Dirty

I saw him in the mirror first as he came in. He came up behind me, his eyes locked on mine in our reflections’ transposed gaze. The mole on his left cheek now on his right, my slightly higher right eyebrow arching now upon the left. His hands slid into place on my hips, his thumbs finding the twin dimples at the small of my back even through my shirt.

He said nothing. If he’d spoken, I’d have bolted. He didn’t speak. He was bold. Unfaltering. And even so, the glimpse of his face in the mirror showed that same odd mix of emotion in his eyes. Lust and admiration, with a sense of being honored.

He moved me with no hesitation to the last stall, the largest, and he locked the door behind us. Now I couldn’t see him, but he didn’t let me doubt what he wanted. He put my hands up, palms flat, against the cool ceramic tile. His hands slid beneath my skirt, over the tops of my elastic-topped stockings, then between my legs. He held me from behind, fingers curving upward to brush my clit.

I shuddered. I pressed my forehead against the wall. Closed my eyes. My thighs opened, and he spread them wider by sliding his foot between mine and pushing my right foot away from my left. His finger circled against me through the now-damp fabric of my panties.

I heard the small clatter of a metal buckle being undone, followed by the soft sigh of a button eased from its hole. The purr of a zip parting.

His fingers dipped down, then up, to slide inside my panties. He muttered a curse when his flesh met mine. He stroked a finger along my folds as though testing how slick I had become for him.

His chin pressed into my shoulder. His mouth nuzzled beneath my ear and I tilted my head to the side to allow him access to my neck.

The hand he’d used to loose himself now inched up my skirt. My fingers curled against slippery tile, finding nothing to grab. I bit back a moan when air hit my skin, the soft expanse of bare thigh and buttock exposed by my stockings and the edge of my panties. His palm caressed me, traced the curve of my ass.

I breathed in and in and in, forgetting to let the air from my lungs come out, too, until at last it hissed from between my lips in a long, shuddering sigh.

“You want this.”

His words were not a question, yet they demanded an answer.

“Yes.”

He put a finger inside me, then two, stretching me a little. He stroked me, in and out, a parody of what he would do with his cock. And I, shameless, trembled at that small touch and pushed myself against his hand to take him in as far as I could.

“My purse,” I murmured, wondering if he’d balk and preparing for this all to end if he did.

He withdrew. I sighed a protest. He laughed, the sound broken by the harsh intake of his breath.

“Give me half a minute, Elle,” he whispered into my ear.

I heard the jingle of my keys, then the crinkle of paper and sound of tearing, then a low groan as he eased on the condom. He paused, breath still hot against my neck, and a bolt of electric desire arced through me. It centered in my clit and radiated out through the rest of my body. Even my fingertips tingled. I imagined if the lights were off, I’d be glowing with it.

He pulled my panties over my hips and down past my knees, then pressed his cock against me. He nudged it along the cleft of my ass, then pushed between my thighs. His hand guided it toward my entrance, and he dipped down, then up, to push inside me.

“Fuck,” he muttered, then bit down on my shoulder as though to stifle a further outburst.

I gave a strangled cry when he filled me. It had been so long I was almost too tight, but I was so wet with arousal there was no friction. Only a delicious fullness.

He put his hands over my wrists, his front along my back, and slid my hands down on the wall until I bent more at the waist. I hadn’t thought he could move inside me any more, but that small shift in angle let him nudge my tender cervix, and I gave another low cry at the tiny spark of pain that did nothing to diminish the pleasure.

“Christ, you’re hot,” he murmured. “Like a fucking furnace…”

He began to move. Slow, smooth strokes at first, his hands anchoring my hips to keep me from moving. Then, after a few moments, faster. Harder. One hand slipped around front to press my clit in time to his thrusts.

The door to the restroom opened. Dan stopped for a moment, then kept on, pulling out and pushing inside me with excruciating slowness. His finger circled faster.

I heard voices, two chattering women who used the stalls at the far end of the room without a break in their conversation. One of them peed forever, a waterfall of piss, and a bubble of laughter leaked out of me.

My shoulders shook with the effort of keeping it inside. His breath puffed in silent glee on my neck. Stars, the result of lack of oxygen, danced in my vision and I drew in breath after shallow breath, trying not to make a sound.

I laughed, and laughing made me come, writhing against his hand and moving on his cock while he kept his movements almost stationary for silence.

They used the sink, still chattering. If they heard us, they paid no attention. Perhaps we managed to be quiet enough, or maybe the saga and drama of their lives was so enthralling nothing could tear their attention from it. I only know that the second the door closed behind them Dan began fucking me in earnest.

Hard and fast. The hand on my hip gripped tight enough to leave a bruise. The stroking hand stopped and held me. I came again, smaller but no less pleasurable, and throbbed on his palm.

His teeth grazed my neck. His mouth moved to my shoulder, and he muffled his outcry against my shirt. His cock jerked inside me, and he thrust once more, hard enough to smack my forehead on the tile wall.

It hurt, but it made me laugh again. Sex in real life is never like in the movies. The choreography’s always off. Most people, though, don’t like to laugh during sex. Something’s wrong there. It’s supposed to bring joy, isn’t it?

Dan’s hand squeezed my sides gently before he pulled out. My skirt fell back around my thighs, and I reached to pull up my panties from their place around my knees. He flushed the condom, tucked himself away, zipped up his pants, every movement businesslike and efficient like he’d done this dozens of times before. For all I knew, he had.

“I took care of the check,” he said, his voice suddenly too loud for the small space, and then he walked out.

What had I expected? I chided myself. The same face looked at me from the mirror, but this time the fading flush on my throat and cheeks were a sign of a woman not about to be fucked, but one who has already been. I searched my eyes for some sign of change, something inside me to indicate how this should make me feel. Remorse? Guilt? Smug satisfaction? I saw no evidence of them in my gaze, couldn’t feel it. All I could think of was the way I’d laughed and climaxed simultaneously.

Even so, I lingered at the sink to wash my hands and pat a dampened paper towel across my face. I fixed my hair, freshened my makeup, sprayed cologne to mask the scent of sex.

The parking lot had emptied, the lunchtime crowds gone. I came out into late-afternoon sunshine that had me pulling my sunglasses from my bag. A spring breeze plucked at the hem of my raincoat.

“Hey.”

I turned to see him standing just outside the front doors. He flicked a just-finished cigarette onto the pavement and took two strides to catch up to me.

“You took a long time,” he said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming out.”

I took a second to answer. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”

Something flickered in his eyes I couldn’t decipher. “No?”

I shook my head slowly.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you were finished. I figured you needed to get back to work.”

I’d taken a cab to the restaurant, but the bus stop was only a block away. I started walking. He let me go four steps before he followed me.

“So…you think I just left you there?”

I nodded again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. It was true. I hadn’t expected him to wait for me, had believed he’d gone. I hadn’t been ashamed of what we’d done until I found him waiting for me. When it became clear he expected not just a quick lunchtime fuck, but conversation after.

“That’s the sort of guy you think I am.” He had a way of phrasing questions in such a way he answered them himself.

I glanced at him. “Well, Dan, I don’t know what sort of guy you are, other than you’re careful, which I appreciate.”

Darkness passed over his features and he reached to grab my arm when I made to move forward again. “Elle—”

I extricated myself from his grip with firmness that could not be misconstrued. “Thanks very much for lunch, Dan.”

He let me get six steps this time before he followed. “Is that all you think I wanted? Is that what you expected?”

How could I explain to him, who seemed so affronted, that it was not only what I had expected, but all I wanted. Twenty minutes of oblivion to make me stop thinking.

He took two more quick steps to end up in front of me, walking backward to keep us face-to-face. “Elle.”

“That’s my bus.” I pointed at the one pulling up to the stop. I could be there in another minute, get on, go back to work.

“You’re not getting on that bus.”

“No? I think I am.”

He stood in front of me so I had to step around him to keep moving. He matched my move with one of his own, graceful, as though we were dancing. He wasn’t smiling, but then, neither was I.

“Elle,” he said warningly. “Don’t walk away from me.”

I might have liked it when he was leading me unerringly toward sex, but I didn’t like his assumptions now. “I’ll walk wherever I want.”

Again he stepped in front of me. The bus, its driver apparently taking Dan’s side, pulled away. I glared. This time he let me move forward.

“Now you have to talk to me,” he said.

“No,” I retorted. “I don’t.”

“But you want to.”

“Look,” I said, whirling on him. “Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do!”

“I didn’t say it did!” He frowned. “I think it at least gives me the right to have you not think I’m an asshole.”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole.”

He moved closer. “Then what do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a man,” I replied, not caring if that offended him.

Dan didn’t look offended. He grinned. “Glad you noticed.”

I wanted to be angry with him. I wanted to feel disdain. Yet as I’d waited for shame or remorse in the bathroom, anger and disdain eluded me, too.

“Look,” I said finally. “We had a nice lunch—”

“We did.”

“And what happened, after—”

“Also nice. We forgot dessert.”

I paused. “But let’s not kid ourselves it was anything more than what it was. All right?”

“Elle,” Dan said seriously. “Why not?”

The bus stop was ten steps away, but I kept walking past it. He followed. I walked faster.

“Why not?” He asked again, softer this time, and reached to grab my elbow.

I didn’t pull away this time. I let him turn me. He put both hands on my elbows, holding me in place.

“Why not?

A thousand explanations raced through my mind, but only one slipped from my tongue. “Because it’s not what I do.”

“Take off your sunglasses. I want to see your eyes when you talk to me.”

I sighed, belabored, but complied. He met my gaze, searching my eyes like they held a clue, a key, a treasure map. His fingers curled on my arms.

“Why not?”

I could only stare at him for a long moment while traffic passed us by and birds chattered among the branches of a tree in springtime bloom. “I just don’t.”

“You don’t what?” The tone was gentle, the words nonthreatening, but I could give him no answer. “You don’t date?”

“No.”

He studied my face. “But you fuck in bathrooms.”

I jerked from his grasp and set my feet to the sidewalk again. “I’ve never done that before.”

This time I thought for sure he’d let me go. I made it to the corner before he reached my side again. I didn’t look at him.

“I want to see you again.”

I stopped, shoulders hunching in resignation that this conversation would not end until he was satisfied. “Why, Dan?”

“Because I didn’t get to see your face this time.”

Just like that, desire sliced me open like a samurai sword and left me gasping for breath. I hid it with a shake of my head and a scowl. He didn’t grab me to stop me this time, just murmured my name in a low voice that halted my feet as though I’d stepped in glue.

“Because you have the sexiest laugh I’ve ever heard in my life, and I don’t think I could stand knowing I’d never hear it again.”

Why is kindness so much harder to believe than cruelty?

I didn’t want to believe him. I wanted to think he was full of empty words. I wanted to walk away from him. I wanted all those things, but in the end, had none of them.

“I don’t date.” The reply sounded lame, even to me.

Dan grinned. “So we won’t date.”

“What,” I asked, refusing to smile though the corners of my mouth insisted on tilting upward, “will we do?”

“Whatever you want, Elle,” Dan said. “Whatever you want.”

Chapter 04

Whatever I wanted. An easy thing to promise, but not so easy to request. I didn’t know what I wanted. I only knew I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Marcy cornered me by the coffee machine. “Where’d you go on Friday? You ditched us!”

“I got a headache.” The lie tripped easily off my tongue. “You two were looking pretty cozy by the bar, so I just snuck out.”

She seemed satisfied with that answer, then prattled on about her night with Wayne. The cologne he wore. The brand of shampoo he preferred. The way he liked his eggs. She stopped midsentence to stare at me.

“What?”

I’d been transfixed by her commentary, but now I finished pouring my coffee. “Nothing.”

I didn’t want to tell her I envied her. I wasn’t sure I did. I’d been in love before, with disastrous results.

“Did something happen at The Blue Swan?”

I shook my head. “No. Should it have?”

“Hell, yeah.” Marcy tossed her blond hair over one shoulder. “It should have. Definitely. But…nothing? We lost you after you went to get the drinks. Thought maybe someone swept you away.”

“Oh.” My laugh sounded forced and lame. “Nothing like that, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t look convinced, but I didn’t give her any more of the story.

Dan didn’t wait to call me the way I had.

“Hello, Miss Kavanagh. Daniel Stewart calling.”

“Yes, Mr. Stewart. How can I help you?”

“I read a good review about the film showing at the Allen Theater this weekend. I’d like to make an appointment with you to see it.”

“An appointment?” He’d caught me washing dishes left over from breakfast. I cradled the phone against my shoulder while I swirled a soapy sponge over my bowl and rinsed it.

“Yes. I believe you said you didn’t go on dates.”

“I said I didn’t date. Not that I didn’t go on dates.”

“Ah. Fine line, there.”

I imagined him running a hand through his hair, maybe wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He’d have a leather couch. Big-screen television set. Plants a housekeeper watered and plucked the dead leaves from.

I finished with my dishes and set the kettle on to boil water for tea. “I go on an occasional date.”

That wasn’t quite true. I hadn’t been on a date in a long time. Longer than I’d forgone sex, as a matter of fact.

“You’re changing your story on me, Elle. That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.” I wiped off my table and replaced the napkin holder in the center.

“Elle.” His voice reached through the phone and stroked me from head to foot. I closed my eyes. “You want to go with me to the movies.”

I leaned against my counter, an arm folded across my stomach to support the one holding the phone. I thought for a moment. “Yes. I do.”

“Good,” he said, as though that settled things. And it did.

He took me to an arty, independent film with subtitles, the plot of which I had difficulty untangling but enjoyed anyway for its lush visuals. We had dessert in the theater’s attached coffee shop, where he challenged me to a game of Scrabble in which he spelled words like “cleft” and “slick” for a triple word score. We traded limericks, and he seemed impressed I knew so many. We laughed so loudly we turned heads, and I didn’t even care. He didn’t touch me, though I wanted him to.

He invited me back to his apartment for drinks. I agreed. I wanted to see the place where he lived. I wanted to see his bed.

He served me Guinness in a pint glass and didn’t insist on using coasters, though his furniture looked new enough to require them. He settled down beside me on his leather couch as easily as though we’d spent months together instead of hours, and he asked me questions about the movie as if he cared about the answers.

I’m not completely socially incompetent. I do have to know how to interact with clients, give presentations, make appointments, shake hands and make small talk. I can do those things sufficiently, if not with ease. If anything, I would imagine people would describe me as aloof, taking my silence at times for standoffishness rather than awkwardness. I’m still the girl who sat in the front of the class, ready to answer all the teacher’s questions. I just lost most of the answers somewhere along the way.

Dan didn’t make me think too hard. He led me through the maze of conversation without hesitation, as easily as if he’d taken my hand to keep me from stumbling over a crack in the pavement. He talked a lot about himself, but not in an obnoxious way. It soothed me to hear his anecdotes of high school soccer games and college frat parties. I didn’t have stories like that. Normal stories. Hearing the tales of others fascinated me. Maybe it should have made me bitter with envy, but it didn’t, not any more than a fairy story made me envy the princess who could weave gold from straw.

Anyone who’s ever spent time with someone who seems enthralled with every word you say knows how intoxicating that can be. His eyes watched my mouth move. He listened to me, engaged me in conversation, drew forth answers that surprised me with their honesty. I told him about my house and my job, my favorite television show and the fact I love anything chocolate but not hot fudge.

All because he listened. Was I so starved for admiration his good manners seemed like more to me? No. It was him, Dan, entirely, and the fact he listened to learn about me, not as a reason to have me learn about him.

I was in the middle of a sentence when he leaned in to kiss me. The contact startled me. I hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t had time to turn my face. His mouth was soft and warm on my lips. I tasted salt from the popcorn. His hand came up to touch my face, strong fingers on my cheek.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kiss him on the mouth, that gesture more intimate than taking him inside my body. I turned my face, broke the kiss, didn’t finish my sentence.

“No?” He asked, breath hot on my ear.

“No.”

He slid his hand down to caress my breast. “But this.”

I turned my head to look into his eyes. “Yes.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Got harder. His hand slid up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. He pulled, tilting my head back and exposing my throat.

“And this,” he said, pressing his lips to the spot where my pulse beat, beat, beat, skipping.

His teeth grazed my skin, and I gave a little gasp. “Yes.”

His mouth trailed lower, to the jut of my collarbone. His fingers tightened in my hair, and I gasped again at the mingled pleasure/pain. He sucked my skin between his teeth, the tip of his tongue circling against it. His other hand found my breast and he thumbed my nipple erect. His hand slid lower, between my legs.

“And this.”

“Yes…” The word sighed out of me.

“Stand up.”

I did.

“Take off your clothes.”

My hands went to the buttons on my shirt. I slid them from the holes, my fingers trembling. Fear and fierce desire can almost feel the same, sometimes. I slipped off the shirt, let it fall to the floor in a way I’d never done if alone.

I wanted to see his eyes fill with desire, hear him hiss in a breath at the sight of me. Dan watched me, his face unreadable. I flushed, heat creeping up my throat to paint my cheeks. I wanted to put my hands on them to cool them. Instead I undid the button and zip on my skirt and let that puddle to the floor, too.

I wore fine things beneath my clothes, panties and bra of black lace and satin and flattering cut. The bra pushed my breasts together, creating creamy-skinned cleavage. The panties rode low on my hips and cut high in the back to reveal the curve of my ass. The black looked darker against my skin, pale from being kept out of the sun, and I knew he could see the darker triangle of the hair between my thighs.

I stood in front of him, trying not to shake, though the desire that had made my fingers tremble now made my legs want to buckle. I’d been naked in front of men before. Had let them look at my body, judge it, praise or find flaws with the curve of belly, the jut of my hipbones, the weight and shape of my breasts. For them, I’d worn my body the way I wore my clothes, as something practical to be used for a purpose. A function.

In front of Dan, I’d become more than hip and thigh and cunt. He looked at my body knowing my real name, the way I drank my tea, the sound of my laughter. My nakedness came from what he knew about me, what I had let him know, those tiny, irrevocable intimacies I never share with anyone.

“The rest. Take those off, too.” His voice had grown thick, proof of his desire, and it gave me courage.

This part I knew. How a glimpse of pink could render a man mindless. We all have the same parts, us women, yet every man I’ve ever been with has looked at me as though he’s never seen a naked woman before. There is power in our bodies that men don’t have, secret and hidden places they yearn to explore over and over. Women’s bodies hold the mystery of blood and life, not just pleasure.

I reached behind me to unhook my bra, the movement thrusting my breasts forward. I watched him watch me as I let the straps fall down my shoulders. As I let the cups fall away to reveal my flesh.

He leaned back against the couch, his cock pushing at the front of his khaki pants. I wasn’t the only one flushing. Red tinged his cheeks, too, and he licked his mouth as he watched me.

“The panties.”

I hooked my thumbs in the sides of the lace and eased them over my hips. I did it slowly, enjoying the look on his face as he focused. I parted my thighs and cocked my hip, slid the fabric down my ass and over my thighs, then let them fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them and stood, at last, completely naked.

“Fuck,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. “Turn around.”

I did, one rotation.

“Touch yourself.”

The request surprised me but I was already complying. I held my breasts, my nipples responding to my touch as quickly as if my hands were his. I slid my thumbs over the tight buds, then ran my hands down my sides, over my belly, down my thighs. I put one hand over the hair between my legs, cupping my center and pressing the heel of my hand against my clit.

“Fucking hell, you’re hot.”

My flush grew deeper, more blush than flush this time. His praise thrilled me and eased the fear that always accompanies being naked in front of another.

“Elle,” Dan said, “tell me you want me to fuck you.”

Simple words to describe an act with so much variation.