Chapter 2 of JUST ONE NIGHT: The Stranger

Chapter 2

Like college kids, we stop at a store in the lobby to buy our own liquor. I almost laugh as the cashier hands Mr. Dade a brown paper bag containing the bottle, as if we’re about to sneak off under some bleachers instead of up the tower of a luxury hotel. As if the plan’s to get drunk on cheap wine coolers rather than sip $200 scotch.

I’ve never been the girl under the bleachers but I don’t judge those who were.  Even as I rejected the idea for myself I could see that there was a certain clumsy innocence to that particular American tradition. Nothing about what I was about to do with Mr. Dade was innocent.

We don’t talk as he leads me to his room.  It’s a suite. I knew it would be.  The floor of the parlor holds enough square footage to hold a party. The untouched kitchen could accommodate a caterer. We don’t need all this space but I find its excess darkly delightful.

I hear him close the door and my eyes dart to the double doors to my right. I don’t have to ask to know what room they lead to.

I sense him walking up behind me now. I can feel the heat of him and I tense as I wait for his touch.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead he brings his mouth close to my ear. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, his voice growls as his words entice. “Take something off.”

I turn to face him. I can’t speak. Thoughts of Dave push their way into my consciousness. This is a betrayal. Can I live with this? Can I compartmentalize this one night from the rest of my life?

“You’re shoes,” he says, his smile teasing. “Take off your shoes.”

I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But I’m not safe. Not from him, not from myself. Keeping my eyes on his I ease down into a chair. He kneels before me and his fingers gently brush against my ankles as he unfastens the buckles of my heels. My legs are pressed tightly together. I’m not ready to show him my world. Not yet.

But as the shoes come off his hands slowly move up my calves, to my knees, to the outside of my thighs. Again the air I had just inhaled gets caught in my chest as I momentarily forget how to breathe. This skirt is so short, his hands keep getting higher and yet he hasn’t reached the hem…until he does, and he pushes it higher still…

…and then stops.

I wait, expecting him to go further but his hands fall away. “I’m going to pour you that scotch now,” he says.

And there it is again, that devious grin, that careful balance between urgency and patience.

He gets up and I close my eyes and try to find some balance. I hear the freezer open and close, then the clink of ice cubes falling into an empty glass. I don’t move. I can’t move. I was worried about something only moments ago, there was something I needed to think through…what was it? I can’t focus.

When I open my eyes he’s before me, a single drink in his hand, which he extends toward me. “You’re not joining me?” I ask. I’m whispering now. I’m afraid of breaking the moment…afraid of pulling myself out of this alternate reality. This is only a dream after all and if I keep it to myself it will feel more like a dream every day. But right now I’m not ready to wake up.

Mr. Dade’s smile widens as he places the glass in my hand. “Oh, I’ll be joining you.”

I sip the scotch and then sip again. It’s beautiful. Just like this room, with its warm gold hues and notes of luxury.

He takes back the glass. “My turn.”

He extracts an ice cube and then uses it to trace a path along the neckline of my dress. As the cool wet surface touches my breasts I feel my nipples harden as they reach out to him, begging him to go further. He responds by tasting the hints of scotch on my skin. Light kisses filled with heat, his hands now on my hips. I’m breathing again but each breath is shallow as I struggle to stay still.

He lifts the scotch glass again and brings it to my lips, tipping it back just slightly so that the smoky taste only trickles over my tongue. And then his fingers slip into the glass again and this time the melting ice is moved up my thighs. My body and my mind are no longer connected. I feel my legs part, only slightly at first but as he pushes my dress higher and higher I encourage him with increased access.

Again he lowers his mouth to the chilled scotch on my skin and I watch as he follows the trail up my legs. With a sudden and decisive movement he pulls my skirt up to my waist, which he now holds firmly in his hands as his mouth moves higher and higher. That flimsy little thong is the only thing that stands in his way. He removes one hand from my waist and he strokes the silky fabric.

Through lowered lids I see him smile again. I know what he’s thinking. The fabric is wet. It’s another invitation that I have no control over.

But it’s not enough for him. “Ask,” he says, his finger hooks around the waistband of my panties.

I feel my cheeks heat up once more.  A voiced request means that I won’t be able to say that I was just taken or that I wasn’t thinking. I’m ready to expose my body to him but now he’s asking me to share in this in a way that is so complete it terrifies me.

“Ask,” he says again.

“Please,” I murmur.

“Not good enough,” his voice is still soft but I can hear the edge of authority in his tone. “Ask.”

“Take them off.”

He raises himself up now so that he is leaning over me, his finger still hooked around the thin strap of my thong. “What exactly would you like me to take off?” The slight smile on his face doesn’t do anything to lessen his intensity.

“Please?” I speak so quietly I have to struggle to hear myself. “Please, take off my panties.”

“Louder please.”

Hesitantly, I raise my eyes to his. I can see the spark of mischief dancing there and it makes me smile. A surge of unexpected courage bursts through my soul and I reach forward and grab his t-shirt, bunching the cheap cotton up in my fist. “Please,” I say, pulling him closer, disturbing his balance. “Please take off my panties, Mr. Dade.”

And now his smile matches my own. The thong is ripped from my body and before I fully know what’s going on I feel the slight sting of Scotch against my clit immediately followed by the shocking warmth of an open mouthed kiss, a kiss not delivered to the lips from which I breath but to my very core.  His tongue tickles and teases. I groan and grasp at the seat beneath me but I have no time to get my bearings. He yanks me to my feet. He doesn’t need to search for the hidden zipper on this dress, he just intuitively knows where it is.  In an instant I’m wearing nothing.

Ah, the stares of those men in the casino were nothing, not even pale imitation of the look that Mr. Dade is giving me now. His eyes don’t just move over me, they consume me. I stand there, wanting, throbbing as he slowly circles me like a wolf planning his attack, like a tiger stalking a mate…

Like a lover, ready to worship.

I don’t reach for him, his eyes hold me as still as any rope ever could. Once the circle is complete he takes off his own shirt. His torso matches his arms, hard muscles under soft, vulnerable flesh. He pulls me to him and I can feel what I’ve done to him. His erection presses against my stomach.

I moan as I feel fingers push inside of me. First one, then two. He plays with me, stroking and probing as I shiver against him. I try to unbutton his jeans but my hands are shaking. I’m going to come, right here, standing up, pressed against him.

And then he has me against the wall, as he continues to caress. I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingernails in as I cry out. I explode and contract around his fingers. I breathe in and realize that traces of that woodsy cologne is now on my skin too. Nothing separates us.

I feel courageous and vulnerable, one more delicious contradiction. I finally manage to unfasten his jeans. And as I strip him of his remaining clothes it’s my turn to stare.

He’s beautiful and perfect and…impressive.

We might not make it to the bedroom.

With the tips of my fingers I explore every ridge until I make it up to the tip of his cock.

Cock; it’s not a word I use but my head is spinning and euphemisms suddenly hold no interest for me. I don’t want to see what’s happening through a soft focus lens. That’s not my fantasy.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he breathes. And then I’m being lifted into the air. My legs wrap around his waist, my back still pressed against that hard wall and again I cry out as he pushes inside of me, again and again.

I feel myself opening up for him. I feel everything.

And now we’re on the floor, the thin carpet beneath me adds a touch of gentleness as I scratch up his skin. His hands are on my breasts, then the small of my back. We’re moving to our own rhythm.  Each thrust brings me to a new level of ecstasy.

I didn’t know it could be like this.

It’s a cliché. A line every ingénue in every bad romantic comedy is forced to utter. The words are always spoken delicately as if our heroine has reached a new level of innocence.

This doesn’t feel innocent. This feels fucking amazing. It feels like I’m coming alive.

I didn’t know it could be like this.

It’s the last intelligible thought I have before he brings me to the brink again. I feel his shoulders tense under my grasp and then he pins my arms over my head and I cry out one more time as we come together, right there on the floor of a suite at the Venetian.

I didn’t know it could be like this.




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