The Night She Got Lucky

  “I’m not scared.”

  “Does it arouse you?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  “I will never do anything you do not like.” He kissed her gently on the lips. “The sex talk in the studio—I saw how it lit up your face, how your skin grew flushed. I took advantage of that. I trust it did not offend you.”

  Ginger shook her head. “The only thing that would offend me is if you used the same technique with Roxie and Bea and everyone else you photograph.”

  Lucio laughed softly. “I do not foresee that happening.”

  “Then we’re good.”

  “Will you undress me now, Genevieve?”

  She nodded, giving him a shy smile. Ginger reached out for his belt, pulling it through the buckle. She unzipped the fly of his jeans and watched as the pants slipped down his slim hips. Ginger grabbed the edge of his casual cotton shirt and yanked it over his head. Lucio got to the boxer briefs before she could, pulling them off his body with impatience.

  Ginger gasped. She hadn’t forgotten what he looked like, of course, because the vision was forever burned into her memory. But seeing him in front of her made her heart skip and her hands shake. Lucio Montevez was the most beautifully masculine thing she’d ever seen. She ran her hands over his biceps and then his forearms, feeling the steely flesh and the hard bone. She traced her fingertips over the muscular ripples of his abdomen, the swell of his hard ass as it flared just slightly from his lean waist.

  “You make me insane, too,” she whispered, leaning forward to flick the very tip of her tongue on one of his nipples, then the next.

  She let her tongue slide down the center of his chest, down to the narrow dividing line of dark, silky hair, to where it disappeared into the swell of his pubic bone.

  She fell to her knees. She wanted to worship him, show him how much she desired him, how glad she was to have found him.

  “You’ve changed everything for me, Lucio,” she said, brushing her fingers along the root of his hardening cock. “You bring out something I never knew I had inside me.”

  His hand fluttered against her cheek. “What is it?”

  “My sexual self.” Ginger leaned closer, running her tongue back and forth at the base of his shaft. She could feel him growing in girth and length. “The male in you brings out the female in me.”

  “That is how it should be, my love.”

  Ginger placed her lips around the head of his cock and sucked him softly. With her hands she lightly teased the rest of his shaft. She rubbed her hard nipples against the front of his thighs.

  She looked up. Lucio had his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his lips open slightly. A thrill coursed through her knowing how she pleased him.

  “Ah, please stop, bonita. You will make me come.”

  She smiled up at him. “You don’t want that?”

  He laughed, looking down at her, his eyes black with desire. “I do. I want to come while I’m inside you. So please…” Lucio reached down and supported her under her arms, bringing her to a stand. “Step into the water with me. Let me wash the sand off you.”

  She entered the huge shower, Lucio behind her. She heard the door close just as she felt him press up against her back.

  “Feel the water come down on you,” he said, pushing her forward, grabbing her hips as the hot water soothed over them both. She felt his hands in her sticky hair, slowly massaging the water into her scalp until the hairspray began to dissolve. Ginger closed her eyes and was enjoying the pure decadence of his touch when she smelled something faintly minty, herbal, and she knew he’d opened a shampoo bottle.

  “Allow me,” Lucio said from behind her. His hands lathered the shampoo as he massaged and rubbed, gently making sure the suds reached everywhere. She heard him pull out a handheld nozzle, then shuddered at the pleasure of the hot water hitting directly on her scalp, his hand running down the length of her hair.

  “I love your hair, mi amor, ” he said. “The color is exotic. It is the color of desire, did you know that?”

  “Uh-uh,” Ginger managed.

  Lucio chuckled, opening another bottle Ginger could only assume was shower gel. It smelled fresh and light and she moaned out loud when a soft sponge touched her shoulders, back, bottom, and her thighs and calves. Lucio asked her to turn toward him so that he could soap her feet. Ginger had to giggle at all the attention he paid to her toes, feet, and ankles. It made her feel like a princess. Next, he continued the sensual massage of the shower gel into her legs, thighs, belly, arms, breasts.

  “Let’s get you rinsed off, my love.”

  Only then did Lucio touch her between her legs. Ginger knew he’d find a very swollen and slick pussy.

  “You are very wet, mi amor, ” he said. He moved her long hair to the side and kissed the side of her neck.

  Ginger’s knees began to buckle, but Lucio caught her. “Sit with me,” he said, gently guiding her to a large seat built into the wall of the shower.

  Lucio sat down first, then pulled her into his lap. She straddled his thighs and lowered herself, the sensitive outer lips of her pussy opening and pressing down onto the light curly hair of his legs.

  Lucio’s hands were all over her back and ass, massaging her flesh as the hot water continued to rain down her skin. The pleasure was intense. The physical joy she felt nearly made her cry.

  “Give me your mouth,” Lucio said, pressing the back of her neck toward him until her mouth touched his. Ginger felt every muscle in her body release, uncoil, melt. Lucio’s kisses were not just about the lips, they were an all-body contact sport. His tongue and teeth played with her, his hands gripped and caressed and slid all over her, his thighs spread apart, which opened her legs further.

  How could she have lived without this? How could she have gone twenty years without knowing how this felt? He was kissing her, stroking her, when she began to cry.

  “Oh, oh…” Ginger gasped, taking her mouth away from his in surprise. Lucio’s fingers had just entered her engorged vagina. His touch was so soft, so loving and careful, but the sensations built in her fast and hard. There was no way to stop the orgasm taking her over.

  She clamped down on his fingers and came almost immediately, her cry muffled by Lucio’s tongue, which he’d returned to her mouth. His free hand caressed and moved her bottom, lifting her up as his fingers continued to play inside her. Somewhere deep in her brain, Ginger knew he was adjusting her position so that he could impale her, even before her orgasm could subside.

  With her last functioning brain cell she thought about a condom. She was about to interrupt the moment when she glanced down at him, only to find he was already sheathed. He must have done it while her back was turned—Lucio was a consummate pro.

  Suddenly she was lifted higher, pulled forward, and pressed down. Before she knew what was happening, Lucio had replaced his fingers with his cock, which penetrated her in one long, hot slide of pleasure.

  “¿Que Dios me ayude!” he groaned as he entered her. The outburst was followed by a torrent of Spanish she could only guess was the equivalent of her own English babbling.

  “Oh God, yes,” Ginger cried. “This is so good. Don’t stop. I didn’t know, Lucio! I didn’t know it could be so good!”

  “Genevieve. You are mine.” His hands cupped her breasts. His dark eyes demanded she look at him.

  “I know I am,” she whispered. “I’ve wanted to be yours forever.”

  “And I am yours. Do you understand? I belong to you just as you belong to me.”

  She laughed suddenly, the intensity of the physical pleasure and the emotional closeness almost too much to process. “I know you’re mine, Lucio. I’ve wanted you all my life.”

  “And now you have me.” He hissed, gritting his teeth. “Ah, bonita, now you really are going to make me come.”

  She pushed down onto him, feeling him go deeper than he’d ever been before—deeper than anyone had ever been. She braced her hands against the slate wall and rode him, squeezing
and squirming as she moved up and down. Lucio let his head rest against the wall, his eyes focused on hers.

  “I wish I had met you sooner,” he whispered.

  “I wish the same,” she said.

  “I would have wanted to make a child with you. Of all the women in the world—” Lucio stopped speaking. He closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. “I wish it could have been you.”

  That’s when he grabbed her hard by the hips and thrust into her with all his strength. Ginger screamed, the rush of joy sharp and clean. Lucio groaned out to God, in both English and Spanish.

  Many long minutes went by. The two of them stayed exactly where they were, their bodies fused, the hot water running down their skin.

  Ginger was overcome with a deep comfort. She never wanted to leave this place, his arms, this moment. She rested her cheek on Lucio’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Genevieve,” he whispered.

  She kissed his damp skin. “For what?”

  “For this. For you. For everything.”

  She nuzzled his cheek, then dragged her lips to deliver a gentle kiss upon his lips. “I really am yours, you know,” she whispered, studying the tender look in his eyes. “That night on the lawn? When I told you I belonged to you?”

  “I remember.” Lucio produced the smile of an exhausted—but happy—man.

  “It was the truth,” Ginger said, her voice catching. “I didn’t even know it at the time, but it really was the truth.”

  Lucio nodded slowly, raising a finger to her heart and tapping lightly. “But you knew it inside here, yes?” he said.

  She smiled at him. “I suppose I did.”

  “That is the only place we ever know anything, my love.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “Everything else is just a guess.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Ginger knocked on the blue door of the little blue house on Cayuga Street, trying not to judge the monochromatic color scheme Mrs. Needleman had chosen for the exterior paint job. Ginger liked powder blue as much as the next person—just not slapped on stucco, shutters, windowsills, trim, concrete steps, and the front door with the same heavy-handed exuberance.

  She might no longer be employed to evaluate home and garden design for the San Francisco Herald, but old habits were hard to shake.

  “Genevieve!” The small woman reached out her wrinkly arms and wrapped them around Ginger’s waist. “It is so lovely to see you! I was thrilled when you called! Come in, come in. Would you like some tea?”

  Ginger had to blink a few times to get her bearings. Most of these Cayuga Terrace houses were built right around World War II, and by the looks of the living room, Gloria Needleman hadn’t bothered to redecorate since. The only striking features of the small room were the top-quality hardwood floors and a hideous sparkly gold couch that was wrapped in clear plastic. Ginger decided it looked like a giant Twinkie still in its wrapper.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Ginger said, being ushered into the home. “I know it was last-minute.”

  Mrs. Needleman smiled, and Ginger noticed how cute she looked—even with the intricate web of wrinkles that decorated her face. It had to be the little old lady’s beady brown eyes, she decided—they burned with a zest for life. As Ginger lowered herself onto the crackly plastic seat, she realized she’d never before allowed the words “cute” and “wrinkles” to coexist in the same thought.

  “How do you like your tea?” Mrs. Needleman asked, already scurrying toward the kitchen. “Oh, fiddle. I’ll just bring out cream and sugar and you can serve yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Ginger said, sighing, reevaluating why she had decided she needed to come here. She was a grown woman, after all. She really should be able to sort out her emotions on her own.

  “I must say, you look quite well, Genevieve!” Mrs. Needleman called out from the kitchen. “Bright-eyed and glowing! You must be getting extra sleep these days.”

  Not exactly, Ginger thought to herself. In fact, she’d been getting more than enough fabulous sex and not enough shut-eye. She knew she was doing a bang-up job making up for a lifetime of sexual deprivation but might never catch up on her lost sleep. In fact, she’d been utterly exhausted the last few days.

  “Here you are, dear,” Mrs. Needleman said, handing Ginger a circa 1950s china cup and saucer.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, inhaling the comforting aroma. “This looks like the real thing, like my grandmother Ola used to make.”

  “Oh my, yes!” Mrs. Needleman took a seat next to her on the sofa, a loud crunching noise filling the room when the petite lady’s bottom hit the plastic. “I think half the world’s troubles would disappear if we’d only just slow down enough to make a real cup of tea. How long does it take to boil water on the stove, pour it in a teapot, and steep the leaves? About fifteen minutes—enough time to let the mind and soul rest.”

  Ginger nodded politely and took a sip of the strong black tea. Truly, it did taste a lot better than her usual tea bag in a mug of microwaved water, but she wasn’t sure it was the secret to life.

  “Now,” Mrs. Needleman said, setting her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about? Did you ever find the man who was waiting for you?”

  Ginger laughed, shaking her head, placing her cup next to Mrs. Needleman’s. “I do believe I have.” She kept her eyes focused on her clasped hands in her lap. “But I need some advice, and I don’t know who else to ask.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Needleman said, patting her hands. “Have you consulted with your mother?”

  Ginger looked sideways at Mrs. Needleman. “Uh, no. My mother has better taste in shoes than she does men.”

  “All right. And what about your wonderful friends?”

  Ginger nodded, pursing her lips. “Well, I’ve asked them, but I’m not sure I’m getting an accurate read from any of them. I mean, Josie is living on Planet Bliss right now. She’s like an Amway salesman for true love. I’m not sure she sees my situation clearly.”

  “You don’t say? What about Roxanne?”

  “Roxie? Please! She wants me to fall flat on my face, just so she can prove her point! She’s Rush Limbaugh and I’m President Obama!”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Needleman said. “And Bea?”

  Ginger blinked a couple times, then fell back against the couch, her hair picking up static from the plastic slipcover. “Look, I love Bea. I do. She’s always been there for me. But the truth is, she’s had about as much personal experience with romantic love as the Dalai Lama.”

  Mrs. Needleman giggled, her narrow shoulders moving up and down in her short-sleeved polyester blouse. “But you know, part of the Dalai Lama’s wisdom comes from the fact that he’s not in the thick of things. Maybe Bea’s objectivity can be helpful to you. After all, no one can see the whole battlefield if they’re down in the trenches.”

  Ginger laughed. “Bea sees the battlefield all right, and in her opinion, it’s nothing but wall-to-wall land mines.”

  Mrs. Needleman giggled again. “Bea is a special person. We’ve been spending quite a lot of time together.”

  That surprised Ginger—Bea hadn’t mentioned she’d been socializing with Mrs. Needleman. Somehow, Ginger couldn’t picture what the duo would do for fun—run five Ks together? Play a little one-on-one basketball? Tackle a new agility course with Martina?

  “We discuss the whole gamut of things. Philosophy, spirituality, fate. We debate the limits of science and the realm of the unexplained.”

  Ginger’s eyes popped wide. “My Beatrice Latimer?” She laughed uncomfortably. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? The Herald’ s assistant sports editor?”

  Mrs. Needleman smiled sweetly. “You know, Genevieve, it could be that you are only acquainted with one side of Bea.”

  Ginger shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “It could be she only shares one part of herself with you, Roxanne, and Josephine, because it’s what you’ve come to e
xpect from her. People are often a lot more complex than we give them credit for.”

  Ginger felt herself frown. It was true that she’d never been to Bea’s home. She’d only met Bea’s mother once, and that was more than enough. In all the years she’d known Bea, she’d never once had the courage to come right out and ask Bea about her sexual preference—she’d been waiting for Bea to have an epiphany and share it with the group.

  For the first time, Ginger considered the possibility that Bea had always known exactly who she was and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. Maybe she didn’t feel the need to explain herself.

  “That’s an interesting theory,” she told Mrs. Needleman.

  “All I’m saying is that you might give Bea a little more credit.” Mrs. Needleman gave her a pensive smile. “In the meantime, what can I help you with?”

  Ginger crossed her arms over her chest, crossed her legs, and swung her foot back and forth.

  “You are nervous, Genevieve.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Ginger turned her head toward Mrs. Needleman and sighed. “Look, I know you set us up.”

  Mrs. Needleman looked surprised.

  “Lucio told me how you gave him the scoop on me at the wedding. You told him that I was divorced, that my husband had cheated on me, that I had two boys, what I did for a living, and that I was staying in the upstairs bedroom of the guesthouse.”

  Mrs. Needleman shrugged, but said nothing.

  “And you told him to wait for me outside your guest room that night.”

  Mrs. Needleman took a sip of her tea.

  “So? Did you?”

  The old lady sighed and set down her teacup. “Perhaps.”

  Ginger laughed. “Here’s the deal, Gloria. At this juncture, I’ve got it bad. I’m in deep doo-doo here and I’m scared to death. I’m already in love with him. So, since this is all your doing, you could at least tell me the truth. Did you arrange for us to be together? Did you set us up? And, most importantly, why?”

  Mrs. Needleman held her hands out in the universal gesture of mea culpa. “So shoot me,” she said. “Sometimes fate needs a little kick in tuchus. What can I say?”