by Rose Hudson
It’s why I spot her so fast out of the fifty or so bodies around me.
The dress she’s wearing is a beacon of light in this room of so much darkness. It’s the color of ocean air and it fits her like a fucking glove, with just enough room for my imagination to run wild; floor to mid-thigh slit with two pieces that separate to show the creamy skin of her stomach. I slow my pace and drink her in, the flavor crisp, refreshing, more pleasing to my pallet than the fine coconut brandy in my glass.
She holds her phone in one hand pressed to her ear, empty champagne flute in the other. I flag down a waiter and grab her a full one, tipping the older man and standing four or five steps to her right. When she ends the call and places her phone in her clutch, she notices my presence.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” I say.
She looks up and for the first time I see her face in its glorious entirety. Her eyes, long dark lashes selfishly shielding the rest of us from the crystal blue of her irises. The gloss she wears across that mouth of hers does little for my imagination that it couldn’t do all by itself. It’s fucking magnificent.
“Just checking on a friend.” She holds out her hand in introduction and I speak up before she can break the first rule of selection parties.
“Stone. Pleasure.”
She pauses momentarily, lips slightly parted before she wets her bottom lip with her tongue and presses them firmly together, taming a wide smile.
“Lydia. Nice to meet you, Stone.” Her hand lingers briefly in mine and I swear I feel the tip of her finger trace the hard calluses at the bend of my hand. She’s gathering information. Apparently, I’ve stumbled upon not only a gorgeous woman, but a smart one. “Thank you for taking pity and keeping silent company. I’m sure by now you can spot the newbies from across the room.”
“All I spotted from across the room was your body in that dress. I was instantly curious what came with it.”
Surprise flashes in her eyes, but the control she possesses takes charge and she straightens subtly.
“It’s nice to see a man wearing the suit instead of the suit wearing the man for once. What comes with the suit?” she asks, her curiosity genuine without a stitch of overt sexual charm. The question rings true of someone who wants to know more than just what I can do for her in the bedroom and I can’t help the unease that creeps up my throat and tries to hold my tongue hostage.
“You don’t strike me as the type of woman who’s ever done this.”
“And by this, do you mean ask a gorgeous man to bed? You look like you can handle it. Am I wrong?”
I expect her to press further, or maybe to break the rules and start laying out all the little details of what she’s looking for. But instead, she surprises me.
She opens her clutch and pulls out a black card, holding it out to me in invitation. She appears to read my concern, closing the distance between us and placing one hand on my shoulder as she slides the card into the breast pocket of my suit jacket with the other.
“In case you were wondering, I’m not here to find Mr. Right—” she whispers in my ear. “Just Mr. Fuck-me-right.”
It takes effort to keep shock absent from my features as she pulls away from my ear, looking me in the eyes before turning and walking toward the stairs.
Unexpected.
Not because I haven’t dealt with forward women or because it was anything but a total fucking turn on because with her it was. But because I’d read her completely wrong and that’s something I don’t do.
I want to go against my better judgment, run down those fucking stairs and bend her over the goddamn staircase railing, show her who Mr. Fuck-me-right is. But there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen. Which is a shame, because she’s definitely what I came here looking for.
Instead, I’ll stand here and look out at the city, sip on this brandy and think of all the ways I’ll repay her when I get between those long legs and show her who’s in control.
MY KNEES SHOOK AS I made my exit. I didn’t think I’d get down the stairs without making a complete fool of myself, but inside, the pride was so large it felt like it would explode out of my ears.
I’m direct, and I’m damn fearless with words. In the courtroom. The last time I’d been with a man or had a conversation directed at sex was years ago, and even then, it wasn’t very direct.
He—Stone, caught me by surprise. To look over and see him standing there, the purpose of what we were doing there at the forefront of my mind, I didn’t feel like wasting time.
It wasn’t his looks, not that he wasn’t the most terrifyingly gorgeous man I’d ever seen, but it was that firm snap of his voice. I’d never been so aware of someone. Considering I’ve spent most my life around attorneys, people who’ve built careers on what comes out of their mouths, that speaks volumes. I threw caution to the wind and didn’t know the first thing about this man.
I heard dominance in his voice.
I felt strength and grit in his callused hand.
When one sense is turned off, the others fortify. With me, knowledge and inquisition are as much a sense as seeing, tasting or hearing. If I can’t ask you direct questions or know a little of who you are on the inside, a few of your secrets, I might as well be blind. And in that moment, I was. And somehow it made my instinct toward him strong and fearless, and maybe in my desperation for freedom of reality—hungry.
The cab ride home was quiet without Tony to give me shit, but good for me to collect my thoughts. The building was eerily quiet as I rode the elevator to my floor and stepped out into the hallway, my apartment one of two on the top floor. My neighbor, the widowed Mrs. Walters, is in her seventies and I’m sure long ago gone to bed. I’m certain this is the quietest building floor in all of Chicago right now.
Checking the time on my cell as I unlock my door, I realize I’m five minutes away from a complete year since it was just me and Madi. And although Aston and I argued tonight about me going to the hospital, it makes sense to me now why I relented.
I step in and bolt the door behind me, dropping my clutch and keys on the entry table and picking up the lone picture that sits at its center. The two of us with our foreheads pressed together, fingers interlocked above our heads, laughing like the world was our playground as fireworks shoot off in the background signaling the beginning of the new year. I set it down because it hurts too damn bad. Because I don’t know if this pain inside me will ever go away, and I know this hole in my heart can never be filled if she doesn’t come back to me.
Where I live in Dearborn Park is just over a mile from the edge of the Chicago Harbor of Lake Michigan. I decide to go up on the roof and watch for those fireworks. Yes, it’s colder than the Arctic-freaking-Circle tonight, and no, Madi won’t be here to share in them with me. But I couldn’t care less about the cold or the never-ending knowledge that she won’t be there with me, because for those five minutes, maybe I’ll feel closer to her.
Although I knew it would be, I’m not prepared for how sharp the wind cuts on the roof when I step through the access door. I pull my coat tight around me and look down at myself, unable to stop the giggle that comes. I’m in a gown, on the roof in unyielding Chicago winter, and if anyone can see me I’m sure they are laughing or calling the cops because they think I’m ten seconds from jumping. I look at my phone. One minute.
Closing my eyes, I remember the sound of her laugh and her voice, the way she pulled me out of my shell. But amid the good and fun, and especially on that night, comes a picture that I wish I could permanently remove from my mind.
I hear the rumble of the blast before I see them, opening my eyes as the sky fills with a rainbow of colors. My insides feel like they want to explode with the fireworks lighting the Chicago night. My skin pricks with the need for release from these chains, for something to soothe the pain.
My phone pings and vibrates in my gloved hand, and I have to use my teeth to remove it. Unlocking my screen, I see it’s a text notification from an unknown number. I c
lick it open.
Well played. Happy New Year. -Stone
I don’t even allow myself a second’s thought before I reply with a question that I hope opens a new world to me that I desperately need.
Can you meet?
I’m insane, but I don’t care. I could easily go back downstairs, take this dress off and crawl into bed. I could block his number and forget that I ever attended that party. But every cell in my body feels alive at the thought of giving myself over to this. The phone pings and I look at his response.
Where?
Without allowing the over-analyzing part of my brain to kick in, I type the closest hotel that comes to mind.
Hilton Chicago in 20
That gives me enough time to get there and get a room. No time to think, just do. His reply is swift.
20
“Ma’am, will you be needing one key or two?” The clerk behind the hotel counter looks at me in question, appearing to have asked me the same question several times, but this time breaking me out of my thoughts.
“Just one.”
“Okay. Here is your key. Room 410.”
“Thank you.” I smile nervously and turn to leave. I can’t help but wonder as I take in each face I meet, if they know what I’m doing here.
The elevator doors open and I step on in disbelief that I’m the only occupant. But that thought is quickly dismissed as it opens one floor up and two couples get on, pressing the button for the third floor. It’s strange that they would be going up when they’re already on the second floor, but I’m thankful for the distraction until it quickly turns into something I didn’t see coming.
One man holds the woman he’s paired with to his front, arm pressed possessively to her chest, hand gripping her breast without care for all to see. There’s no doubt they’ve all been drinking, but they aren’t drunk, just…intensified. The other couple stands right beside them, more like a group of four and less like two pairs. I almost give up my inappropriate perusal from behind and watch the numbers, when I see the first man’s hand disappear up the other woman’s free-flowing skirt while the man she seems to be with nips at her ear. The air in the small elevator seems to condense and within the distance of a floor, it’s like we’ve stepped into an alternate universe.
It’s apparent that they couldn’t care less that another person occupies this space. They have given themselves over to their experience—the world be damned. I have no idea if these four people know each other, or if they just met minutes ago, but the second the woman gasps as the man’s hand makes contact with her sex, the other woman turns and kisses him, it’s then that I know it doesn’t matter if they all know each other or not.
Apparently, God works miracles even in Chicago, because the door dings open on their floor of their choice and they begin to file out. As the last man passes through the doors, he turns just so, placing his finger in his mouth with a pop, and a look that says things that make my hands grip tight to the metal bar at my back.
I hold my breath until the doors close and the elevator restarts its assent. Two minutes. That’s all it took to turn me into a believer, and Stone isn’t even here yet.
When I get to the room, I don’t even close the door. I slide the metal bar between it and the jam, texting Stone the room number as I walk over to the window. I pull back the drapes and the sheer curtains, exposing the night and the cityscape that usually feels as though it could swallow me whole. Oddly tonight, in this moment, with the hunger growing inside me, it feels like I could inhale it.
In the reflection of the glass, I see the door to the hallway open as a square of light illuminates the space behind me. But even when I hear the click of it closing, I don’t turn. The lights and traffic on the streets below quiet and stall. The temperature of the room seems to warm. Each step he takes toward me sounds as though it ricochets off marble instead of the plush carpet beneath his feet.
He doesn’t speak when he comes up behind me, his breath falling warm across my shoulder and causing my body to quiver as a chill passes over me.
“Tell me what you want, Lydia.” His voice is so low and deep, and he doesn’t mince words or waste time. I want to turn and look at him but I know better. I know I’ll lose my nerve or remove myself from the moment, and that’s the last thing I want. His fingertip traces around the intricate pattern of the back straps of my dress and my eyes fall closed.
“I want you to keep touching me,” I answer honestly. He leans down and brushes his lips over my shoulder.
“Palms on the window.” The snap that captivated me returns to his voice.
Without question, I do as he tells me, the glass cold to the palm of my hands. This seems so fucking crazy. I’ve never met this man other than the five minutes on Helaena’s roof. But when the tip of his finger traces around the skirt hem at my lower back, dipping just under until he meets the band of my thong, I’m not sure it matters. He doesn’t know it, but my expectations for tonight are high, and with that one action it’s already proving to meet them. When he pulls back the layer of fabric to expose the zipper of the skirt, I know I’m dealing with a man who knows what he’s doing. “I plan on touching all of you. I’m asking what you want. What are you here for?”
My brain seems to be turning to mush and as his hand works down the zipper of my skirt, parting the seam, I almost can’t remember why I’m here. Then he yanks the skirt of my dress down my hips, and I’m all too aware.
“Because I want to feel good—lose control.”
The rough plane of his hand smooths over the curve of my cheeks, tickling up the seam of my ass and under the strap of my thong, pulling it away from my skin before letting it go with a sharp snap. There’s no hesitancy there. Each touch of his body to mine firm and very deliberate. I press my forehead to the cool glass of the window, the heat of my skin welcome to the sensation.
“If you’re not in control, who is?” He leans into my ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and tugging at the earring with his teeth. I don’t know if it’s the game or the way even the slightest touch from him sends a current through me, but I’m under his spell.
“You,” I state simply. How is it possible to trust someone you know nothing about? Trust in them so freely that you’re willing to give your body over to their control?
But we don’t ask these questions of one another. I don’t allow myself to consider the danger of being in a hotel room with a stranger. I just feel him. His hand snakes around from my ass to flatten across my stomach as he pulls me back against him.
“You sure about that?” he asks. I can feel the press of each hard muscle under the thin material of his dress shirt against my back, the hard length of him against my ass, and I press into him because I can’t keep from it. He leans down, running his nose along my collarbone and up to my ear, breathing me in. I nod without question, hearing the satisfaction in his tone when he speaks.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He turns me swiftly, pressing my back to the glass and scanning my face. His words frighten and turn me on, but not nearly as much as the fire burning in his eyes.
“Take this off.” He toys with the strap of my top. Although sequined and intricately placed straps run in a pattern from my shoulders to where it stops above my navel, all that holds it together in the back is a singular clasp. I detach it and let the top fall forward and down my arms, discarding it on the floor and standing tall before him.
He doesn’t let his eyes drop from mine, but instead turns slowly and walks to the couch along the wall opposite me. He removes his suit jacket, turning and looking at me, unbuttoning his white dress shirt and laying it across the arm of the couch. I’m caught off guard by the detailed art that’s scrolled across his skin from his neck to his chest and all the way down his right arm. He moves to sit on the edge of the couch, legs apart and elbows perched on his thighs, looking every bit as gritty and gorgeous as he did standing in front of me, but now, somehow more.
“Now’s the time t
o get any boundaries out of the way. Once this starts, your body is mine and I don’t stop to think about what I do with it.” He unties the unmistakable Berluti dress shoe on each of his feet, never once removing his eyes from me as he places them to the side. His arms stretch wide across the back of the couch as he sits back and waits for my response. He’s all man, and not like any I’ve ever been with. A body built with an apparent lifetime of hard work and dedication. A gorgeous sculpture.
He wears his impatience well as I struggle to come up with an answer. Boundaries? Never have I been in a situation where sexual boundaries were a factor. If I didn’t know this man wasn’t like others I’d slept with before, I know now. It thrills and terrifies me.
“Is there a right answer to this question?”
He eyes me, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth, jaw flexing. I don’t want to answer this question because if I set boundaries I could be missing out on everything he’s capable of.
“Is there anything you aren’t willing to let me do to you?”
That’s a pretty loaded question. And despite the fact I’m looking through my fantasy glasses, I know I must consider the fact that I don’t know him, and that whatever I say, gives or doesn’t give him permission with my body. I chew the inside of my lip and really look at him, but all I see staring back at me is a man with all his cards on the table. I go with my gut.
“No.”
“I FEEL LIKE YOU STARTED something on that roof and I need to finish it.” I take a step closer and she presses her hands against the wall behind her. “What do you think?”
She chews at her lip, looking down briefly before looking straight into my eyes.
“I think I thought of way too many things I wanted you to do to me to just let my imagination go to waste.”
Well, fuck me.
