Loneliness has the power to make us stupid. It reminds us that we’re not complete. It reminds us that we need others to sustain our happiness.
This man isn’t offering happiness, I’m pretty clear about that, but maybe he’s offering me something better. Maybe he can be the man to wipe away the stain that Jonathan left behind. Maybe he’ll help me regain control of the way I feel about sex and love and everything in between.
The bar is gradually filling up with people seeking pre-dinner or after-work drinks. The stranger leans forward. “Would you like me to give you something to remember?” he says, low and deep.
It’s a simple question, but the intention behind it is so loaded that I feel my clit pulse and my pussy tighten.
The sensible thing is to say no.
The sensible thing is to walk away, return to my room, and go to sleep so that I’m ready for my meeting tomorrow.
Yesterday, I would have been sensible Nicole.
But today, I’m far from wanting to be sensible.4
NICOLEI feel numb inside, and strangely reckless as I realize that I have so little to lose and so much to gain.
The fates have put me in a booth with a beautiful stranger who’s already managed to spread my legs and make me forget my troubles.
Who am I to argue?
“Yes,” I say in a breathy voice that is almost lost to the background noise. I do want him to give me something to remember. Desperately.
I wish I could sound more certain. I wish I were the kind of woman who could be confident in her wants and needs. If I’m on a journey, then I really am taking the first tentative step. Maybe my next step will be more certain? In response, his smile is devilishly sexy, and he reaches across the table for my arm and holds his finger to my wrist. The skin there is so thin and sensitive, the blood rushing so close to the surface of my body. Maybe he wants to feel the racing of my pulse. Maybe he gets off on the fact that my heart is fluttering like a deer in a hunter’s sight.
His hand is big and strong, his fingernails perfectly manicured. He’s a businessman, but not one who’s been softened by the office. His physique would suggest he lifts weights. He probably has a personal trainer. If he approaches exercise like he approaches seduction, he probably has an eight-pack under his shirt. He strokes his thumb over the tender purple of my vein. “Good girl. Now, take your panties off.”
Oh my God. Is he serious? My gasp is audible, and the way his eyes narrow makes me totally aware that he likes it. My instinct is to glance around at the people sitting at the tables nearest us, not to tell him no. I’ve never ever done something this crazy before, and yet there is no resistance – just hesitation.
“Don’t think,” he says. “When you think, all your fears and hang-ups, all your history rears up to hold you back.” He couldn’t be more right, and because he wills it, I do as he asked.
He lets my hand go and smiles as he watches me push the edges of my panties down through the fabric of my skirt. His eyes flash dark and hungry; the wolf eyeing Red Riding Hood when she’s close enough to devour. As I wriggle from side to side, the movement rubs up against my already sensitized flesh. I’m really doing this, I think, but at that moment, I’m not the Nicole I was when I boarded the plane. I’m a new Nicole. A stranger to a man with eyes as mesmerizing as a tiger’s. A stranger who’s shedding a skin with the removal of her pretty panties.
When the lace is finally past the hem of my skirt, I pull my knees together and follow it down with my hand until my underwear is over my shoes and balled in my fist. The wetness in them leaves a cool trail down my legs as shameful evidence of my arousal. Shameful or shameless. I’m not so sure anymore.
I look up at him as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and then bites down. I imagine that tongue stroking against my skin. Innocent places first, like the soft spot where the collar bone meets the neck, just below my ear lobe and maybe the underside of my wrist that he has caressed with his thumb, then moving on to teasing licks around my nipples and over my clit.
He’d be good at all of it. I’ve never felt more certain of anything and my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
He puts his hand on the table, palm upturned, and I give the lacy bundle to him, trying to conceal what I’m doing from anyone close enough to notice. He slips them into his jacket pocket. “Something for me to remember you by,” he says with one raised eyebrow, and I realize that each step with this man is a challenge, a little push to see if I want to be on the journey with him and if I’ll play his games.