Just One Night, Part 1: The Stranger (5 page)

They’ll be at your office at 9:30 am this Tuesday
, I reply, then pause before adding,
I’ll be there at 8:00.

Another moment of silence as I wait for his response. Time is stretching out as the knots tighten in my stomach.

And then there it is, his answer summed up in one word.

Yes.

CHAPTER 6

O
N
T
UESDA
Y I
walk into the dark glass building. My heels click against a marble floor as I approach the elevators, and with each click my pulse speeds up, just a little but enough . . . enough to remind me that I might just be in over my head.

I don’t hesitate or look at the board to verify his office number. I know where I’m going; I’m just not clear on what I’m going to do when I get there.

There’s a waiting area outside his office but there’s no one sitting at the assistant’s desk. The door is open for me and I can see a cup of coffee and a small box of pastries sitting on a side table by the window, seemingly forgotten. And then I see him, at his desk, his head bent over some papers. Drops of water in his salt-and-pepper hair catch the light and hint at a recent shower.

I stop a moment and picture that: Robert Dade standing naked in the shower, water washing over him, his eyes closed, lost in his own thoughts and the feeling of the warmth against his skin, quiet, vulnerable to the world. I imagine myself sneaking into the shower behind him, running my fingers through his hair as he tenses with surprise, then relaxes into my caress. I imagine sliding soap-covered hands down his back, to his ass, around his hips, and then stroking his cock until he’s clean and hard and perfect.

The sharp inhale of breath is enough to bring his attention away from those papers before him. He looks up at me, sees the color of my cheeks, and smiles.

I dig my fingernails into my palms and try to focus on the pain. I’ve had days to think this through. I’m not here to engage in fantasies. I’m here to end things. I’m here so I can make a clean break and be the woman I want to be. The signs in national parks tell us to stay on the path. If we wander off them, we may get lost; we might crush the very things that brought us to the park to begin with.

I walk into the office, determined to stay on the path, even as I close the door behind me.

Looking into his eyes I can read an encyclopedia’s worth of information. He wants me. He’s curious. Like me, he doesn’t know what to expect and he wants to know where the line is today, the line between pulling me in and pushing me away.

“It’s going to stop,” I say.

“
It?
” he asks from his seat.

My voice is even and so much cooler than my warming cheeks. “No more transgressions, no more mistakes. It’s done. Dave and I . . . we’ve decided on a ring.”

“Dave.” He says the name carefully as he rises and steps around his desk but not in front of it, still looking for that line in the sand. “That’s his name?”

I nod in acknowledgment. “He’s a good man. Kind, considerate . . . he buys me white roses.” The words are shooting out of my mouth like arrows but I have no aim. Not one has come close to hitting its mark.

“Then he doesn’t know you very well.”

“He’s known me for six years—most of my adult life.”

“Which means there’s no excuse for his ignorance.” He takes a step forward. “White roses are pretty but they have nothing to do with who you are. You’re more of an African violet. Have you ever seen an African violet?”

I shake my head.

“It’s a flower that often comes in the deepest of purples, the color of royalty.” He studies me, folding his arms casually across his broad chest. “Its petals are velvety; they actually seem to want to be touched. And at its center, it’s core, the very spot where the bees can coax out its nectar, it’s a vibrant gold. Its sensuality isn’t cartoonish like the
Anthurium
and it’s not as clichéd as the orchid, which is too fragile to be compared to you anyway. The African violet is strong, enticing, and its beauty can be seen, but to fully appreciate its depth, it needs to be touched. It’s a very intricate flower.”

“No,” I say, “I like traditional roses. I don’t care if they’re common. They’re simple, elegant . . . sweet.” I straighten my back but don’t meet his eyes. “It has to stop,” I whisper. “No more mistakes.”

“We haven’t made any mistakes. Everything we’ve done was considered and deliberate.”

“No, I didn’t think it through. I was . . . overwhelmed.”

He smiles again. I like his smile. I like the way it makes him look younger and mischievous. I like the way it heats the inside of my stomach . . . and other parts of me.

“I didn’t carry you away from the blackjack table,” he says. “You walked with me. You ordered whiskey.”

“It was just meant to be a drink.”

He takes another step forward.

“You rode the elevator to my room.”

Another step.

“You made yourself comfortable, accepted a glass of very expensive scotch.”

Another step.

“And when I tasted that scotch on your skin, you grabbed my shirt.”

And another. His hand reaches forward as he grabs the front of my white silk blouse. His other hand goes to my hip, then slides to my belly, then lower.

I gasp as he cups me.

“You asked me to take off your panties.”

The skirt I’m wearing is too loose today. It allows him too much access. I feel his hand press against the cloth that separates skin from skin, applying just the right amount of pressure. I dig my nails deeper into my palms but the pain is dulling, becoming insignificant in the face of other sensations.

“Ask me to stop and I will,” he says quietly. “But don’t tell me that
it’s
going to stop. This isn’t an
it
. This is
you
and this is
me
. We’ve always had the option of restraint. We’ve had the power to say no.” He lessens the pressure of his hand. “Or yes,” and with that word his hand begins to move, back and forth. I feel myself respond, my hips aching to move along with the motion.

“Ask me to stop, Kasie, if that’s what you want. All you have to do is ask.”

“Mr. Dade,” I whisper before breathing, “Robert.”

“Yes.” He says. The word doesn’t sound like a question. It’s a proclamation. A statement of what is and what isn’t.

I grasp the hand that still holds my shirt, I look into those eyes, I read what’s there.

“Robert Dade,” I say quietly, “stop.”

His hands fall away. Without breaking eye contact he takes a step back. My breathing is still irregular. I wait for my arousal to dissipate. But it doesn’t. It just shifts, morphs into something else.

Something that feels a lot like power.

I smile.

Walking in a half circle around him I find myself stopping when his back is to me. I close the distance I had just asked him to place between us.

I shouldn’t. But I do.

I let my fingers move up into his hair, just like in my fantasy. And just as I predicted, he tenses and then relaxes.

“You took my jacket,” I whisper into his ear.

I hook my fingers around his sports jacket and pull it off of him before deliberately dropping it on the floor. I can see his beautiful form and I press myself against him, crushing my breasts into that area below his shoulder blades, where his muscular back begins to taper down to his narrow waist.

“This will be the last time,” I say. “This morning will mark the end. This is the last time I’ll stray from the path.”

He turns and looks at me. He’s trying to find the connection between my words and the small smile that plays on my lips.

“This is the last time,” I say again, backing up to his desk. I’m a little nervous and I’m shocked by what I’m saying, what I’m wanting, what I’m doing.

“This is the last time,” I say one more time as I lean back against his desk and open my legs. “So let’s make it good.”

And in less than a second he’s on me. His mouth is crushed against mine as he pulls my hair, his hand reaches up my skirt, and I feel him roughly pull my panties aside before his fingers plunge inside of me. This time I don’t resist. His mouth tastes both bitter and sweet. His fingers start to move faster and I gently bite his lip and struggle to hold back my moans.

I start working on the buttons of his shirt. I’m desperate to touch him, every part of him. I don’t want to leave anything to the imagination or to the memories I’ve spent so many hours reliving.

This is the last time, and I’m going to make it good.

And now his chest is bare and exposed, mine to stroke and taste. My mouth moves to his neck as his fingers continue to move, taking his pulse with my tongue. When his thumb slips back up to my clit, I moan again, and this time I’m not quick enough to suppress the sound.

He can’t see my face as my mouth moves down to one shoulder then across to the other, shoulders that seem as strong as the shoulders of Atlas. No, he can’t see my face but he can feel me react as the orgasm begins. My whole body shakes with its impact.

I’m pulling off his belt now, unbuttoning his pants, reaching for what’s waiting for me. As his pants fall to the ground my fingers slide to the base and then trace a line right up that vein to the ridge that marks the beginning of the tip.

And now it’s his stifled moan that teases the room. It’s
his
breathing that is out of control as he undoes my shirt, unhooks my bra, runs his hands up my breasts, gently pinching my nipples as he kisses my hair.

I take off my skirt all by myself. I want to give him this and I want to give myself everything he has to offer. The experience needs to be not just tactile but visceral. I’m breathing him in, feeling his touch. . . .

I want to taste him.

I lower myself to my knees and let my tongue dance over his erection, loving the way it hardens even more, yearning for me, waiting for me, begging for me.

When I take him in my mouth, he makes a sound that reminds me of a growl.

The effect I have on him increases my eagerness, my sense of urgency, my need. As my mouth continues to work, my hands move up and down his stomach, his hips, his legs.

And then, he pulls me away. Lifts me back up onto the desk, pushes my thighs apart, stares into my eyes for just a moment before pressing forcefully inside of me.

I cry out as I instantly come again. I’m filled with him, his taste still on my lips, my hands grasping his shoulders as he moves, pushing in again and again. His eyes return to mine, and this time he holds my gaze. I can’t look away. My hips have found his rhythm and greedily rise to meet each thrust as if daring him to go further. He pushes my knee to my chest, giving himself a new advantage.

And as my third orgasm explodes through me, I feel him shudder, feel him coming, feel the intensity of us.

As we stay there, pressed against each other, the room smelling of coffee and sex I hear him mutter . . . perhaps to himself, perhaps to me, “Last time, my ass.”

*     *     *

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER
I step back out into Mr. Dade’s waiting room, alone, fully dressed but still smoothing the newly made creases out of my blouse. I don’t look up to see Mr. Dade’s executive assistant until I sit down on the sofa.

She has dark, auburn hair and big green eyes that remind me of king-sized marbles. And she’s watching me. I suck in an audible breath of surprise and she replies with an inquisitive smile.

How long has she been there? Did she hear us?

But does it matter what she heard? The point is she
knows
! Those green marbles weren’t reflecting the image I had so carefully crafted for the people around me. Instead she sees a woman driven by the basest of impulses, a woman who snuck into an office building at eight in the morning so she could fuck her new client.

A woman who takes what she wants.

The words are coming from a little voice inside my own head. It’s not a voice that I’m very familiar with. The angel on my right shoulder defeated the devil on my left eons ago. But now the devil speaks. It’s the angel who struggles to find her voice.

“Would you like a glass of water?” the woman asks. She tilts her head to the side, causing her auburn hair to fall over one shoulder.

I nod silently and her smile widens as she leaves the room and then returns with a clean glass and a bottle of SmartWater.

“I’m Sonya,” she says as I reach for the items. She doesn’t let go right away. When I look up at her, she’s staring at the buttons on my shirt. I’ve missed one. I quickly take the water and glass and put them on the side table before scrambling to fix the problem.

I can discern the essence of the questions she’s working so hard to repress. Her now empty hands flutter as if she wants to assist with the buttons.

“It’s a beautiful silk,” she says, quietly watching the quick work of my fingers.

She wants me.
The knowledge springs up inside of me like a geyser. I stare at her impatient hands, her marble eyes. Mr. Dade’s assistant wants me.

And astoundingly, that makes sense to me. I have never felt this desirable, this enticing, this potent. I’ve never been with a woman before. I can’t fully imagine it. A woman’s skin is too soft, her touch too delicate.

Mr. Dade had pulled my hair, lifted me up, entered me. . . .

No, I can’t imagine being with a woman . . . and yet I understand her desire and it electrifies me in all the places she wants to touch. I glance at the closed door of Mr. Dade’s office. Her desire makes me want to open that door and ask him to take me again—against the wall, on his desk, on the floor. I almost laugh when it occurs to me that the one place we’ve never made love is in a bed.