in the amber room
in which mario tries his hand at sensual prose
Eyes closed, his lips lingered on the space between her breasts. He couldn’t bring himself to plant anything like proper kisses on her skin, so he languidly traced his mouth in lazy circles.
The rustling of her ball gown paired with her delighted breathing was like a breeze through aspen boughs. He was intoxicated, chiefly by her. Her heady scent was a mix of some fashionable parfum par femme, basil and lemongrass, cranberry, vodka, and wine.
Her body was pleasantly heavy as she rode him, hips grinding in a way he hadn’t thought her capable of. She released her hold on the headrest of the sofa and clasped his head. He could feel her bony fingers press into his scalp, massaging or caressing his hair. He giggled softly because even in the middle of actual sex, the way she played with his hair felt like the deepest form of intimacy between them.
She gave him an inquisitive moan, and he looked up. How many times had this played out before, where he had found himself seeking solace in her, a kind friend who accepted him without question, and allowed him to purge his anguish? In most every other circumstance, it was his tear streaked face that looked up at her placid brown eyes.
The context was just a bit different now.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her mouth partly opened, but she gazed at him with the same affection as always. They stared at each other for what seemed ages before she leaned down and kissed his forehead.
They shifted and she lay him down. He slipped out briefly and they giggled.
The bright yellow of her gown bloomed like a halo as it gathered around her. She set herself down on him again, the movement deliberate and agonizingly slow. The friction was a sudden, sharp heat, but it was the look in her eyes that unmade him: a soft, focused intensity that stripped him bare.
He arched into her, his hands sliding up the expanse of yellow silk to find the warmth of her waist beneath. There was a strange, grounding comfort in the heavy rustle of the fabric, a sound that walled them off from the rest of the world. Here, amidst the riot of fragrances, the frantic energy of the evening dissolved. It was replaced by this steady, rocking cadence, a silent promise that he didn't need to be whatever bullshit he oft pretended at, not anything other than present, in this moment.
She leaned forward, undoing the elegant updo she had worn so regally all that evening. With a commanding flourish, she let her dark hair fall like a curtain around his face, shielding him from the room.
He could taste her through his skin, and could swear everything shimmered beautiful ambers and yellows, like summer light on sunflowers. He felt his lips quiver, and the soundscape smeared the smell of hearth-ashes and marigolds deep into his brain.
“Is this what synesthesia is like”, he thought he heard himself mutter aloud.
"Okay?" she whispered, the word vibrating against his lips before she sealed them with her own.
He didn't have the breath to answer, so he just nodded, closing his eyes as the tide rose up to meet him. It was a surrender, absolute and sweet, the noise of his own mind finally drowned out by the sound of her breathing and the rustle of gold.