Best of Best Women's Erotica (25 page)

“It's Robins, Bob Robins.” He sticks out his hand.

“Dina Jarvis. It's a pleasure.”

“The pleasure's mutual, believe me.”

Drac, no,
Cesar
leans across the bar. “I hate to break this up, but I need your order.” He looks at me. “That guy you left at the end of the bar still thinks he's guarding your coat. Maybe you want a drink for him, too?”

“Good idea, Cesar, get the little med student a drink, bring ours, and buy yourself one at the same time—maybe chill out while you're at it.”

He doesn't stop looking into my eyes, but he says, “Not
now, thanks.” This time I take my time getting back to the little lawyer.
Okay,
I think,
let's move this thing,
and then he says, “What he doesn't like about you is you're too obvious.”

“Obvious? Me, in my slashed Lycra?”

“It's more where the Lycra
isn't.
”

“That's the point.”

“Obviously. Forget him—let's talk terms here.”

“Terms?”

“Terms of endearment, getting logistic, you and me—how much for this evening?”

“This eve… Oh. Oh no, you've got the wrong idea, Bob Robins.”

“I thought you wanted to party.”

“I do.” I exhale a stream of smoke. “But I hadn't planned on charging admission.”

His eyes flick over me. “Could have fooled me.”

Now I don't like his eyes, I see something there in a new light. “So you pay for sex,” I say.

“I pay for everything.”

“I don't think so, Bob, not this time.”

“C'mon,” he says, “what's the difference, you want it.”

I put out my cigarette, he grabs my hand and forces it down to his wet crotch. “You did this,” he says. “I think you'd better take care of it.” Under the wet folds of flannel there's a lot of hot and hard.

“Impressive,” I say, “but you'd better stick to the pros. What you lack in charm you can make up for in cash.”

I twist my hand out of his grasp and stand up, rubbing my wrist.

The bartender walks into our antagonism. “Soda water, no lime, double Cuervo and a Manhattan.” He looks from Bob to
me. “Everything okay here?”

“I'm moving over to that booth.” I lock on his eyes. “Alone.”

“Yeah, for how long?” the little lawyer wants to know.

Neither of us look at him. I pick up the Cuervo Gold and down it in one swallow. This time the molten heat is just what I need. “How about one more, Cesar.” I like the way his name feels between my teeth and I slide it out again, “Ssseh-Zar. In the booth, Cesar.”

“In the booth,” he says.

I like the way the booth feels around me now, a nest of honey leather, cool comfort against my hot skin. I stretch out both arms and sink into it, c'mon boys, it's getting late. The brass-rimmed face of time hangs like a moon at the end of the bar. Forty-five minutes until tomorrow, less than an hour left of my twenties. And I have no idea where my thirties will take me.
Shattered dreams, worthless years,
an old Stevie Wonder song curls around in my head, a sad song. And then he's here, Cesar, with two small cups and my coat over his arm like a towel.

Much laughter suddenly down at the end of the bar where most of the crowd is. I want to be laughing, too. I look up at him and I've got to tell him. “I'm turning thirty tonight. At midnight.”

“So you're kind of like Cinderella?”

“Only I didn't even get to the ball.”

“Where's the guy?”

“How do you know about the guy?”

“There's always a guy when a woman looks the way you do.”

“Oh, I forgot, the bartender's seen it all.” He sets the cups of espresso on the table and unwinds his apron. “Are you off now?”

“I'm a free man,” he says. “And you offered me a drink.” He indicates the espresso. “On the house.”

“Never had anything on the house.” I slide over, my skirt sticking to the leather and corkscrewing up around my thighs. He tosses my coat over the side of the booth and slides in next to me. I feel the heat from his thigh.

“First time for everything,” he says, and we drink the espresso. It's sweet and thick. Just as I'm thinking that this guy's too pretty to be straight, his gaze drops to the heart-shaped window in my leotard; when it meets mine again I know he likes women.

“You wanted to go dancing on your birthday?” he asks.

“That's one way of putting it.”

“I like to dance,” he says. “It's one of the things I like. Hot salsa,” he says, with a big, fine smile, his lips pulled back, his white canines gleaming.

So Dracula dances, and why not. He looks like he dances, has nice moves. “How about slow jazz?” I ask.

“Slow jazz. Sure, we could warm up with a little slow jazz. I know the best place in Seattle.”

I wait.

“Upstairs.”

“Upstairs.”

“I have a studio upstairs. I live there.”

Behind his face the brass ring of the clock is a halo, a golden nimbus, reminding me of the time. “Yes,” I say, “all right.” I pull my coat off the back of the booth. He gets out and I slide into him. He holds me for a couple of heartbeats; I fall into the deep black pull of his eyes. When he lets go my skin burns where his hands touched me.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Slow jazz,” I say. “Just a minute.” I turn back to the coffee, tiny cups of thick and dark and sweet, and I finish mine in a long swallow. “Let's go.” I slip Paige's purse over my bare shoulder.

Walking upstairs our hips touch and bump and waffle back, and then we push together into the apartment behind the gray door. Heavy door, steel riveted, warehouse wide, it clangs heavily into the dim room. Tequila magic fills my head, moonlight streams through the windows. Behind my neck I feel his hand stretch out, groping against the wall, reaching for lights.

“Wait.” I lean against him and stop his hand.

“You like dancing in the dark?” He twists close to my face; I can feel his breath. He watches my eyes; I like it when he does that.

“It won't be dark,” I say. “Look at the moon.”

“You're right,” he says, glancing up. “It's coming up late tonight—almost midnight.”

Almost thirty, I think, and I say, “So what was that claim about the best jazz in Seattle?”

“That was slow jazz you wanted?”

“Real slow,” I say.

He walks toward bookcases of sound, CDs and tapes just to the left of the hallway, cases on cases on cases, a wall of music. I follow him, brush past him. The bathroom must be down this hall.
Who is this man,
I think.
What is this place?
Wide hallway of painted white brick leads to the bathroom. Black and white octagons on the floor remind me of old movies. Twelve-foot ceilings. A two-person shower. Lots of air and space around this man, he surrounds himself with space. Buffer zone, safety zone, that's right, condoms, here, in my purse. I check my hair in the mirror. My god, what am I doing here? Jack, Jack in the fucking bed with that woman is what I'm doing here.

Click click of my heels, changing from ceramic to hardwood. I walk into the sound of piano music. Slow piano; I know this song. My heels against hardwood. Well polished. A dancer's dream, suspended wood floor, my feet feel the give. He's ready for me, standing in the center of the room, lit only by the rising summer moon, swaying to Sarah Vaughn singing “Embraceable You.” Who is this man?

“Who are you?” I ask him, walking into his steady arms. We are already moving. Real slow. We touch, we hold, but light and kind of formal. Easy to follow, clean moves and, he whirls me out and pulls me in. Neat.

“Who am I?” He smiles. “I'm the guy who takes you dancing on your birthday, Dina.”

Out again, then in, out one more time, and then he lets me go to slow dance with the shadows as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out scissors. Small and orange handled—a child's pair with rounded tips for cutting out snowflakes and paper dolls. What's he doing? His eyes show mischief and daring; they dance with his smile and reassure me. We're on the same side in this adventure.

“I like the way you cut up your clothes, Dina.”

My body is moving liquid, to slow jazz. My naked shoulders pulse heat into the air around them and my breasts press against Lycra. He comes forward with the little scissors. His hips move to mine moving to his. We dance together, then back. He slides the scissors down around his thumb and forefinger and snaps them together a few times to the music. I squeeze my fingers against each other to recall the rub of my scissors back there in the closet, cutting life into old dancing clothes. Now I feel the jagged edge of my rehearsal skirt scraping against the tops of my thighs. It swishes across and over and back again. It saws
against the Christian Dior sheers, keeping time. He closes the distance between us, barely moving, just swaying to the beat, and holds the toy scissors against his cheek.

“Want me to warm them up for you?” he asks.

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“Not tonight, Dina, nothing scares you tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but tonight nothing bad can happen. This I promise you. Only good things tonight.” He flashes teeth again. Then he runs his finger around the little heart window I cut between my breasts. The hard ridge of his fingernail pushes against my breastbone, over the inside curve of my breasts. He traces the heart again. “I think we'll cut through this little heart,” he whispers against my ear, and while the tip of his tongue travels the coiled channels of my ear the little scissors cut the Lycra, snip by slow snip. I get it now: he's easing me out of my chrysalis. My breasts push at the opening he's made. “Other side now,” he says, and snips once, twice, and then three snips and my breasts push all the way through the lycra. We are so close my nipples can feel the heat from his chest. We don't touch but we move, fused, and then he pulls his heat back with his body. My breasts, freed of Lycra, burn under his eyes. His fingers snip the scissors to the beat of the music.
Snip snip,
like pure percussion.

“So nice,” he says. Every smile reaches his eyes. I could die in those smiles. His canines flash again, white and sharp. He runs his tongue over his sharp, shiny teeth. Then he sticks four fingers into the waistband of my shredded wraparound skirt, pulls it away from my waist, and with his little scissors cuts it off me. It slithers down my thighs and quivers at my feet, a crimson pool.

“You know you're going to have to give me something to wear home,” I tell him.

“Don't worry, Conchita, I'll take care of you.”

“Will you Cesar, will you…now?” I step out over the skirt into his arms and we dance slow jazz pressed up against each other, feet planted, our bodies making their own rhythms; we're leading the music and we can't slow down.

“You know it, Conchita,” he says, and pushes harder, more urgently.

“Why do you call me that, Conchita? What does it mean?”

“It means I like your ears.” He takes the lobe of my left ear between his teeth and gently bites.

“Just my ears?”

His lips, full and soft, leave my ear and travel down my neck.

“I like this neck and this throat.” He kisses the hollow and flicks his tongue over the pulse. He moves his lips down my throat, slowly kissing as he goes. “And I like these breasts,” he murmurs, “these wonderful breasts.” His lips and tongue make circles around my nipples—circling closer but never touching them. “But then you knew that already, when I had to see them.” He snips the scissors.

I am melting, wet from wanting him. I can barely whisper, “What else do you like?”

“Come with me. I'll show you everything I like.”

He leads me past the shelves of books, folios, and albums, over to a wooden ladder, bolted against the brick wall.

“You first,” he says, running his hand up and down the side of the ladder.

“Where does it go?”

“‘Up to my bed. It's kind of an upper bunk—go on.” He pats a rung. “You'll like it.”

My feet get halfway up the ladder and I'm face to face with a platform covered by a down featherbed. I bury my face in the
down and smell laundry soap and his musk. I turn and look down at him as he's starting up the ladder, and he stops me with his hand around my bottom foot. He comes up under me and pulls my leotard and tights where the seams join and gathers them into his fist. He works fast with the scissors. He climbs up behind me then, his strong foot pushing hard against mine on the wood. The scissors clatter to the floor and he explores my nakedness with one hand, and shows me the silver face of his Timex on the other. Just minutes until midnight; through my rising pulse I hear the clink of buckle and feel his pants sliding down his legs.

“Are we going for that deadline?” he asks low in my ear, rubbing against me.

“No…Yes…I don't know.” I'm having trouble concentrating. I want all of this man—right now. “In my purse…I brought some…protection.”

“I already did that,” he says, and he pushes into me.

I moan at the force of him, all that strong immediate presence, and I pull with both hands on the mattress, my cheek pressed deep into the down. We are both way too ready; all that foreplay on the dance floor. It doesn't take much; he rolls the puckered flesh of my nipples, now hard knobs, under his fingers; passion-crazed I thrust and moan and rub against the hard wood of the ladder. He moves to my moans, synchronized in time, and then he whispers, “Four, three, two, one.” I blast into a new decade. Fireworks and Happy Birthday, Dina.