Red symbolizes extremes: it dresses the Pope just like it paints the Devil. The first visible color in the light spectrum, it signals passion-which is nothing more than the extremes of joy and pain.

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Spring, November 2012

THE NIGHT WAS AN EMPTY HOUSE. Its lights bore lone reflections, and its sounds, belated echoes of a distant thunder. Those who came in and walked out at daytime hadn't left any marks. Now a bluish mist lingered there carrying a green smell of moss, the herald of the storm with its unseen horn.

From the pricked-up trees, leaves fell whirling around in a rain dance that mirrored Marisa's disquiet. Cautiously, she advanced on the deserted street with a sudden knot of apprehension. Adrenaline gripped her chest like the claws of a predator. She shivered when her coat half-opened and flapped, ready to take off. Her Mary Jane shoes stamped a solitary voice on the asphalt. Clog, clog, clog...

They seemed to be saying: Stop, stop, stop... She sped up the pace.

A grayish rat with bloodshot eyes leaped from the curb and startled Marisa. She looked to the sides as she cursed herself for not taking a cab. Rushing around the corner, she followed a wide avenue in downtown São Paulo. Her steps left behind locked buildings and dormant store windows in pitch-black slumber. Marisa only stopped when she reached a quaint building with a blue-tiled façade typical of the fifties.

She rang the bell, all the while pounding one fist on the glass door. The porter recognized her and pressed a button behind a shiny cedar counter. As the door opened, Marisa quickly crossed the travertine marble lobby as she nodded to the porter. On her face blossomed a smile he did not see.

Marisa waited for the elevator, one Mary Jane shoe tap dancing discreetly. She ascended to the fifteenth floor, where she arrived with a slight pant. In the vestibule with no ornaments, the door did not offer resistance when Marisa pushed it to sneak into the dark living room. A shy rectangle of light guided her to the hallway. She stopped before the office, caught her breath, went inside.

As Marisa advanced, the walls lined with books receded into dimness, leaving behind the smell of paper and lavender furniture polisher. The tic-tac of a pendulum clock-methodic, impatient-dotted the silence. Marisa paused in the middle of the room, the sight of Marco imprinted in her retina. All anxiety, all guilt, all fear was forgotten.

The glass shade of the lamp on the desk glowed like a jade lighthouse in the sea of shadows. Behind the green reflection, seated on a high-backed chair, he waited. His eyes, a solid brown on the brink of black, contemplated Marisa even before she entered, picturing her at the sound of each step. In its stillness Marco's body held a torrent, denounced by the gleam in the irises and the way one hand curled on the desk's edge. He bore a dark rather than fair complexion, meditative forehead, and mouth drawn with firm lines. His straight, black hair was parted on the side, with a hint of formality that matched his gray slacks, narrow leather belt and white shirt with a loosened silk tie.

Now he rolled up his sleeves in a deliberate manner.

"You are late," he finally said in a stern tone.

"I apologize, Master. It won't happen again."

"This time I'll let it pass. In the future, however, I will not tolerate it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master," she replied in a feeble voice.

"You can remove your coat."

She obeyed, revealing what hid underneath-a short navy blue skirt, indigo T-shirt, thigh-high white socks. In that pretended school outfit, her compact build was of a woman. Feeling exposed, slightly abashed, she played with the end of the braid hanging over her shoulder. The luscious hair was straight, the same golden brown as her lowered eyes. The visage emanated the beauty and glow of her eighteen years.

"Now turn," he commanded.

She did as he said, but was reprehended in a sharp note.

"Slower."

Marisa finished turning in a tense motion as he studied her. His incisive gaze paused on the interstice of naked thighs between the skirt hemline and socks. It then trailed up to the breast contours below the V collar and lingered on the lips that she nibbled. His eyes darkened; the pupils dilated. He beckoned her to move closer. Then he stood to his feet and advanced to meet her in front of the desk. Now the two were only a few inches apart.

"On second thought, I am not going to forgive this indiscipline," he said, and now his voice almost dropped to a whisper: "Your behavior disappoints me, Marisa."

"Master, I promise it won't happen again."

"Nevertheless, it already happened, Marisa. You have disregarded punctuality. What do you suggest I should do about that?"

He spoke in an affirmative tone-it became clear the answer did not matter. His gaze remained unfathomable. The well-drawn mouth, however, was pressed in a line signaling the path of his intentions.

Marisa stared at him spellbound. Voluptuousness. Uncertainty. The voluptuousness of uncertainty. Something would happen soon and she didn't know what it was. She tingled as if hands tantalized her body in no hurry, lingering here and there... here and there... Marisa had no time to react when, without warning, he made her bend over the desk. With one hand, he held her wrists behind her back. With the other, he traced the curve of her hip, first in the front, then on the back, moving around, going up, going down. Up again. And down. Beneath the skirt. Caressing her inner thighs.

With her face on fire and chest heaving, she kept still. The slap landed on the right buttock, then on the left. Marisa clenched her teeth and suppressed a surprised gasp, which was followed by the languor of a sigh: now his fingers touched her feverish skin with the lightness of a breeze, tracing the marks as if contemplating their work. Then they followed the shape of her narrow waist, strolled on the back and twisted the braid, pulling it close to the nape of her neck.

Marisa shivered when his breath caressed her ear: "Next time I won't be so complacent. Don't say you weren't warned."

He released Marisa, made her turn around, and framed her face in his big hands, dark eyes sending sparks into hers, mouth hungrily inching closer and closer, until it took hers in a fervent kiss. His left hand searched for the breast over the blouse; the right one found the vertex of the thighs under the skirt. He deepened his fingers there, making her moan, devouring her moan with his tongue and teeth. He knew exactly how to touch her, in the exact measure to counter a firm move with softness. He coaxed, advanced, withdrew to make her want more.

Marisa wanted it. She wanted Marco above everything. Encircling his waist, she drew him nearer, hands sliding beneath his shirt to feel the bare skin, the well-defined muscles, the triangle of the shoulder blades. With her eyes half-closed, she drank the scent of the man and discarded the cologne's. Marisa inhaled the air sharply as she allowed her hands to spread adrift across the strong torso, scratching the skin until they reached the fine hair on the chest... and, farther down, the navel and the zipper line.

The kiss a blaze, tongue against tongue instinctively replicating the gestures of hands, a mad spin inside the mouth consuming the entire body in successive flames that reached further and further-the body's thirst, the body's liqueur. Breasts pressed against the wall of the wide chest, intertwined thighs in a perfect fit. Everything was orchestrated in a sinuous synchronism: lips, tongues, fingers, hips and legs.

Slow legato. Crescendo. Staccato.

With a quiver, he lifted Marisa and sat her on the desk. He pushed aside the clothes in his way, fingers entangled in cotton and lace. Then he completely abandoned himself in her flesh. Marisa opened up to him with a fitful sigh. Her muscles molded to him, contracted around him, clenching and clenching, and he wanted more, deeper, denser, ethereal. More. In the eternity of an instant, the fused bodies pulsed with a spasm, from the core to the solar plexus, to the fingertips, to the roof of the mouth, to the vault of the sky...

They remained in each other's arms and exchanged a long look as their heartbeat quieted.

"Happy birthday," Marisa said, stroking his face.

"That was the best present ever."

Smiling, they finally parted and straightened up their clothes. Marco fixed a russet strand that had broken free from her braid. Marisa pulled him closer and kissed him, still craving. She then picked up her coat from the chair.

"I have to go home, Marco."

"So soon? I've prepared dinner for us."

"Oh, what a shame."

Frustration transpired on her countenance. It wasn't lesser than his frustration. Marisa tried to be practical: "But it's late, and my mom is getting increasingly suspicious of my absences. And I still need to study for the literature exam tomorrow, remember? Truth is, I shouldn't even be here tonight, but I had to see you... I think we're both a bit crazy, eh?"

"Yeah... I think so, love." Now he gave half a smile. Only half. "I wouldn't want to harm a model student like you. Let's go, then."

Let's go. Neither of them moved toward the door. They inhabited a fragile crystal terrarium, a landscape within the landscape that could come crumbling down at any moment. The coat returned to the chair, and they embraced like castaways.

"On Saturday we'll celebrate properly. I got you something, but I couldn't bring it along because it would draw attention." Marisa paused. She blurted out: "I can't stand this anymore. Having to hide is just horrible. I feel like a criminal. And what have we done, after all? We didn't kill or steal or covet the neighbor's wife..."

"I know, Mari, I'm not happy with this either. But didn't you say yourself that a few weeks were nothing compared to eternity and we should enjoy the present?"

"Did I say that? See, love, the problem is sometimes I don't listen to my own advice." She laughed with faint conviction. "I wanted you so much, and now I'm scared of what may happen."

"Let's be patient. It'll soon be over."

Marco caressed her hair with one hand while his gaze caressed all of her. His Venus. The star that brought the colors of a new day and kept surprising Marco with the familiarity irradiating from her face. He had recognized it since the beginning, even though he had never seen it before. It was the face of someone he had sought for a long time. In her arms the turbulence of the past dissolved into a distant clamor. He had a partner now, and that certainty still stunned him. Marco never grew tired of gazing at her because he never grew tired of recognizing her. His partner.

Marisa relaxed for a moment as she looked into his eyes. She saw so many things in them that the mere possibility of being apart from him made her gasp for air. How could she describe everything contained in those eyes? Inside them played a music box with the melody of endless conversations, furtive escapes to eat in Arabic delis, plans to visit a valley sprinkled with quartzes that glimmered in the moonlight. And the bedroom games, as he called them, in which she discovered herself more and more-a woman.

He blinked. In that lapse, the last quartz glimmered, died away, and all vanished. Time to go. The world outside awaited with the usual reproach. She looked into Marco's eyes once more to say goodbye to everything they contained, and pulled back at last.

"Well, I'm gonna get the wig. I almost forgot it again."

Marisa disappeared down the hall and returned with her long hair hidden under a mass of false brown curls: now she was ready. They left and, once in the elevator, stood side by side shutting off any eye contact until they found themselves inside his silver Lexus in the garage. At that time of night there was no traffic, and the streets flew by the car window during ten minutes that passed in ten seconds.

They reached their destination in the traditional Higienópolis neighborhood- trees of generous shade and dogs, bars and universities, a large population of Jews and seniors. Marco stopped on the corner without turning off the engine. Marisa glanced around, removed the wig, stuffed it into her purse. She exited the car and walked down the street past bored porters in their posts while Marco waited for her to get home safely. Marisa paused in front of a building from the late fifties featuring geometrical lines and pastel hues. She discreetly waved at him and rang the bell to the porter.

An electric buzz, a click, and the door opened. Marisa entered the building with reluctance. As soon as she crossed the lobby, the door of the apartment in the back started to open. From the crack emerged the face of an old woman, then her black robe. It was Ms. Rosaura, a small and boney widow of pleasant manners and gray hair with a faint purple tinge. No one could tell, but behind her innocent appearance lived a real professional of domestic intrigue. She resembled a carrion crow croaking with a deep voice, her robe puffing out as she gesticulated, her eyes always attentive to the flicker of an unusual event.

"Marisa, darling, how have you been?" She looked over her shoulder and checked the carillon in the living room. "You're coming home late tonight, huh?"

"Well, Ms. Rosaura, I was studying at a friend's. You know, for college admission exams..."

Marisa gave her a polite smile and mentally traced an escape route. On one side were the stairs; on the other, the elevator and a potted flaming sword plant. If she acted fast, she could reach the elevator parked on the ground floor... or, in a bolder move, begin fencing with the flaming sword to deter her nosy neighbor.

The elderly woman stared at Marisa with determination. They studied each other, initiating a choreography that seemed meticulously rehearsed: one advanced and the other backed off, one went right while the other went left. Desperate, Marisa drew the cell phone from her purse and excused herself to take a call, all the while waving and hurrying into the elevator.

After the sliding door closed, Marisa put the dead phone back in her purse. Ms. Rosaura had been thrown off the scent-now came the worst. Marisa saw thunder shaking walls, electric discharges ricocheting on the chandeliers, lightning bolts falling on the furniture. As she reached the eighth floor, Marisa clasped the coat to her body. She already knew a storm waited for her at home.

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Hello there!

Thanks for stopping by. I hope you have fun reading RED :-)

This is a sample of my novel so you can have an opportunity to enjoy the story. It consists of 3 parts, but now that it has been published, I had to remove Part 3 due to Kindle Unlimited's policy. If you really like RED, the ebook is available on Amazon.

If you have an Amazon account and wish to write a review on Amazon for RED, as a thank you I'll send you a gift card for the book. Message me for details if you're interested.

I thank you in advance for voting and apologize if I'm not able to thank you individually, But feel free to comment and message me if you want to chat - I try to reply to all my messages, and I would love to hear from you!

God bless!

Nicole xoxo