by CD Reiss
I’d seen enough movies to know I should wait, and Lil was at my door in two seconds flat, as if I was incapable of opening it myself.
“Go on in to the desk, and the concierge will take care of you.” She handed me a cardboard rectangle the size of a business card with a few numbers printed on the front. The word LOFT was printed on the top, in grey.
“Thanks,” I said. I walked up the steps and inside. When I showed the card to the Asian gentleman behind the lobby’s glass counter, I was still convinced I was either in the wrong building or the whole thing was a cruel joke.
He checked the card against something written in a leather book in a way that wasn’t rude but was somehow officious. I shifted a little in my waitress getup: a black wrap shirt and short skirt, from Target and the thrift store on Sunset respectively. I felt as though my clothes exposed me as an outsider or worse: a liar and sneak. But he looked up with a smile and said, “Down this hall behind me. Pass the first elevator bank and make a left. I’ll buzz you through the doors. There’s another elevator at the end of the hall. Take it to the top.”
“Thank you.”
My heels clicked on the concrete floors. I shrugged my bag close. I passed the first set of elevators and made the left. A pair of frosted glass doors stood in my way, and I noticed a camera hovering above them. A second later, a resonant beep preceded a click, and the doors whooshed open.
Beyond those doors, the hallway changed. The lighting was softer and came from modernist chrome sconces. The walls were a softer white, and when I got close, I saw the texture was silkier, somehow more nuanced. The oak and brass elevator didn’t look like a refrigerator, as most do, and it hummed in D minor and dinged in the same key before it whooshed open.
I stepped onto the floral carpet and hit the button that said Loft in block letters. The door closed, and the elevator took off without a sound. I closed my eyes, focusing on the force under my feet. The elevator’s movement somehow added to the pressure between my legs that maybe had more to do with the fact I was seeing Jonathan than the perfect speed of the vessel I stood in.
The doors opened onto a room made of glass overlooking the city. I could see the library, the Marriot, the whole skyline, and the miasma of smog hovering over it all. The marble floors had a gravitas all their own and were buffed to a shine that didn’t look cheap. The woodwork seemed to have gotten seven extra turns of the dowel.
The lobby was lightly populated with people speaking quietly. A clink of laughter. A klatch of young men in perfect suits. Leather couches. A chandelier as big as my garage. I couldn’t take it all in fast enough.
“May I help you?” The woman clasped her hands in front of her and bent a little at the waist. Her hair was twisted in an unremarkable bun and was an equally unremarkable color. She smiled in a way that was attractive but not stunningly so. Even though she wore a blue Chanel suit, her job seemed to be to appear as unthreatening as possible, and she was very good at it.
“Hi,” I said. I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do.
She noted the card I’d crumpled in my hand. “May I?”
“Oh.” I was so nervous I was being an ass. I was entitled to be there. I was invited. I had no reason to feel unworthy just because I didn’t know where I was. I handed her the card and stood up straighter, no thanks to my thrift store skirt and two-year-old shoes.
She thanked me and looked at the card. “Right this way. My name is Dorothy.”
“I’m Monica. Nice to meet you.”
She gave me a courteous smile and took me down halls and byways. When I noticed how many outer walls had windows, I remembered how the building had looked from the street. Places all over the city looked mysterious and inaccessible from the outside, and that warehouse was one of them.
Finally, Dorothy stopped in front of a door. “If you need anything, I’ll be your concierge. My number is on the card.”
She gave me a white card the size of a playing card, then opened the door.
“Thank you.” I didn’t know if I was supposed to tip her or say anything in particular, so I just slipped in. Dorothy clicked the thick wooden door shut behind me. Two walls were made of windows. A third wall made of shelves included wine, glasses, a bucket of ice, and a wet bar. The fourth wall had a huge oil painting that looked like a Monet or a damn good copy. The Persian carpet looked real. Antique couches flanked a six-foot long coffee table cut from a single tree.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
I spotted a bottle of Perrier and two glasses on a small table on the opposite side of the room, against a window, and walked over to it. The leather chairs next to the table were worn in the right places and their arms were bolted with brass studs. An envelope with the word “Monica” printed on the front balanced between the two glasses. I slid the note out. Printed on the club letterhead, which was embossed with silver, was,
Five minutes late – Jonathan.
I looked at my watch, then poured myself a glass of water and waited in the chair, humming and looking at the skyline. I was looking forward to seeing him and feeling his touch, the curves of his body, the heat of his mouth on mine.
When the door opened, it startled me. I stood up, still holding the short glass of bubbling water.
Jonathan tucked his phone away with one hand and carried a briefcase in the other. I’d only seen him at night, naked or in casual clothes and late day scruff. I’d never seen him clean-shaven and wearing a three-button herringbone tweed jacket with a windowpane white shirt and a tie the color of coal. A black silk square stuck out of his left chest pocket. Matte black cufflinks. All that was really nice. It brought out the shape of his body: straight, tall, with shoulders that didn’t need padding and a waist that didn’t pull his front buttons.
“Hi,” I said.
“You came.” He seemed genuinely surprised and placed his briefcase on the short table by the couches.
“Lil didn’t tell you?”
He stepped toward me. “She doesn’t answer the phone if she’s driving, which is most of the time.” He stood a foot from me, and I felt his gaze on my face. “And in a way, I didn’t want to know.”
I leaned into him, breathing a little heavier, just to take him in. “I have a gig later.”
“How much later?” He seemed to lean forward, too, though I couldn’t tell if it was a physical lean or the spear of his attention.
“Later.”
“Would you like to sit down?”
No, I didn’t. I wanted to put my body all over his. Instead, I sat when he did.
He poured himself a glass of Perrier and leaned back. “How have you been?”
“You had a driver pick me up to ask me that? You could have sent me a text and gotten the same answer.”
“What’s the answer?”
“I’ve been fine. Thank you.”
“Just fine?”
He wanted more. He wanted a way into a conversation about what he and I did really well. At least, that was what I was reading. “Fine,” I said, “and a little aroused most of the time.”
He smiled a true and genuine smile. “I think I missed you.”
“You think?”
He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not going to pretend I missed you the way I’d miss someone I know very well. But, okay, here’s an example. I’m in the office of the Korean Minister of Tourism. This is the guy who can approve the hotel or send me packing if I say the wrong word. My Korean is fluent, but not nuanced, so I have to pay attention.”
I leaned forward as well. “You speak Korean?”
“I live in Los Angeles. Do you want me to finish my story?”
I wanted him to bend me over and fuck me, but instead I said, “Yes. Finish.”
“He’s rattling off numbers, and somewhere in there is a mistake that will cost me a fortune if I only pay attention to the total, but I have to translate the numbers and find the flaw. Like he’ll say the permit is one, the fees are two, so
mething else is three, and it all equals ten, meaning the mistake is four. He considers that his bribe, which I’m not paying. But the numbers are bigger, and he’s talking fast so no one else in the room will get it. I can’t keep my mind on what he’s saying or who I’m paying because all I can think about ...” He paused as if he’d reached the important part. “All I can picture in my mind is spreading your legs.”
I cleared my throat to keep from smiling, but my face still split in a wide grin. For a second, I wondered if he hadn’t been trying to be funny, but when I saw his pleased expression, I knew I hadn’t insulted him.
“I wasn’t even thinking about sex,” he said. “I mean, I was, but just that moment when I put my hands on your knees and pulled them apart, and you leaned back and let me do it. I kept replaying it. That moment when you let me. Couldn’t add and subtract worth a dime. I’m sure I overpaid the man.”
My legs tingled, wanting the pressure of his hands between them. I pressed my knees together, waiting for him to do what he’d fantasized. “Well,” I said, “I’ve started sucking on ice cubes all day.”
“Ah. The porch.”
“I just smile until it melts. Debbie thinks I’ve lost my mind.”
He plucked a cube from his glass. “Maybe you have.” He reached out and put the ice to my mouth, brushing my bottom lip. I opened my mouth and circled around the edge. I flicked my tongue out, but he wouldn’t give it to me. A drop of cold water trailed down my chin, and he took the cube away, popping it into his mouth and crunching. “I want you,” he said.
My spine felt like a piano someone had just done scales down.
“I want to have you in ways that surprise me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“But I think we need clarity first.” Nothing followed but him looking into his glass.
I leaned back and sipped my water. “Go on.”
He tapped his fingertips together and looked out the window, stalling. I wasn’t about to interrupt.
“I’ve imagined a hundred ways to say this. They all sounded like I was trying to hurt you,” he started.
“Unless your dick fell off in Seoul, it can’t be anything that bad.”
He laughed and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll say it straight. I love my wife. My ex-wife. Nothing will ever change that.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t love anyone else.”
I got it. We could like each other forever, but he wouldn’t cross that line into love even if I did. I considered myself fair-warned. I had to let him know I was good with that, but I wasn’t his doormat either.
“I don’t want your heart,” I said. “I want your attention for a few hours at a time. I understand I’m one of many women you carouse around with.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How much carousing do you think I do?”
“A lot.”
“Based on what?”
“Rumor. And pictures on the internet.” My face burned red hot.
“The rumors are based partly on fact, I admit,” he said. “But carousing’s only carousing if I take them out. The pictures on the internet, I had my clothes on?”
“Parties and stuff.” I couldn’t look at him. I felt silly accusing him of being a whore with so little evidence.
“I have seven sisters. Most of them have been there for me since the divorce.”
How many women had been in the pictures? Not a hundred. But I assumed they were like roaches. If you see one on the counter, there are fifty more behind the cabinets. “How many times will this sister thing bite me in the ass?” I asked.
He smiled. “They’re a slippery bunch. All older. And protective.”
“You’re lucky. I’m an only. I attach to friends.”
He put his glass down and slipped his icy fingers between my knees, but he didn’t part them. A chill went up my thighs, to my belly, where the heat I’d been tamping for weeks raged. I could have closed my mouth right then, said nothing, opened my legs, and let him do whatever he wanted.
“I have something else to say,” I whispered.
“Tell me.”
“I’m a musician. It’s what I do. You can’t interfere. Even for the best sex of my life, you can’t get in the way of one rehearsal.”
“That’s the last thing I’d do,” he said.
“That also means if I start feeling as though my heart’s getting shredded, even if you’re being a pure gentleman, it won’t matter. We’re done. Even if you haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t have time for it.”
He ran his palms along my thighs, then back to my knees, his thumbs grazing the insides. I kept them closed. I wanted him to open me. I wanted the pressure of his fingers on my flesh, and I wanted to resist, just a little.
“I have another thing I’ve been thinking about,” he said.
“Go.”
He put his hands up my skirt and slid his fingers under my panties as if they weren’t even there. The intrusion was delicious, and my cheap knit skirt rode up until the triangle of my underwear was exposed. When he looked down, I felt like I was being touched again.
“I own your orgasms.” He pulled me forward to the edge of the seat before I could respond. His move was forceful, demanding, and left no room for questions.
“I don’t know what that means,” I gasped as he slipped my panties off. He put his finger under my right knee and placed it over the arm of the chair. I let him. I wanted him to. The less I resisted, the more aroused I became, especially when he did the same with the left leg. I was spread-eagled on the chair. My skirt rode up, leaving nothing between him and my sex.
“It means,” he said, running his hands up the insides of my thighs, “you come when I say. Not before. If I send you home without, you just deal with it until I see you again.” He looked at me as though he wasn’t sure how I’d react. His green eyes darkened in the afternoon light.
“My fingers reach, you know,” I said.
“Honor system,” Jonathan said, running a thumb on each wet lip, leaving a vibrating hum behind them, like a plucked string.
I groaned. Had it only been two weeks? With my butt sliding forward, my legs over the chair’s arms, and my pink wetness under his fingers, I felt as though I’d been pent up much longer.
“Ok.” I would have agreed to anything.
“Ok, what?” He knelt in front of me and kissed the inside of my knee before running his tongue up my thigh. I touched his shoulder, and he grabbed my wrists, placing my hands on my knees. “Say it.”
“You own my orgasms.”
“And?” He bit down, deep where my thigh creased into sex. The pain was sharp and perfect. I lost words for a second. “When do you come?” he asked. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading my legs farther apart. It didn’t hurt. It felt like surrender. It felt like giving myself over to his control. It felt safe.
“I come when you say,” I whispered.
“I’ve thought about nothing but this,” Jonathan said and put his tongue on my clit. He warmed it with his breath, not moving his tongue. I gasped and gripped the back of his head. He pulled his tongue away, and when I tried to push him back, he held my wrists in one hand. He sucked my clit, keeping my wrists in his tight grip. I was helpless under his tongue, the gentle counterpart to his rough hand. The tip of his tongue traced a line from my clit to my opening, teasing it, then sucking lightly. Warmth coursed through me. I threw my head back, breathing hard.
“Part of this,” he said, moving his tongue back to my thigh, “is you have to tell me when you’re close.”
“Okay.”
“You’re very agreeable today.” His green eyes looked at me over my crotch. I’d agree to anything that face asked.
“Next time, ask when I’m wearing pants.”
He crawled up and kissed me, and I tasted my juices on his tongue. My legs were still spread, and he was still fully dressed. He let go of my hands to brush his fingers over my breasts. I reached for his belt with one hand and felt the hardnes
s through his pants with the other.
“Let me,” I said.
“Later.”
“Now.”
“I own my orgasms, too,” he said.
“God, you are a greedy bastard.”
He kissed me again, then stood back, staring at me. I started to move one leg down, but he held my ankle.
“Don’t move yet,” he said. Then he stepped back.
I saw his erection under his perfectly fit trousers, and he seemed disinclined to hide it. All he did was stand there, smiling, and look at me with my sex out. I knew he wouldn’t fuck me, and I knew he wouldn’t let me come. Despite how unfulfilled that made me, because my body wanted him without a thought to any kind of agreement or rule, I knew he would draw our encounter out until I peaked with desire. I wanted him, and I’d wait as long as he told me to.
“It was a long flight,” he said. “I could use a drink.”
“And after that?”
“You said you had a gig.” He kneeled again.
I hoped for a second he would put his tongue back between my legs and finish the job, but he gently took my knees off the arms of the chair instead.
“Oh, man,” I said. “This orgasm thing is going to break me into a million little pieces.”
“What if it’s worth it?”
“I’m counting on it.”
Jonathan scooped my panties off the floor and held them open while I put my toes through, then he slid them back into place when I stood. He was still kneeling, with his hands up my thighs, when he said, “Pick up your skirt.” I did. He put his hands on my ass and kissed between my legs, through the fabric of my underwear. Nerve endings I didn’t know I had fired like rounds of ammunition.
A million little pieces, for sure.
three
“What do you drink, Monica?” Jonathan asked, as if realizing for the first time he had no idea. My mother would not have approved of our intimacy so soon, but Mom had never been at the raw wood bar in the lobby of Loft Club, either. She’d never seen the view of Los Angeles facing west, from downtown to the water, never been with a man besides Dad, never served drinks to seventy-five people a night or sung a note outside church. I stopped taking life lessons from my mother right about when I left my first love and started sleeping with Kevin.
