Rose carries the unshakable conviction that her weekend is going to be a success. She skips Friday afternoon knock-off drinks with the office crowd in favour of starting her journey at 5pm. She heads out of the building, on a mission.
Everyone has moments of clarity: remembering for example, how trees are bigger than people (and make much more satisfying noises than people ever will); how clouds are always above us when it's light (it only pays to look up); that the best cure for malaise is a brisk walk, to clear the cobwebs.
This was not one of those moments.
This was a dried-biscuit-and-fireworks feeling in the pit of Rose's stomach. She flashes a grin at the doorman on her way out, surprising even Ralph with its wattage. He waves as she passes and goes back to his magazine. Sometimes it feels to Ralph like he lives and died by Rose's stunning smiles.
Rose catches a cab to the airport. She has an hour and a quarter before her flight. Briefly, she entertains the idea of a last minuting shopping spree to splurge on a sexy outfit. As quickly as she thinks of it, Rose dismisses the idea. It doesn't seem very smart to pretend to be someone she isn't. Rose purses her full lips and absently runs a hand through her hair. Her brown tresses fall past her shoulders, catching the sun through her fingers, turning her highlights to streaks of gold. Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses. The cab driver thinks Rose is staring with some fascination at the scenery, in actuality she's miles away, wondering what awaits her in Auckland.
Rose decided weeks ago that the first night was not the right time to meet up with him. After half a dozen hours in transit, late at night, she knows she will be feeling neither fresh, nor amazing. Rose wants their first meeting to be dazzling. A lover's first impression should never be dispassionate and she wants him to melt for her, this man she has only ever encountered by correspondence.
Rose sighs. As lasting impressions go, the first is always the most deadly. She has planned things so their meeting is tomorrow, at 3pm. It means she has the whole night ahead of her, one more long night to let her imagination run rampant. Behind her glasses, Rose closes her eyes.
At the airport Rose checks in and heads for the business lounge. She takes a salmon canapé and orders champagne. In the act of retrieving her novel from the depths of her pink handbag at her feet, Rose notices shoes parked on the carpet in front of her seat, shoes that connect to expensive trousers, encasing sturdy legs. She looks further up into azure blue eyes framed by dark brown hair. The overall effect is unsettling. She wonders if he has the slightest inkling as to how good- looking he is.
He grins, stepping back. Her stranger looks away, raking his hand through his hair in a time-honoured habit. No, thinks Rose, this man has no idea he is devastatingly handsome.
“Something I can help you with?”
“My English is not good.”
Rose bites back a sigh. His accent rolls and crests on the brittle English words. Italian? Spanish? His bedroom eyes explore her face. She can't resist the urge to thrust out her hand, by way of a greeting. Her new acquaintance takes it in his warm, much larger hand and persuades her to her feet. Once there, he towers over her, right before he leans down to kiss both of her cheeks, gently, by way of a greeting. Rose releases the sigh this time.
Everyone has moments of clarity: remembering for example, how trees are bigger than people (and make much more satisfying noises than people ever will); how clouds are always above us when it's light (it only pays to look up); that the best cure for malaise is a brisk walk, to clear the cobwebs.
This was not one of those moments.
This was a dried-biscuit-and-fireworks feeling in the pit of Rose's stomach. She flashes a grin at the doorman on her way out, surprising even Ralph with its wattage. He waves as she passes and goes back to his magazine. Sometimes it feels to Ralph like he lives and died by Rose's stunning smiles.
Rose catches a cab to the airport. She has an hour and a quarter before her flight. Briefly, she entertains the idea of a last minuting shopping spree to splurge on a sexy outfit. As quickly as she thinks of it, Rose dismisses the idea. It doesn't seem very smart to pretend to be someone she isn't. Rose purses her full lips and absently runs a hand through her hair. Her brown tresses fall past her shoulders, catching the sun through her fingers, turning her highlights to streaks of gold. Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses. The cab driver thinks Rose is staring with some fascination at the scenery, in actuality she's miles away, wondering what awaits her in Auckland.
Rose decided weeks ago that the first night was not the right time to meet up with him. After half a dozen hours in transit, late at night, she knows she will be feeling neither fresh, nor amazing. Rose wants their first meeting to be dazzling. A lover's first impression should never be dispassionate and she wants him to melt for her, this man she has only ever encountered by correspondence.
Rose sighs. As lasting impressions go, the first is always the most deadly. She has planned things so their meeting is tomorrow, at 3pm. It means she has the whole night ahead of her, one more long night to let her imagination run rampant. Behind her glasses, Rose closes her eyes.
At the airport Rose checks in and heads for the business lounge. She takes a salmon canapé and orders champagne. In the act of retrieving her novel from the depths of her pink handbag at her feet, Rose notices shoes parked on the carpet in front of her seat, shoes that connect to expensive trousers, encasing sturdy legs. She looks further up into azure blue eyes framed by dark brown hair. The overall effect is unsettling. She wonders if he has the slightest inkling as to how good- looking he is.
He grins, stepping back. Her stranger looks away, raking his hand through his hair in a time-honoured habit. No, thinks Rose, this man has no idea he is devastatingly handsome.
“Something I can help you with?”
“My English is not good.”
Rose bites back a sigh. His accent rolls and crests on the brittle English words. Italian? Spanish? His bedroom eyes explore her face. She can't resist the urge to thrust out her hand, by way of a greeting. Her new acquaintance takes it in his warm, much larger hand and persuades her to her feet. Once there, he towers over her, right before he leans down to kiss both of her cheeks, gently, by way of a greeting. Rose releases the sigh this time.
“Do you fly to Auckland?”
“No. I'm going to Darwin. To surf.”
Rose laughs, a full unselfconscious sound that lights up her face. She is oblivious to the effect she creates. The man sees a beautiful, uninhibited woman before him, laughing without restraint. Too bad it is at his own expense. He too bites back a grin, betrayed by his dimples.
“You don't surf in Darwin.”
“But it is close to 'Sunshine Coast'?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No. It's not.”
He still hasn't let go of her hand. Now he turns it and kisses the inside of her palm. Rose shivers He smiles (only one dimple this time), blue eyes dancing.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Please, join me.” She gestures at her table and the empty seat opposite. “I have ordered champagne.”
He saunters over to a small bar tucked away in a corner. Rose wonders what his name is. When he rejoins her, he carries a neat, straight scotch.
“I'm not a regular visitor” She says into the silence as he sits.
He is dressed like a man fresh from a business deal. He doesn't wear a suit like any businessman Rose has ever seen, he exudes masculine strength.
“No? I fly frequent. This is the first time after a conference, I decide to stay. I am meeting my girlfriend.” He coughs, excusing himself. “In the Northun Territories”
Rose's flute of bubbles arrives. She takes a sip. It's lovely and cold.
“That sounds like it will be fun.” Her voice is measured.
He has a girlfriend, she thinks, what a shame.
“Super-wonderful.”
His full lips round on the unfamiliar words, fleetingly, she wonders if he could be German.
“You have to excuse me. My English in Inta -mitten”
He says it like a wonderful typewriter sound. Rose's pretty lips turned at their corners.
“I like you...” She lets the moment take hold. Rose takes a breath. “What is your name?”
“Roman.”
“Like the novel? ”
His expression is confused.
“A novel?”
“A book. Like a book. I think Roman is French for this.”
“Ah. Yes.”
Rose tries out his name, this new acquaintance, with the sparks in his eyes.
“Roman?”
“Mmm?” He takes a sip of his scotch, looking so delectable it knots her stomach.
Her mysterious stranger swirls the single malt in his ice-less glass. Rose can smell it too, peaty and strong. Suddenly she sits down. I want to be that scotch, Rose thinks. He sips, regarding her with amusement.
“I sweep you?”
“Yes.”
The air from her lungs escapes in a rush. How could he possibly have known? She eyes her random stranger, her interest piqued.
“Where are you from?”
“You ask, beautiful lady. But you don't know. I come from Naucalpan de Juárez ”
“O.K.” Rose smiles hesitantly. He's right; she has no idea where it is.
“It does not matter.”
His voice makes her brain freeze. He's probably 25, she thinks, possibly 27. She is a few years older than he.
“I have an idea.”
He leads Rose by the hand, she brings her glass. They stare out the window at the Boeing 747's lining the runway. In the silence Rose sneaks a glance at his fine features only to find him staring back.
“You are the freshest flower.”
“You're English is adorable.”
“Not happily so.” Roman sighs. “It is more... honest. I have no ways to give truth fancy-dress.”
“I like this.” She sips her champagne.
“Me or your drink?” His eyes sparkle.
“Both.” Rose knows she is flirting, can't seem to stop herself.
Roman's impossibly blue eyes pierce hers.
“I have a suggest. We are in a different situation, if it is passed and will be no more. Come with me?”
Rose sets her champagne aside and wipes her pretty lips. Roman shakes his head, raising his own glass. He drains it and sets it down.
Roman takes her hand and leads her away from the bustle of the main waiting lounge. They walk down carpeted corridors that change from brown and gold, to maroon and red. It doesn't mean anything, Rose tells herself. She appreciates the way her companion smells, like basil, she decides and fennel seeds and tangerine. She wonders if he knows he smells of heaven. For a brief moment Rose entertains the idea of explaining it to him. It could be a lengthy task.
They arrive at a counter, a young man sits behind it, his complexion the colour of a Las Vegas holidays and his voice the timbre of honey.
“Mr Aguilar.”
“Thank you, Tim”
Tim opens the door politely and they enter an exclusive lounge. The hardwood door closes behind them. Rose glances at her watch; she still has over half an hour before her boarding call.
“Where are we?”
Roman doesn't answer. Three padded leather stools have been arranged at a small bar, the room is narrow, but not claustrophobically so. A couch lines one wall. In front of the couch is a large oval rug and this time, an atrium frames the view of the airport runway. Rose wonders about her acquaintance. Clearly he is no struggling backpacker.
“A seat?” His chivalry is courageous.
“Thank you.” She sits.
Unselfconsciously, her escort sinks to his knees before her. The bar attendant slips from the room almost soundlessly and suddenly they are alone. Rose bites her lip.
“I don't understand?”
“I don't want you to.” Roman smiles and his dimples win her over.
“What I want?”
He pauses as if for effect, but it's hard to tell if he just searching for words.
“Just you to feel.”
Roman dips his finger into the whisky in his hand and he closes the distance between them. Kneeling between her legs, in his expensive grey silk shirt and matching tie, Roman looks like an exotic demi-god. He spreads a drop of scotch on her rose-coloured mouth. Rose isn't sure what to think. Her inherent cynicism stirs, doubt threatens to override the clamour of her body and might have won, if not for the flint in his blue eyes.
Roman stares as though transfixed. Does he do it to play on her weakness? She touches his broad shoulders. His tangerine and basil scent is too close for comfort. Rose is torn, part of her wants to push him away and her senses reel. She licks her lips and makes her choice. Rose loosens his tie, admiring the outline of his thick, provocative lips. She imagines how those same lips would fair, wrapped around his native tongue, as opposed to her own.
“Can I kiss you?”
It is Rose asking, not Roman. He feigns surprise.
“Of course. We have some moments. I like to piece them in line”
“You mean together.”
“Maybe I do...”
Roman picks up her chin, beneath the tip of one finger and his thumb, guiding her face to his.
“Estoy perdido. Estoy en el mar de tus ojos.”
When he kisses her it is as though a door to a forgotten part of Rose's brain swings open. He tastes of whisky and secrets. Rose opens her mouth and welcomes his tongue, hoping to place the feeling of longing and déjà vu that his touch awakens within her. Heat suffuses her limbs and she leans into his caress. Her hands, until now, pressed flat against his formidable chest; begin their ascent, seeking to twine around his neck.
Roman breaks away from her. After he stops, he plants a closed-mouth kiss on her lips, holding her cheek tenderly with the rough palm of one hand. His thumb strokes her bottom lip. There is nothing tender about the naked flame in his eyes. Everything she needs to know is written in those smouldering depths.
“ ...”
Rose can't face the thought of him conjuring up clichés, stolen from midday movies or struggling to find words.
“Shhh.”
Rose extracts herself. She steps out of his arms, trembling and wanders around the little room. It is such a strange place, saturated in style and seclusion. Rose walks to the bar. She glances nervously at the padded door. Roman shakes his head, they will not be disturbed. The counter on which bar staff would normally prepare drinks is just below waist height, made from stainless steel and maintained at a high polish. She runs her hand along the spotless surface.
Rose jumps up and sits. Her ripe arse hits the cold metal and the durable cotton drill of her skirt keeps her legs together. Rose wriggles her hips and slides the material of her skirt up her thighs, loosening the strain on her flesh and freeing her legs. Her stay-up stockings peep out, delicately fringed with lace. Rose's heart thumps in her breast. She turns, finding Roman already making his way towards her with steady, feline grace.
Their eyes meet. Rose stretches one provocative leg until the tip of her toe reaches the counter opposite. Roman walks into her long-legged embrace. She knows her knickers are visible, Rose is reckless, flushed. They have so little time. She refrains from sliding a finger over her swollen, lace clad slit. Roman has no such restraint. Feasting on the sight of her; ripe and splayed, he notes the pussy juice soaking through her underwear and the invitation in her eyes.
He kisses her lips and wastes no time running a thick, appreciative thumb along the wetness of her slit. Rose sighs. He moves his kisses to her neck where he nibbles and sucks. Roman runs his shaking fingers up the back of her spine, through her hair. Sparks ignite in Rose's chest, fire spreads to the sensitive lobes of her ears, her nipples and fingertips.
Rose alters the position of her long legs; her thighs press him closer, drawing him in. At the juncture of her thighs, his fingering switches from provocative, light pussy-pampering to sensuous strokes. Encouraged by her shallow breath and the flush in her cheeks, Roman's firm fingers set aside the material, sliding in to teasing her sopping slit.
Rose reaches for his belt buckle, flicks and releases him, her blue eyes bright with lust. Roman stops her. He merely guides her hands to the teeth of his zipper. She reaches in past the crisp cotton of his boxers, claiming his rigid cock. His expression clouds, his wide, sexy mouth hangs open. He pants in anticipation, suddenly looking much younger.
“I never do this”
“My cunt is a foregone conclusion”
Roman's expression is quizzical. Rose curses herself for using too many words. She doesn't hesitate, anxious not to break the spell. Her hand guides his cock to where her body throbs for him. She shuffles her arse towards his pretty penis on the stainless bench, aching, dripping with anticipation. Rose grips his butt as best she can. Feverish, splayed, she encourages him into her, impaling herself. Her eyes are wide with delight. As she succeeds, Rose withdraws her hand. Her movements stun Roman.
He surges into her delicious pussy, his cock becoming even harder. He strokes. Rose wants to be able to lean back on her hands and enjoy the view but he doesn't let her go. He holds her close, keeping their bodies together, one hand moulded to the contours of her back, the other sweeping over her breast with his palm. He kneads gently, just as his cock head pulls out to thrust into her, deep and sure. Tangerine and fennel seeds. Beneath the layers of fabric, Rose feels her aching nipple respond.
He wraps his hands gently but firmly around her thighs, keeping her there, thrusting, and dividing Rose's vision into stars. Her hands rove across his face, touching his lips and he licks her fingers appreciatively. Their eyes lock, the world forgotten, save for the delicious sensation of their sticky flesh pressed together, his grinding cock in her cunt in the ultimate, intimate embrace.
Shock waves of pleasure rock Rose's body. She tenses. He kisses her hard on the mouth. Rose cums on his cock, driven to madness by the insistent rubbing of his zipper on her clit. As the waves of ecstasy hit home, Rose opens her mouth. She squirms. Roman drives his tongue into her soft recesses and sups, mimicking the action of his cock.
She opens herself entirely to him. He tastes her orgasm in the tangy sweetness of her tongue. It feels like a mini-triumph, as though he has tamed her just for one moment in time. Roman grunts and rocks his hips, pushing his cock deeper, feeling the meat of her delectable pussy closing over his member. She is too tight, too hot and too willing. He cums.
Rose descends to earth in the narrow room, grounded by the sound of his rapid breathing. He holds her head, his chest rising and falling. Rose drops her hands to encircle his waist. They stay like that, cooling, skin to skin.
Rose is the first to move, she breaks the spell. Her hands drop to her sides and she lowers her legs. Roman looks down at his new lover. Her blue eyes mirror his own, bright with confusion and wonder. In their burnished depths is a kindled fire, beginning to cool. She shivers, not from the cold, from an indescribable affliction, unlike anything she has ever known.
“I have to go.”
Roman lifts her gently to the ground.
“I have to make my plane.”
His dimpled smile appears slowly, only one side of his mouth curls upward.
“Rose.” He makes it sound like sunset. “I would learn this English language better, for you.”
Rose feels a strange ache in the back of her throat, as though she has swallowed a pool ball.
She touches his swollen lips. “Today, we spoke.”
He hangs his head. She rises on her toes to reach his lips, one last time.
Rose straightens her skirt and runs her fingers through her hair. She picks up her pale pink handbag and makes her way to the door. Roman remains standing, adjacent to the bar. His hair is dishevelled and his shirt slightly creased, a forgotten belt hangs loosely on his hips, undone. Rose smiles. He looks bemused, delirious, hands thrust deep in his pockets and his zipper gapes.
“It was a treat.” Tears catch in her voice. She clears her throat and turns to go.
“I claim you, Rose.”
Perhaps she doesn't hear him. She doesn't respond and slips from the room. In the passage Rose is greeted by an airline employee. He radios through and they briskly make their way, winding through the maze of exclusive corridors. Within minutes, Rose is at her gate, ready for boarding.
Her rubbery lips and her shaking hands are the only reminder of her brief encounter.
“ ...”
Rose can't face the thought of him conjuring up clichés, stolen from midday movies or struggling to find words.
“Shhh.”
Rose extracts herself. She steps out of his arms, trembling and wanders around the little room. It is such a strange place, saturated in style and seclusion. Rose walks to the bar. She glances nervously at the padded door. Roman shakes his head, they will not be disturbed. The counter on which bar staff would normally prepare drinks is just below waist height, made from stainless steel and maintained at a high polish. She runs her hand along the spotless surface.
Rose jumps up and sits. Her ripe arse hits the cold metal and the durable cotton drill of her skirt keeps her legs together. Rose wriggles her hips and slides the material of her skirt up her thighs, loosening the strain on her flesh and freeing her legs. Her stay-up stockings peep out, delicately fringed with lace. Rose's heart thumps in her breast. She turns, finding Roman already making his way towards her with steady, feline grace.
Their eyes meet. Rose stretches one provocative leg until the tip of her toe reaches the counter opposite. Roman walks into her long-legged embrace. She knows her knickers are visible, Rose is reckless, flushed. They have so little time. She refrains from sliding a finger over her swollen, lace clad slit. Roman has no such restraint. Feasting on the sight of her; ripe and splayed, he notes the pussy juice soaking through her underwear and the invitation in her eyes.
He kisses her lips and wastes no time running a thick, appreciative thumb along the wetness of her slit. Rose sighs. He moves his kisses to her neck where he nibbles and sucks. Roman runs his shaking fingers up the back of her spine, through her hair. Sparks ignite in Rose's chest, fire spreads to the sensitive lobes of her ears, her nipples and fingertips.
Rose alters the position of her long legs; her thighs press him closer, drawing him in. At the juncture of her thighs, his fingering switches from provocative, light pussy-pampering to sensuous strokes. Encouraged by her shallow breath and the flush in her cheeks, Roman's firm fingers set aside the material, sliding in to teasing her sopping slit.
Rose reaches for his belt buckle, flicks and releases him, her blue eyes bright with lust. Roman stops her. He merely guides her hands to the teeth of his zipper. She reaches in past the crisp cotton of his boxers, claiming his rigid cock. His expression clouds, his wide, sexy mouth hangs open. He pants in anticipation, suddenly looking much younger.
“I never do this”
“My cunt is a foregone conclusion”
Roman's expression is quizzical. Rose curses herself for using too many words. She doesn't hesitate, anxious not to break the spell. Her hand guides his cock to where her body throbs for him. She shuffles her arse towards his pretty penis on the stainless bench, aching, dripping with anticipation. Rose grips his butt as best she can. Feverish, splayed, she encourages him into her, impaling herself. Her eyes are wide with delight. As she succeeds, Rose withdraws her hand. Her movements stun Roman.
He surges into her delicious pussy, his cock becoming even harder. He strokes. Rose wants to be able to lean back on her hands and enjoy the view but he doesn't let her go. He holds her close, keeping their bodies together, one hand moulded to the contours of her back, the other sweeping over her breast with his palm. He kneads gently, just as his cock head pulls out to thrust into her, deep and sure. Tangerine and fennel seeds. Beneath the layers of fabric, Rose feels her aching nipple respond.
He wraps his hands gently but firmly around her thighs, keeping her there, thrusting, and dividing Rose's vision into stars. Her hands rove across his face, touching his lips and he licks her fingers appreciatively. Their eyes lock, the world forgotten, save for the delicious sensation of their sticky flesh pressed together, his grinding cock in her cunt in the ultimate, intimate embrace.
Shock waves of pleasure rock Rose's body. She tenses. He kisses her hard on the mouth. Rose cums on his cock, driven to madness by the insistent rubbing of his zipper on her clit. As the waves of ecstasy hit home, Rose opens her mouth. She squirms. Roman drives his tongue into her soft recesses and sups, mimicking the action of his cock.
She opens herself entirely to him. He tastes her orgasm in the tangy sweetness of her tongue. It feels like a mini-triumph, as though he has tamed her just for one moment in time. Roman grunts and rocks his hips, pushing his cock deeper, feeling the meat of her delectable pussy closing over his member. She is too tight, too hot and too willing. He cums.
Rose descends to earth in the narrow room, grounded by the sound of his rapid breathing. He holds her head, his chest rising and falling. Rose drops her hands to encircle his waist. They stay like that, cooling, skin to skin.
Rose is the first to move, she breaks the spell. Her hands drop to her sides and she lowers her legs. Roman looks down at his new lover. Her blue eyes mirror his own, bright with confusion and wonder. In their burnished depths is a kindled fire, beginning to cool. She shivers, not from the cold, from an indescribable affliction, unlike anything she has ever known.
“I have to go.”
Roman lifts her gently to the ground.
“I have to make my plane.”
His dimpled smile appears slowly, only one side of his mouth curls upward.
“Rose.” He makes it sound like sunset. “I would learn this English language better, for you.”
Rose feels a strange ache in the back of her throat, as though she has swallowed a pool ball.
She touches his swollen lips. “Today, we spoke.”
He hangs his head. She rises on her toes to reach his lips, one last time.
Rose straightens her skirt and runs her fingers through her hair. She picks up her pale pink handbag and makes her way to the door. Roman remains standing, adjacent to the bar. His hair is dishevelled and his shirt slightly creased, a forgotten belt hangs loosely on his hips, undone. Rose smiles. He looks bemused, delirious, hands thrust deep in his pockets and his zipper gapes.
“It was a treat.” Tears catch in her voice. She clears her throat and turns to go.
“I claim you, Rose.”
Perhaps she doesn't hear him. She doesn't respond and slips from the room. In the passage Rose is greeted by an airline employee. He radios through and they briskly make their way, winding through the maze of exclusive corridors. Within minutes, Rose is at her gate, ready for boarding.
Her rubbery lips and her shaking hands are the only reminder of her brief encounter.
I cannot exactly use the phrase in everyday parlance, but if it's the last thing I do I will figure out a way to get the sublime ridiculously perfect line "my cunt is a forgone conclusion" into conversation.
ReplyDeleteGreat story. Loved the pacing. loved her insecurity, her human frailty. Such a delicately painted picture.