific expression. A look like that had to be a mistake to encourage, and on the face of anyone else, perhaps enough to twitch her robe closed and point toward the door. But it wasn't anyone else, and her intoxication at his worshipful countenance rendered her impotent to do anything but encourage him. He had been oh so good, after all, after his rough beginning.

"Don't be a tease, now," she murmured to him in Catalan, curious to see how the language might land, if it might stiffen his prick or cause him to rethink the interaction entirely. "I've laid out a meal; it would be rude not to eat it, Jesús." The two syllables of his name felt potent rolling from her tongue, as if she were making the moment tangible by speaking him into being.

Her tongue slid forward just enough to slip across her bottom lip. "I want to come in your mouth," she added, in English, as it had a way of weighting vulgarity that few other languages could manage.

[Jesús de Torres y Pineda]

He had done this before, he had done this when he was younger and more willing to easily put the weight of his entire body on his two knees — and he had done so gladly, of course! But it had been… well, not some time, for he gave pleasure as much as he liked to receive it, but long enough for him to find the position new and foreign to his own body. And yet, it felt easy, as if his bones knew just what he wanted from memory or something like that; at any rate, for a man of academic words, Jesús found himself dumbfounded, and pretty useless to say anything that may push back against Zelda’s command.

He touched her thigh with ease with her permission, pressing the warmth of his palm against milk white skin as she spoke in his own mother-tongue. In that foreign city, Jesús only really spoke it with Rafael, trading secrets and gossip via a mouth that no one else could quite decipher, for most knew some Spanish but never the finer details of Catalan. Still, it emboldened him, pulling on a string of what made him who he was as he cast his hand up the her thigh, eyeing her from beneath — his gaze making a landscape of her cunt, her stomach and the rise of her breasts, if he had been a painter perhaps he would’ve etched it to memory in order to make a picture of it later, but he had no talent for it, so instead he appreciated the view before dipping his head and making the most of an opportunity he had wanted for so long.

Like a starving man he pressed full mouthed kisses to her thighs, following the curve of one before swapping to the other — one hand held her standing leg in place, as the other went to touch what he could. As he kissed over her skin, his fingers went to her cunt without delay, his thumb extended to part the folds of her, to rub slow strokes against her outer, inner lips as one did when taking route with a new lover — sparingly he gazed at her, if only to gauge her reaction and how she felt, before he left her almost entirely, replacing his fingers and thumb with his mouth instead.

In the same way one prayed, Jesús leaned forward a little, wetting his lips with his tongue before he rolled it against her clit that had been somewhat put on show with how she stood. Thankful for the ease of finding it, Jesús carried himself forth, dancing between wet kisses, a flattened tongue and then from her clit to her inner thigh in a merry jig before he decided to lay some pressure on her, as if willing her to cry out for all the time they had wasted not touching, not fucking, not even looking at one another. Puckering his lips he sucked on her clit lightly, gently even as he brought a finger against her, easing her centre open with tentative touches before he pushed that and another large digit inside of Zelda Rhodes, of all fucking people. Yeah, no one could say he wasn’t hungry.

[Zelda Rhodes]

Fuck, but he was good at this. Almost unfairly so, and perhaps thirty seconds had passed of Jesús' eager mouth over her cunt before Zelda was regretting her choice to stand for this. At the time it had seemed a powerful stance; now, as her body shivered with each stroke of his tongue, it seemed merely impractical.

Biting against the back of her lips, Zelda hummed against her teeth and let her head drop back as she steadied herself with fingers curled tightly into Jesús' hair. "I'm so angry with you," she allowed, but the words were mirthful, a tease: Angry that he might have done this long ago, but had chosen not to take the risk.

"Oh, fuck," she exhaled as he eased two fingers inside the heat of her waiting cunt, and that was it, that was the line crossed that rendered their current positions intolerable.

"No, no," she bit out, and stepped down from the chair and back a step, Jesús' fingers slipping free from inside of her as her own fingers slipped free from his hair. There was a flush sitting high on her cheeks and in her hardened nipples.

"Bed," she ordered, and jabbed a finger in the direction of her bedroom. "Now."