Petit Morts 16 - Media Naranja by Clare London & Jordan Castillo Price

Author:Clare London & Jordan Castillo Price [London, Clare & Price, Jordan Castillo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Though the music of the second set reverberated through the

villa as loudly as if the guitar player were seated in the

breakfast nook and the drummer in the shower, Gran fell

asleep straight away. Trevor sat in the easy chair for a while,

thinking about the evening, the amazing show. Once the

flamenco was done, the sound of mingling voices drifted in,

and then, as the older folks filtered back to their villas,

everything went quiet. Vera was weaving a bit when she

returned, though the gin hadn't taken the edge off her

personality. "The chicken was tough, and rather salty," she

slurred as she veered into her room. "You can't make a silk

purse out of a hen's ear, I suppose." Her bedroom door clicked

shut behind her, and Trevor was alone again.

Restless, he ventured back out into the night for a quick walk

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around the pool. Even though the dancers had packed up and

left, he could still feel the music inside him. He wandered

along the deserted path by the gardens, swaying slightly to the

rhythm in his mind. The purple and white bougainvillea was

still glorious in the dim light, the water sprays dusted the

plants in sweeping arcs, the lawn smelled fresh and tart. The

pavement felt cool again under his sandals, and most of the

villas were swathed in darkness. He moved at a leisurely pace,

savouring this moment under the stars. Crickets buzzed in the

longer grass.

"Hola," came a soft, low voice from behind him.

Trevor turned, startled, though not scared. Alejo stood beside

one of the palm trees. "Hi," Trevor said. "Hola."

He must have managed a welcoming tone because Alejo

smiled and walked over to him. He'd changed out of his Sol

Maduro polo shirt, and now he had on a thin T-shirt--in bright,

multicolour stripes, Trevor couldn't help noticing--and shorts

that were well cut and didn't cling half as tightly as his

uniform pair. Trevor could see a small sliver of dark brown

flesh between the bottom of his shirt and the waistband, and

his fingertips itched to touch.

"You like the show?" Alejo's English was clear, though his

accent was deeper than his father's and brother's.

"Very much."

Alejo smiled even more broadly. "It is passion. And

pleasure. Very fast, then slow. Como el deseo. Como la

pasion." He shrugged, maybe struggling for the vocabulary. "It

make me want to be with you."

"Me?" Trevor blinked hard.

"I watch you in the pool, while I work. You look good. You

are...." Alejo flushed. "I am sorry, my English. I do not know

all the words for this. I think you see the same, you like the

same. I think you like me." His expression was wary. "No?"

"No. I mean, yes, you were right. Yes, I do!"

Alejo's laugh was like his own, half embarrassed, half

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encouraged. Then Alejo leaned forward and kissed him.

Shocked but delighted, Trevor felt his heart stutter. The joy

of music and movement spiked in his veins with sexual

excitement.

"I watch you at the flamenco, too." Alejo ran a hand gently

down Trevor's arm, his mouth only a fraction away from

Trevor's, his lips damp and inviting more kisses. "You want to

dance. It is perfect. You feel the music, the steps, el ritmo." At

Trevor's frown, he turned up his palms in bemusement,

seeking another word.

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