The Woman in Valencia by Annie Perreault (book recommendations website txt) 📗

People flock to this place precisely for the heat: to bronze their bodies, to bathe in the sea while the weather’s still fine, because the children love to build sand castles.

Manuel splashes around in the water; she watches him from a distance behind her shades. There’s something irritating about his way of barrelling into the waves like a raging animal. He carries himself with all the assurance of a hot guy, only less hot.

When he returns, Claire’s nose is buried in a book and she pretends to be engrossed in her reading. Rather than grab a towel to dry off with or stretch out on the beach to let terrycloth and sunshine do their work, he starts moving around vigorously, performing a series of rapid-fire pushups in the sand. Droplets of water fly off his body, tiny liquid sparks that gleam in the light. Claire stares at her book, distracted by his athletic prowess, but not wanting to let on.

*

Around 11 a.m., Claire takes out her tube of sunscreen and slathers it all over her arms and legs, neck and chest. She’s just getting to her shoulders when Manuel stands up and offers to do her back. She turns to face the sea, offering up her shoulder blades. He rubs his hands slowly over her skin. His movements are confident, emphatic, like he wants to make sure she grasps the full measure of his sensuality. He applies the cream like he’s exploring uncharted territory—a woman’s back, her flesh, her heat—like it’s his raw desire for her that he’s spreading on her skin. She lets him caress her back. Her body shifts, almost imperceptibly, a few millimetres in Manuel’s direction, the slightest cant. She lets herself slide, be drawn into his chest, without crossing the line into impropriety. She doesn’t give in completely. She stays focused on the horizon, on the line not to be crossed, but the attraction is there, and growing by the minute, crackling along invisible wires stretched out between them, it seems, fine and charged with electricity, implanted in each one of their pores. She’s surprised to realize that she wants more of this man; she could simply give in, just lean back against his chest, turn her head and kiss him. But she resists, possessed of the realization that he makes her want to tear down the walls she’s erected between herself and all men since leaving Jean.

He’s awakened the most vital, deepest part of her, she’s amazed and delighted to discover, although just at the moment she’s fixated on the feel of his hands. He rubs the lotion into every inch of exposed skin on her shoulders, down the length of her spine, in the small folds on the sides of her breasts and waist, as far down as the inverted triangle of the bikini bottom covering her buttocks. He lingers over all the dips and hollows of her back. It draws them closer. She surrenders to the feeling, her head growing heavy. He’s confident, but not cocky. It’s not yet a foregone conclusion.

*

Before leaving the beach, in the late afternoon, they drink giant mojitos at Manuel’s favourite chiringuito. The waitress seems to know him well and goes heavy on the rum. Back at the apartment, they end up stretched out together on Claire’s bed, discussing the poems of García Lorca, which Manuel had left lying on the sheets for her that morning.

“You’re serious? You want to read me poetry?”

Claire bursts out laughing, and it’s the first time he’s seen her let go like that. Claire, so uptight, so serious since their visit to the museum, launches herself backwards on the bed like a little girl, arms flung open, legs relaxed. She makes a circling motion with her index finger next to her temple, above her bright smile, made even more dazzling by the effects of the rum cocktails imbibed in the sun.

The smell of salt rises off their damp skin, wafting through the closed air of the bedroom. They stay like that for a minute, lying on their backs watching the ceiling fan turn. Then, in a decisive move, Claire slides closer to Manuel, a sideways scoot, a shifting of the hips, and lays her head on his chest. He’s surprised, happy; he begins to stroke her body with his fingertips. He grazes her skin softly, proceeding with caution, waiting to see how things will play out.

He doesn’t have to wait very long. Claire raises her head and presses her lips against his as though it were the most natural thing in the world. They kiss hungrily, and it’s not long before their bodies meld into one another. Manuel trails his fingers delicately over Claire’s hip bones, his hand lingering gently on her belly. In a faltering move at once endearing and deliberate, he inches his hand toward the lace edge of her panties, fumbling with one finger, then two, finally fording the elastic waistband with impatience, thrusting his fingers forward, delving into the smattering of hair. His hand cups her mound, his fingers melting into the warm folds of her sex, which grows wetter as Claire runs her tongue over his chest, sinks her teeth into his shoulder, neck, lips. Their plans for the evening—and for the next few days—have just taken an interesting turn.

*

The shower stall is tiny, with rounded plastic walls and worn nonslip seashell treads surrounding the drain. It’s a drab beige but gleaming, and everything is spotlessly clean, albeit outdated. It’s the type of shower you’d picture a grandmother gingerly stepping into, closing the door carefully behind her, then struggling to reach everywhere and wash herself, bumping into the walls and barely keeping her balance, and when the soap finally slips between her fingers, it’s game over. Impossible for an old bird like her to bend down in such a tight space.

That doesn’t stop them from stepping into it together, after making love well into the evening, taking turns bringing each other to climax, then coming