By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2008 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

Joshua Donovan, eyes closed, nodded his head to the precise notes of a brilliantly performed and re-mastered CD of Rubinstein playing Beethoven sonatas.  His hands moved quickly over his thighs, practicing the intricate fingerings of the movement’s patterns.  He thought of his piano sitting in the corner of his condo’s living room and wondered how he could have ignored it for so long.  Since his heart transplant, he’d been wondering about a lot of things.  After graduating college, he’d focussed all of his attentions on the bank, on securing his father’s legacy.  He’d ignored his music completely.  No lessons.  No practice.  No listening.  And now, he couldn’t get enough.  All he wanted was to get back the technique he’d lost.  Get back to something that, he felt in his heart, he’d never really claimed.

“We’ll be there in two,” Sammy said, slowing the limo to accommodate the heavy city traffic.  “Don’t forget to change your shoes.”

He passed a box back to Joshua.

“Thanks, Sammy.  I won’t be long.  Suppose you pick me up in twenty-five minutes and we’ll be on our way.”

“Right, Sir,” Sammy said, cruising the car to a stop.

Joshua discarded his dress oxfords for the new pair of black Dior boots.  He wiggled his toes, relishing their comfort.  Stepping out of the car, he crossed the short sidewalk and bounded up the restaurant’s six steps, three at a time.  He’d never felt happier or more fortunate.

His heart pounded happily from the slight exertion.  Joshua was painfully aware that only six months ago, despite the use of all available optimal therapies, he’d lain helplessly confined to his hospital bed, awaiting death or a donor, whichever came first.  As his forty-five years of life flashed before him, fearful and angry in the shadow of death, his perfect donor had come: A healthy forty-three year old male.  Struck down mid-morning, mid-cross walk, mid-stride by a very drunk female.  He was killed instantly, but she survived, this young suburban mother of three who couldn’t wait to get home from her carpool duties to drink away her boredom.  Such a tragic end to one life, yielding such a substantial gift to another.  Gratitude, curiosity and a compulsion that Joshua didn’t quite understand was propelling him towards meeting these strangers who had gifted him his life.  And in two hours he’d be with them, this Richard family.  And he was looking forward to joining them for dinner as fervently  and anxiously as a prodigal son anticipates his return home.

It had started in his post-operative hospital bed, this yearning to know the beginnings of this new heart, its life before his.  And it had grown to obsessive proportions, until all he could think about was them, his first family, as he’d come to reference them.  His psychiatrist had taken the whole of this morning’s session to warn him against expecting too much.  But, Joshua expected nothing.  He was being drawn inexorably toward something and the current that was carrying him was relentless.  There were no questions.  No hesitation.  He couldn’t wait.  One quick drink, he promised himself, and he’d be on his way.

The Carlisle’s crested glass doors opened magically and the silver-haired maître d' waited to escort him to his table.  He was as gracious and sombre as his mahogany panelled, tiffany-glassed surroundings.  Joshua’s guest was waiting, early and impatient as usual.

“Joshua, what are you wearing?  Before your illness, you wouldn’t even have considered going to dinner in that get-up.  In fact, you wouldn’t have considered going to this dinner at all.  It’s ill-advised.  Dangerous even. What do you expect from this family?  You have their loved one’s heart and a new life.  All they have is loss.  I can’t imagine what you’re thinking, intruding on their grief this way!”

“Hello to you, too, Mother.  May I sit down?”

“Don’t be silly.  Of course, you may sit down.  Waiter, I’ll have a sherry, please.”

“Yes, Maam, and you?”

“Bring me a Chivas and water, on the rocks.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking and driving.  This Richard place is a two hour drive away.  Lovely area, though.”

“I’m not driving.  I’m taking the limo.“  Joshua smiled at the waiter.  He obviously had a mother, too, and bowed his head empathetically before rushing away to fill their order.

“Mother, this is something I have to do.  I asked the hospital to reach out to the Richard family.  See if they would meet with me.  They didn’t have to agree.  They didn’t have to invite me to dinner tonight.  And I’m really looking forward to it.  I want to thank them.  Because of their generosity, I feel like a new man.”

“Too new, if you ask me,” his mother exploded.  Sheer frustration knitted her eyebrows in a deep frown and drew her usually generous mouth into a tight, thin judgemental line.  “The bank is doing fine, but it’s not like you to stay away so long.  Your brother is capable, but he isn’t you.  When are you planning to come back.  You know your father, bless his soul, left you to run the business for a reason . . .”

“Yes,” Joshua interrupted her, “because I was older.  By the time Billy came along, Dad had already decided that I was the chosen one.  I was only five, for Christ’s sake!  I simply accepted his choices.  Have you any idea how hard that was for Billy all our lives?  Billy has magnanimously taken over the reigns and, as far as I can assess, is better at corporate strategy and design than any of us.  He loves it and deserves it, whereas it bores me.  I think I’d like to try my hand at something more . . . more . . .”

“More what?  You’re forty-five years old and more than my seventy years can handle.  I’m worried about you.  Remember what the doctor said about stress.”

The waiter placed their drinks on the table and Joshua’s Mom took a long, long sip of her sherry.

“Thanks,” Joshua said, saluting the waiter with his glass before placing a very generous payment on his tray.

“That’s another thing,” Mom chastised, “you’ve become altogether too generous with funds.  What happened to my conservative banker son?”

Her banker son was trying, but desperately failing, to concentrate on what she was saying.  The gorgeous dark haired beauty heading for the bar, had claimed his total attention.  Her suit was red, but traditionally cut except for the one decorative button that accentuated the deep cleavage and impressive mountain of breast flesh displayed.  Those huge breasts rising out of her white camisole, jiggled as she walked on her red stiletto heels and  Joshua felt a prurient interest tingling in his balls.  She looked fiery, Latin, with her dark hair flowing in waves over her shoulders.  Her dark eyes flashing appreciation for every male eye that was drinking in every inch of her.  As she sat on a stool, Joshua caught the perfect view of her stupendous shelf and long legs and his cock lurched insidiously against the cotton of his jeans.  He gasped at the pleasure the friction awarded him.

“There you go again, ogling that cheap woman.  I remember a time when you wouldn’t have given her a second glance.  Do you realize how much you’ve changed?”

“I do and I’m all the happier for it.  Stop worrying, Ma.  What’s your problem?  We have enough money to live a few lives.  I don’t have to work at all anymore.  Your stressing about my life is useless.  Unnecessary.  And I won’t have it.  I’m fine now.  I don’t need nursing.  It’s been nine months since the transplant and the doctor has given me a clean bill of health.  All I have to do is take my medication and get on with my life.  It’s time for you to go back to your lovely home and get on with yours.  You know there’s a good looking gentleman out there just waiting to snatch you up.  Don’t miss him.  Anyway, I got to get going.  I’ve booked a room at an inn not far from the Richard’s.  I expect to be home tomorrow or I’ll give you a ring.”

“What about Marion?  Why aren’t you taking her with you?”

“Not Marion, again.  I told you, mother, that we were just friends.  She wanted more.  I couldn’t give it to her.  End of story.”

“The two of you were fine before you got sick.  And look at what you’re wearing.”

“My clothes again?  What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Nothing, I suppose.  But I’d of thought you’d have put on a suit for dinner with people you’ve never met.”

Joshua was feeling both chic and comfy in his new black Armani zip sweater and jeans.  His invitation had said, ‘casual’ and Billy and the experts at the Clothing Boutique had assured him that this was what ‘casual’ looked like.  He felt great and he wasn’t about to discuss his choice of clothing with his mother.

“Goodbye, Mother.  Can I drop you off at the Condo or maybe back at your place?”

“No, it’s a lovely afternoon.  I’ll walk back to the condo.  I might drive home later.”

Joshua got up and helped his mother to her feet.  He put his arms around her now slight frame and kissed the top of her perfectly coiffed grey head.

“Enjoy the drive and take care.  I think I’m going to enjoy another sherry and then order a bite to eat.”

“Fine, Mom,” he said, signalling the waiter and miming a request for another sherry.

She managed a smile, as he dashed from the room, down the steps and into the waiting limo.

“Everything alright, Sir?  Ready to roll?” Sammy asked.

“Absolutely!  Are you happy Lorraine?”

“Very.  And thanks so much for inviting me.”

“No problem.  I have this dinner and I figured you and Sammy might as well enjoy the inn and a nice dinner out yourselves.  You can shut me out back here.  I’m just going to relax.  Maybe have a nap.”

“Alright, Sir.”

“He’s changed so much.  He’s so nice now,” Joshua heard Lorraine whisper, just before the partition buzzed shut.

What kind of bastard was I?  Everybody keeps telling me how much fun I am.  How considerate.  What kind of a bastard was I?

Joshua’s father had taken care of Sammy in his will.  At sixty-nine, he no longer needed to work, but was not ready to hang up his cap and uniform.  Joshua respected that.  He  went out of his way to make Sammy’s life as pleasant as he could, as his father would have wanted.  Joshua hoped Sammy would be happy when he realized that he and Lorraine were booked into the Honeymoon Suite.  They deserved that, after fifty years of marriage, just as Billy deserved to run the bank.  Joshua yawned, his mouth stretching into a cavernous gaping hole.  Just as he’d hoped, the scotch had made him sleepy.  Billy.  He embraced his brother’s exuberance in running things and had encouraged him to stay, to make his permanent mark on the bank.  He and his brother had never been happier or closer to each other.  He supported Joshua’s need to meet the family who had gifted him his heart.  And soon he’d be there.  He closed his eyes and soon drifted off.

“Here we are,” Sammy said.

Joshua opened his eyes and stretched.  They were climbing a tree-lined driveway that wound its way toward The House on the Hill.  The car cruised to a stop in front of an old southern mansion, pillared and proud.  He opened his windows and a cooling, salty sea  breeze swept through the car.  Outside, pinpricks of light glistened below, lighting the homes of so many returning home from work or seeking work: some happy, some sad, some having slipped into the depressed in-between.

“We’ve got the right address.  Right?”  Joshua activated the intercom and lowered the panel separating them.

“Yes, Sir.  But this is E.P. Broughton’s place.  I remember when his wife spoke from this very veranda, after EP suffered his near fatal stroke, asking the world and his friends to appreciate his need for privacy, for time and space to heal.  He’s done so much for all of us,” Sammy said, climbing out of the car to open Joshua ’s door.  “I’ll be waiting.  Call me at the inn whenever you want me to pick you up.”

“You know what, they must have taxis in this place.  You and Lorraine go on to the inn.   The night is yours.  Use the company credit card and do whatever you want to do,” Joshua said, climbing out of the car.  “Let’s touch base tomorrow.  Not too early.  Call my room around 11.”

“Good luck and thanks, boss,” Sammy said, pumping Joshua’s hand.  Lorraine rushed from the car to throw herself into Joshua’s arms.  He blushed.  Her breasts were lush, large and soft pressed against his chest.  He could feel her heart beating with excitement.  “Thank you, Sir.  Thank you.  There’s a jazz club at that inn.  I looked it up on the internet.”

“Lorraine, What are you doing?” Sammy questioned.

“She’s giving me great pleasure.  Now off you go, you two.  Get out of here and enjoy your night.”

Joshua felt happy, trying to take care of the people who took care of him.  His mother.  Sammy.  They were all good people.  He waved and then mounted the steps leading to the grand veranda.  His legs felt weak and he was breathless with anticipation.  He believed two things: one, that there was something waiting to fill his life and two, that he would find it here.

The front door was opened before he could knock.  The woman didn’t just appear in the doorway, she dominated the space, every inch of her long and languid frame potent with sexual power and insolence.   Joshua stared, immobile as his mind raced to keep up with what he was feeling.  Instead of any usual maid’s uniform he’d ever seen, she wore a sparkling white shirt, collar turned up, brilliant against her latte coloured skin.  Large gold hoop earrings hung from her delicate lobes, her full lips quivered with amusement and her dark eyes bored right through his.  Her classic features reminded him of a sculpture he’d once seen.  Queen Nefertiti.  That’s whose face she reminded him of.  She had too much hair for tidiness.  It curled it’s way willy-nilly around her face, over her shoulders, and down her back.  A tight torso and tiny waist exaggerated her massive breasts and cleavage that ran almost down to her belly button.  White jeans, white Birkenstock’s and a black apron completed the astonishing picture.  All Joshua could do was stare.  His cock was as hard as it had ever been.  His mouth was dry and he was so aroused that he felt dizzy.  He wondered what it would be like to wake up with a woman like this.  He wanted to steal her away, talk to her, find out about the Richards.  He also wanted to touch her.  Tough her magnificent tits.  He wanted her to massage his cock.  He wanted to smell her pussy and then make her happy, very happy indeed.

“Come in,” she said, her voice rich, deep and smooth.

She held the door open wide to reveal the man in the wheelchair, E.P. Broughton himself.

“Come in, Joshua,” he said, his voice soft, but strong and welcoming.  “My friends call me EP.”  It was a strange parade leading from the entrance, through the foyer and down the hall, through the living room and out onto the terrace.  The gorgeous creature, after wrecking his composure, disappeared somewhere along the way, leaving Joshua to follow EP, the greatest philanthropist of his time, on shaking and very unreliable legs.  “I thought we could have drinks out here.  My wife likes to enjoy the view at this time of day.  The sun setting over the water was one of the reasons she fell in love with this place.  Where is she?  Please excuse me Joshua.”

Joshua was relieved to be left alone.  He took a deep breathe.  A few sailboats dotted the west ocean view and the sun was dipping toward it.  The exact color of red, blazing it’s good-bye, was beautiful way beyond description.  Joshua felt strangely at peace standing there. He didn’t know any of these people, but he felt connected and more than a little curious.  Was it their son, another relative to whom he owed this life of his?  He knew that all would be revealed.  He took another deep breath, and waited.

“Hi, I’m Sharon.”

The woman standing beside EP, her hand resting comfortably on his shoulder, was as handsome, gracious and warm as her husband.  She led the way to the bar tucked away in one corner.  “What can I get you?”

“Scotch and water on the rocks, please.”

“Brothers in drink,” she said, passing identical glasses to EP and Joshua.  She poured herself a glass of red wine and led them to one of half a dozen tables.  “I know why you’re here.  But we’re not the ones you want to see.  It’s Tre, the woman who let you in.  You are housing the heart of a lion, Tre’s late husband George Richard.  His death was quite the tragedy.  He was a landscape architect and artist.  He made this property the beautiful place it is.  We hired Tre and George to run the estate when EP fell ill and they’ve become our family.  We’re childless.  By choice.  When we were growing, there never seemed enough time or space to rear children.”  She stared out at the water, her face a complex mask of emotions.  “Tre is now our only baby and we’re very worried about her.  She and George were a talented, creative, loving force and she hasn’t shown any sign of grief.  She’s been carrying on as usual, taking care of us and the place.  We don’t know what else to do.  We’ve talked about him.  Cried about him.  But it just washed over her, as if we were grieving a complete stranger, somebody she’d never met.  We just don’t know what to do.”

Joshua felt his excitement level rise.  That creature.  It was through her that a heart was still beating in his chest?  He felt emotions so large that he didn’t know how to express them.  So, he said nothing.  He sipped his drink.

“She seemed excited when the hospital called about you wanting to meet her.  But that’s as far as it’s gone.  I just hope she opens up to you, or someone, before she falls apart.  Believe me, she will self-destruct if she doesn’t get in touch with those feelings of hers.  They’re big.  Very big.”  EP patted his wife’s hand, a veil of concern covering his face.

“I had to come,” Joshua said.  “I’ve been feeling so alive.  As though my new heart has relieved me of all things unnecessary, simplified things.  My life has changed dramatically.”

“That’s funny.  George used to talk endlessly about the simplicity of good design and functionality.  The simplicity of good living.  He believed that most people hadn’t a clue  what they really wanted from life.  That they never took the time to investigate what they really felt passionate about.  I was comatose when I first suffered the stroke.  I tell you that man provoked me back to the land of the living.  I knew that he wouldn’t stop until I woke up!”  EP’s face was suffused with love and respect.

“Yes, George was amazing.  His paintings are quite beautiful.  Maybe Tre will show you his gallery,” Sharon added.

“Are you ready?”

“Is who ready for what, young lady?”  EP asked, laughing.  “Somehow, I don’t think you’re talking to us, Old Fogeys, so introductions must be in order.  Joshua meet Tre.  Tre, Joshua.”

“Hello, Tre” Joshua said.  She was even more alluring than he remembered and her tits underneath her white halter top, bulging round and firm, protruded so proudly they they’d already hypnotized him.  He felt like an inept and very horny teenager trying to hide his feelings behind a mask of coolness.  “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“And you, Josh,” she said.

“Nobody has ever called me Josh before,” he said.

“Well, you’re nobody’s Joshua.  Joshua would have taken that heart and run.  Josh comes looking to thank us, to find out about us,” she said.

“Then, Josh it happily is,” Josh said.

“So are you two joining us for dinner or do you have something else planned?”  EP asked.

“I thought we’d play it by ear. Have a look around.  End up in the studio for a bite.  What do you think?” Tre said.

“Lovely idea.  Run along and I hope you find what you’re looking for.  Both of you,” Sharon said.  “Now run along.”

Josh.  He liked his new name.  He followed Tre through the house and out to a garage that held a fleet of wheel chairs, bicycles and golf carts.  He couldn’t believe how hyper-extended her long legs were, how toned, how sexy they appeared below her black short shorts.  He had no idea how old she was as he followed and ogled her high, tight ass.  He had no idea why she had invited him here.  He guessed that she needed to feel close to George.  All he knew was that he’d be happy to follow her anywhere, be anything she wanted, if allowed to enjoy her white halter top, with its draped cowl neck.  Marvel at how it managed to support breasts so large that they swung side to side as she walked, low and heavy beneath her tiny waist.

Let’s go,” she said, jumping into a cart.

Josh climbed into the passenger seat.  He’d never seen a golf cart like it, with its silver fiberglass body, aluminium sports wheels and black leather seats.  He bent his body to avoid hitting the limo hard top.

Tre negotiated the grounds like a pro.  The estate was a fairyland of green trees, gentle waterfalls, rolling greens and narrow winding trails.  Josh listened to the absence of human sound: a symphony of gently crashing waves, the cry of a seagull and crickets early come out to play.  Josh took a deep breath and then another, savouring the smell of roses that hung sweet against the salt seasoning the night air.  A million stars lit the sky and the cart’s fog lights lit their eerie path.

“George designed all these pathways so that EP and Sharon could enjoy the estate,” Tre said.  Her tone was professional, curt almost.  Whatever she was feeling was not for public, nor his, consumption.

“See that gold building over there?”  She said, driving onto a small semi-circle of a lookout.  She parked, pointing toward a shining globe of a building, far in the distance.  “That’s the E.P. Broughton Foundation.  Both EP and Sharon have devoted their lives to the generosity that that building represents.  George wanted them to be able to sit, see it and enjoy it.  There are thirteen of these lookouts.  Each spaced around the property to offer these two people who he loved, the best of their golden years.”

“What a wonderful idea.  The lookouts seem to grow out of the natural rock formations. And all of these exotic plants and flowers.  George was an amazing architect.”

“And artist,” she said.  “You must be getting hungry.  Dinner is waiting at the studio.  I want you to see his paintings.”

The rest of the drive down the hill and onto the beachfront was silent.  Josh tried to organize his thoughts.  Tre was the most beautiful woman Josh had ever seen and he needed her to see him.  To talk to him.  He could sense her love and respect for her late husband, for the Broughtons, for this place, but it all existed behind a wall of reserve so thick and impenetrable, that Josh didn’t know how he’d ever scale it.  And he’d have to in order to reach her.

They parked across the way from a thatched structure, too large to be a hut, but just as rustic.  The beach was a mere yard away and the night was perfect.  They got out of the cart and walked together toward the Gallery.  The mildly sweet and comforting smell of freshly baked bread greeted them, that mixed with the smell of pasta sauce.

“Somebody’s been cooking,” Tre said.  “Josh, this is Joannie.  She takes care of things Gallery, while I deal with the main house. What have we here?”

Josh looked at the woman hovering over a stove.  Another beauty.  One single blond braid hung over one shoulder.  Grey green cat eyes stared out of her light tan complexion.  Her sulky mouth, generous lips and straight thin nose suggested a mixture of genes that would defy absolute analysis.  She stared at Josh defiantly.

“So you have George’s heart?” she asked.

“I do,” Josh said, pressing his hand to his chest.  This was the first time anyone had simply referred to the connection that had brought them all together and Josh recoiled at her tone which immediately branded him as a man unworthy.  “I’m truly grateful,” Josh said, his voice thin and feeble.

“I’m sure you are,” Tre said, laughing.  “Don’t mind Joannie, she’s hanging on to all things Georgie.  There’s nothing to be done.  I’m a vegetarian and she’s continued to cook meat every night.  All of George’s favourites.  It’s her way of mourning.”

“Yeah, and what’s your way?  You’re acting crazy.  Like everything’s normal.”

“What would you have me do, Joan?  We’re going into the Gallery for a bit before dinner.  You can take off.  I can handle it from here.”

“I don’t think so.  I’ll stay.”

“There’s no need.  Thanks for everything.  Say ‘goodbye’, Joannie.”

Tre took Josh’s hand.  Hers was soft, but strong and he gloried in the first sign of intimacy between them, an intimacy which he’d felt the moment she lounged against that door frame.  Maybe it was the great distaste that had coloured Joan’s every word and gesture.  Maybe that had made Tre feel sorry for him.  Whatever the cause, he was grateful.  He was touching her.

“Goodnight.  Don’t you take advantage?” Joan shouted after us.

“I wonder which one of us she was talking to?”  Tre’s tone was amused.  Flirtatious.  And Josh was suddenly completely confused and vulnerable.  Gone was the attitude or aloofness or whatever it had been.  In it’s place was a woman, open and willing to communicate.  Josh didn’t know how to respond.  If he answered in kind, she might think him cocky and a door that he wanted desperately open might be closed firmly in his face.  On the other hand, he didn’t want to miss an opportunity for closeness.  He wanted, no needed, to be close to this woman.  “Well, here it is,” Tre said, as they walked into the studio.  “All things George.”  Josh heard the tears, the devastation, the ultimate sadness in her voice and granted it the respect it deserved.  “Enjoy the paintings.  I have a few things to take care of in the kitchen.  I’ll be back.”

Josh wandered from painting to painting.  Nude pencil drawings of Tre reached out to grab his balls and cock.  She was positioned in every conceivable pose, every one seductive and alluring, her face always glowing with desire.  There were canvasses of the sun setting, waves crashing onto the shore, breaking against the surrounding cliffs, all of them boldly coloured and wildly passionate.  In a featured spot, bathed in perfect light, was a portrait of EP and Sharon.  She looking down at him, her hand still placed protectively on his shoulder.  He looking up at her, adoring eyes shining with love.

“Yeah, that’s something, isn’t it?”

“It is.  I’m a bit overwhelmed by it all,” Josh said.  “When did George last have a showing?”

“A few months ago actually.  He showed landscapes.  Most of them were sold.”

Josh heard the sadness, knew that she wished she hadn’t sold George’s work.  He also knew that it wasn’t his place to suggest it.  Besides . . . The next picture was of Tre, lying on the beach in the moonlight, her brown skin warm against the white sand.  Josh could feel his face flush.  He was embarrassed.  His cock had staged an uprising.  Tre was dressed in a one piece bathing suit.  It covered her completely, its tan the exact tone and colour of her skin.  Lying there on her side, breasts so full that they came to rest on the sand, one leg cocked provocatively.  She was a glorious statue of dangerous sexual femaleness.  Josh thought he could smell her sex rising from the canvass.  He could see her chest heaving, her erotic bosom falling.  She was excited for the artist painting her.  She was an exotic animal for George.  But that didn’t help Josh.  He was already full of her.  Full of the possibilities of her, more than hinted at in George’s pictures.  He had never felt like this before in his life.  And crazy as it sounds, it felt like love, also for the first time in his life.

George had noticed the Steinway when he came in.  It was now a few feet away.  He was so full of feelings.  He had to play.  He walked over and sat down.  Arthur Rubenstein playing Beethoven’s, Moonlight Sonata.  Josh Donavan, full of Tre, playing the Moonlight Sonata.

“George,” Tre screamed, “played that piece before each sitting of that . . .”

She wasn’t crying, as she ran from the room.  She was keening, a cry of pain so shrill as to break all bounds of the human voice and heart.  Josh let her go, playing for her, playing background for her disconsolate, naked grief.  He didn’t have to think about notes.  He was the instrument through which the music flowed.  When he was done, Tre came back, this time laughing hysterically.

“Let’s go,” she said, again dragging him by the hand, but urgently, maniacally now.

She rushed him through the rooms and out onto the warm sand.  A half moon lit their way, radiating across the sea like a shimmering sorcerer’s lantern.  Tre took off on the run, Josh struggling to keep up with her.  He felt light, free, as if he were flying.  All he had to do was follow. 

“I dare you,” Tre said, pulling her top over her bra, over the jiggling mass of her breast flesh.  She stepped out of her shorts and undies, standing tall in her bra before undoing it and releasing mounds of more breast flesh than Josh had ever seen.  She then dashed into the ocean, hair flying in the wind, tits bouncing and dancing and jiggling their way deeper into Josh’s psyche, newly discovered obsession and aching-for-love heart.

“Well?“

Tre jolted Josh out of his reverie.  He no longer cared about his extended cock.  He was being called.  He rid himself of his clothes and dashed after her.  He was panting, but not from exertion, as he braved the ocean’s wet coolness.  He breathed deeply, testing the strength of his lungs before following Tre with smooth even strokes.  Soon they were standing face to face.

“I have to do this,” Tre said, taking his face in her hands.  “You have my Georgie’s piano heart.  I have to do this.”

Tre began to kiss Josh, her mouth open, her tongue slow to enter.  He kissed her back, unable to temper his passion.  It was about more than them.  It was about George’s heart and what it was making possible.  They wound their arms around each other, gently fighting the pull of the ocean that kept them off balance.  He pushed himself into the fleshy balloons that floated between them.  They were so big.  He caressed them, noting the elongated nipple, loving her breaths that were as short and ragged in arousal, as was his.  He lifted one tit toward his mouth, teasing her.  He didn’t kiss it, he worshipped it with his fingertips and then his mouth.  He felt her fingers on his cock.  He was proud.  It was steel.  Hot, lurching toward the compelling, viscous warmth that only a woman’s body in heat could provide.  Without having to speak, they struggled  toward the beach and fell onto the sand.  They hugged each other, rolling over, kissing, changing positions.  They couldn’t get close enough.  Hot enough. “Just fuck me,” Tre said, “Just fuck me hard.”

Josh fucked her hard and then soft, when she started to cry.  And then very hard when she started to scream, “Fuck me, George.  That’s so good.  Always so good, Georgie.  I’m coming!”

Josh held back.  He didn’t come because he suspected she’d need more from him before the night was done.  All that mattered was Tre.  Her grief finally exposed.  He knew he could ask nothing of her.  Not now.  She would offer what she could, when she could and that was all Josh wanted.

They held each other under the stars and then moved inside.  They showered, went to bed and made love again.  Over dinner, they talked about what had brought them together and how healing it felt for both of them.

“I should go,” Josh said, finally.

“No,” Tre said.  “Stay.”

“I’d love to.  And I’d like to look into buying back George’s paintings.  You need them around you.”  He kissed the back of her head.  “We’re going to be very good friends, you and I,” Josh said, spooning her before sleeping.

“More than friends.  Much more.”