THE TRUTH ABOUT ORANGES

"God they’re fresh!"

Gwen looked up, startled, at the man standing beside her in the market aisle.

"There’s nothing as sensual as the smell of a fresh orange," he said.

Against her better judgement, she found herself making eye contact. He was fresh. Sexy, too. High cheekbones, golden brown hair, nearly shoulder length—she didn’t like long hair on men, but it suited him. So did the three-quarter-length leather jacket and cream turtleneck he wore. Gwen let herself notice that his eyes were green before turning away. "I don’t like oranges," she retorted emphatically.

"That’s a shame." His tone was playful, nearly mocking. She glared over her shoulder at him. She’d left her ex-husband Richard and his wandering prick half a province away; she hadn’t moved all the way to London to hear some jerk’s come-on line the first time she went downtown.

His lips formed a close-mouthed smile as he held her gaze. Arrogant, she thought, studying the lines around his mouth. He leaned forward and a lock of hair slid over his cheek. Gwen took a step back, but he was only reaching for the oranges. He was still smiling, his attention trained now on selecting fruit for his basket. He had beautiful hands: strong, by the look of them, with slender fingers.

Gwen stared at him a moment longer and then walked away. She was pissed with herself for lingering as long as she had, angry that she’d found this stranger more than vaguely titillating. She was practically wet, for Chrissakes. For all she knew, that hadn’t even been the guy’s intention. Maybe he just liked himself and got off on citrus fruit.

Gwen sat fingering her empty latte cup and gazing out the café window. She watched the cars roll down Richmond Street, their tires throwing up fine spray in the December drizzle. London was as depressing as Ottawa in the rain, but at least back home you could usually count on a white Christmas. Outside, students passed with backpacks and packages. There was an elderly gentleman with a long braided beard waiting to cross over Central Avenue, lugging two heavy canvas sacs of books.

"That’s Edsel," said a male voice at her shoulder, "our resident street poet. Carries his whole life in those bags, everywhere he goes. Of course, maybe he’s no different from the rest of us."

Gwen’s head snapped up. It was the orange guy. He set down a steaming latte beside her and slid into the booth seat opposite, taking a sip of his cappuccino.

"I beg your pardon, but did I invite you to sit down?"

"I considered an empty cup invitation enough." He smiled, his eyes travelling over her face and lower, to the curves of her sweater, she suspected.

"So you think I’m a latte whore, is that it?"

His eyebrows came up and he laughed—a rich, relaxed sound. "I think you’re a very lovely brunette with an attitude, actually."

"Am I supposed to say ‘thank you’ now?"

He propped his chin on his fist, watching her. "‘Fuck off, Ambrose’, would probably suffice."

"I don’t think so." Gwen blinked, leaning forward a little in her seat, her breasts grazing the table. "I know your type. I start talking dirty and you tell me it takes two. And Ambrose? Please. You’ve got to be joking."

"I’m afraid not." He drew a finger along the binding of the novel that lay on the table between them. "Been saddled with that one for thirty-eight years now." He shook his head in feigned sorrow. Taking up the book, he knit his brows a second, and then grinned. "Life Before Man, hmm? A telling choice."

Gwen frowned. Thirty-eight? She wondered where he kept his wedding band.

"You like Atwood? And I’m single, incidentally."

Astute sonofabitch. She cleared her throat. "I don’t believe I asked. And, yeah, I like her. She has a certain way with a story."

"You mean that air of bored detachment that keeps you from caring what happens to any of her characters?"

"Maybe it’s better that way."

Ambrose’s eyelids descended and he took his bottom lip between his teeth, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Don’t let the bastards grind you down, love," he whispered, brushing her fingers with his own.

"It’s Gwendolyn." Her face was hot. She looked out the window. "How are your oranges doing?"

"Oh, they are succulent, Gwendolyn, let me assure you. But I thought you weren’t going to talk dirty to me."

It was barely three feet to the other side of the table. She felt a pulse between her legs. "Have you been following me?" she demanded suddenly.

"As a matter of fact, no. I live in the neighbourhood." Ambrose pinned her with a deadpan look. "I just come here whenever I feel like watching the world go by on the other side of a glass."

Gwen’s mouth went taut. "I’ll bet you get slapped a lot."

"I haven’t been, not for a very long time, Gwendolyn." He took up her hand, and she let him. His lips moved the length of her fingers. For a half-second she felt the caress of his teeth and tongue. She swallowed, casting a glance about the café. It had grown crowded since he’d sat down, and no one was paying them any attention. The sound of his voice made her jump.

"What?"

"Would you like to come for a walk?" asked Ambrose. "I’ve something to show you."

"Very original," Gwen managed, drawing a breath.

He just shook his head. "Come on."

It was misty in the streets and their breath escaped in plumes. Ambrose tucked her book in his coat, encircling her with his arm. "It’s not far," he said. They cut up Richmond and across Pall Mall. There was little traffic on the wide treed avenue, and old Victorian houses loomed behind the naked branches, their windows dark in the grey December afternoon. God, what am I doing, wondered Gwen as his fingers slid casually down her arm to rest on the curve of her hip. She felt the press of his muscles through their clothes, could smell the maleness of his skin—

Ambrose stopped, his hand trailing along the small of her back. "And here we are," he announced with a sweeping gesture. Gwen turned to look, and gasped. They stood at the corner of a neat picket fence. Set back down the walk was an immense stucco home, painted a shade of royal purple so startling it seemed to leap from the afternoon’s slate palate. It was nothing less than a huge Victorian dollhouse, the spindles of its wide verandah bursting with mustards, cremes, and magentas.

"Yours?" Gwen whispered, and burst out laughing. "It’s hideous!"

"It’s spectacular!" countered Ambrose with a smile. "And no, it’s not mine. I only wish I had the nerve of the guy who owns it. The neighbours were so pissed they took it all the way to city council. It makes me happy as hell just thinking about it."

Gwen craned for a second look at the sedate homes that lined the avenue, still laughing. When she turned back to Ambrose, his grin had faded. He was staring at her intently.

"What?"

He reached out, halting just short of her face. "You light up when you smile, Gwendolyn. You’re just so goddamned tempting." His fingers brushed her chin. "Merry Christmas," he said, and for an instant his lips touched hers, his hair falling over both their faces. Then he was striding away along the sidewalk.

For a moment Gwen watched him, dwelling on the trim descent of his torso into narrow hips. "Hey!" she called after him. "You’ve got nerve!"

Ambrose pulled up his stride. He swivelled on his heel to regard her, head cocked to one side. Gwen started toward him with slow, deliberate steps, finally planting herself right under his nose. "Well, well, well," he murmured, "if you love something, set it free."

"Fuck off, Ambrose." She slid her hand down the front of his coat.

"I believe the correct response is—" Air whistled between his teeth as her fingers found the hardness in his pleated slacks.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," she told him.

His house was old, three storeys of yellow brick gone venerable grey with the years. Gwen registered that much as they stumbled through the front door, out of their coats, and into the sunken living room. They fell on an ancient settee that creaked beneath their weight and she tore at the fine brown-gold of his hair, pulling his mouth down on hers. His body was taut rope beneath his clothes and she arched against him, feeling his cock through her jeans. "Jesus you’re stiff," she hissed, thrusting her hands under his sweater.

He laughed, drawing back to tug it over his head. "That’s pretty much been status quo since the first time I saw you."

"Poor baby." She grinned, fingers working at the buttons of her cardigan. Ambrose nudged them aside. Taking a mouthful of tit, he pulled at the peak of her left nipple through the soft fabric until she writhed beneath him. "Off," Gwen groaned, pushing him away and forcing him to his feet. "Everything off."

Ambrose stood before her naked and she let go a ragged breath. He was altogether beautiful: hard everywhere, well muscled. Gwen traced the hollow beneath his hipbone and he shuddered. Taking his shaft in her mouth she began running her tongue over its tip. He twined his fingers in her short hair and she started to suck, drawing him deeper, playing it with her teeth. He moved slowly, in time with her rhythm, until he couldn’t keep from crying out.

Slipping from between her lips, Ambrose knelt, and spidered his hands along the insides of her thighs. Slowly he unbuttoned her jeans, easing them away with her panties. Ascending, he parted her labia. He glided a finger within and brought it back to taste. "You are delicious," he breathed, and Gwen surged forward, biting into his lips.

"I want it inside," she commanded, "now!"

"Not yet," uttered Ambrose lowly. Drawing her cardigan from her shoulders, he dropped her bra straps, exhaling, pushing moist air over her cleavage. When he had it all off, he pushed her onto her back. She lay there, eyeing him as he reached for his belt. He brought her arms over her head and bound them to the arm of the settee. "Close your eyes, love," he said, passing a hand over her lids.

For the space of perhaps ten seconds there was nothing. Then she felt a smooth, cool weight against her belly, followed by the radiant heat of his skin as he rolled the thing up between her breasts and over the tiny hollow at the bottom of her neck. "Listen," he whispered, and she heard the soft, protesting rip of skin separating from flesh.

Light, astringent mist fell on her cheek as the tart-sweet perfume of an orange infused her mouth with water. She parted her eyelids to find him straddling her, and as she watched he separated the swollen halves of the ripe fruit, sampling the running juices with his tongue. Lashes lowered once more, Gwen trembled at the sensation of cold droplets on her nipples, and further below, on her clit. Before they could sting, Ambrose’s mouth was there, drawing up her tiny sac, his tongue darting like a fire all around it.

Gwen strained against the restrictive belt, nearly screaming in frustration. Pressing a finger to her lips, Ambrose reached up and released the tension. She felt his prick probing her soft lower lips and she slid onto it, grabbing the hard rounds of his ass to thrust him deeper inside. He was larger than she’d thought and she gasped in tandem with him at her tightness.

Taking a moist citrus section between his teeth, he circled each breast and played slowly upwards, trailing dewy liquid along her throat as they began to move. Gwen closed her eyes, clasping her legs around his torso. Blue shocks raced behind her lids every time he rocked into her. His tongue entered her mouth and she tasted orange mingled with her own juices as they came together.

They lay there in the darkness of his living room, breathing hard, and Ambrose began to chuckle quietly.

"What?" Gwen demanded, smacking his chest with the back of her hand.

He coughed and kept on laughing. "I don’t like oranges," he squeaked, mimicking her in a high-pitched voice.