Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

This is nothing like riding a bike. This is like living inside Ravel’s Boléro.

The pleasure intensifies with every note, with every measure in the rising crescendo.

Her hands clutch at my back. Her nails scratch at my flesh, grabbing and digging.

Vaguely, I consider that she’ll leave marks.

That feels right, too, and fitting.

Scratch me, bite me, mark me, I want to say. I want to remember how good this feels. How good it feels to be part of an orchestra.

Her moans intensify. They trip the switch in me, and that crescendo becomes relentless—the swirl and twist of pleasure, the tight, tense coil. The swell of the music. The finale drawing near. The exquisite agony of feeling this good, so good, too good.

Her words.

She cries out, bowing her back, her sounds echoing in my mind and reverberating in my bones. She crests, then falls blissfully on the other side of desire. Like that, I still, tense, then let go as pleasure takes over entirely, blurring the world.

For long seconds that seem to spill into minutes, I am someplace else. Someplace wonderful I don’t want to leave.

But soon, I come down from the high, ease out of her, then deal with the matter at hand.

Cleaning up.

Quickly, I dispose of the condom, then return to her, and kiss her neck and her shoulder.

She laughs softly. Turns her face to me. She looks radiant. “That was . . .”

“It’s not really like riding a bike, is it?”

“If so, that’s the best bike ride I’ve ever had,” she says. Then she yawns, deep and hearty, like it comes from inside her soul.

“You should go to sleep, Jo,” I tell her, gently stroking her cheek.

She yawns again. “I really should. Big day tomorrow,” she says, stretching her arms.

Big day doing what? Are you visiting the Tower of London? Big Ben? The Tate?

I want to tell her my favorites, to weigh in on her agenda.

The Tate is too huge, too teeming with crowds, too terribly unpleasant, but you should go anyway, because the collections are worth it. Or if you want a list of bookshops in the city, I’ve got that right here, in my head. I could even take you after work.

That is, if you’re not too busy with whatever you’re here for?

Holiday? Friends? Family? Work?

A quick glance around tells me little. It’s dark, and there are only one or two suitcases here. But they are large. Maybe she’s here for more than a few days.

I’m dying to learn more about her. But is that what this is? Are we supposed to talk now?

No idea.

Still, a gentleman shouldn’t fuck and run.

And I don’t want to.

So, I give in to what I want and ask a simple question. “How long are you in town?”

“A while,” she says, sounding terribly sleepy, drifting off already.

“That’s . . . good.” I swallow roughly, hunting for more words, hoping to unearth some captivating ones somewhere. Maybe I left them back at Sticks and Stones, or in Nigel’s shop. Hell if I know. I can’t seem to find them now that they’re important.

“Maybe,” she murmurs.

Is this her way of saying thanks for the orgasm, you can see yourself out?

Maybe she didn’t mean it when she said next time.

Ah, perhaps this is why dating failed me—because I failed at dating.

“I’ll let myself out,” I say, wanting to say more, hoping she’ll tell me not to rush.

She seems utterly content, though, to slide into slumber. This is just a one-night stand.

Of course it is, you daft idiot.

That’s what it was always supposed to be.

Jo turns to me, all sleepy-soft. She lifts an arm, slides her hand down mine. “But you can take my number if you want, Heath.”

The way she says my name is like a goodnight kiss, sweet and tender, a promise of another kiss, another time.

All my anxiety slinks away. I sigh in relief, grateful she put me out of my misery.

Before she falls asleep, we exchange numbers. Then I gather my clothes, get dressed, and kiss her once more. She’s already asleep, a strand of her brown hair fluttering softly across her face.

I move it from her cheek.

When I make my way out, my eyes drift to her suitcase on the floor, then to a large purse by the entryway table, perhaps a satchel, stuffed with books and two framed photos. I can’t make out what they’re of, and I’m not a Peeping Tom.

Still, she’s a woman after my own heart.

6

JO

Avoiding Chelsea is easy since, well, this hotel is in St James, a few blocks from my new office.

I wake up bright and early on Monday, ready to make the most of the day before I start in the London office tomorrow. When I move, I feel the blissful soreness that comes from good sex.

Or was that great sex?

My body answers with a whoosh.