by Mj Fields
Now he’s holding back a chuckle, and I find myself enjoying not only his looks but his wit and humor.
The waitress sets a tray of drinks on the table, but before I can decline the shot, he grabs two glasses full of clear liquid and sets one in front of me.
“There is no way—”
“It’s water, Brigitte,” he interrupts.
Brigitte? I look at him, and he smirks.
“Scout’s honor.”
I pick up the glass and touch the rim to my lips.
He cocks his head to the side, leans in, and whispers on a sigh, “Do you think the waitress would try to roofie you?”
I take a sip. It’s water. Thank God.
I drink down half the glass before setting it down. “Thank you.”
“I’d prefer you remember the best night of our lives.”
“Damn, man.” Ken shakes his head. “You got game.”
Joe steps back, eyes still on mine. “I have exquisite taste.” He holds out his hand. “Dance with me, Brigitte.”
“The music’s stopped.”
As “I Remember You” by Skid Row suddenly begins, he takes my hand without seeking my permission this time, and I let him.
This is dangerous, Angela, I tell myself.
Like a flower with no sun to warm and nurture it, waterless for months, readying itself for the last petal to fall to the dried dust below, accepting its fate, his eyes are warming me, his words and actions are showering me, and I’m enjoying it immensely.
He rests his hands on the curve of my hips, while I link my hands behind his neck. Our bodies meld together like they belong, as he leads the dance.
When he leans in and rests his chin atop my head, it surprises me. It seems so … intimate. However, the surprise wears off quickly, and I find myself placing my head against his chest.
I feel his heart beating just as hard as mine. They’re in sync. And soon, very soon, they slow to a state of relaxation.
One song turns into two, two to three, but it’s like time stands still.
As the third song ends, silence takes its place, but the music in our heartbeats, in our bodies, continues.
Enough time has passed that, one by one, the neon lights are being switched off.
When I start to pull back, he stills me.
“The song has end—”
“Shh … Bridge, no song, no words are needed,” he whispers as he continues to lead. “Your body, the way it moves, the desire it’s projecting, it’s not meant to be articulated; it’s meant to be felt. Feel it.”
Alcohol, exhaustion, and being perfectly content trumps any worries about how odd it may appear that two people still stand in the middle of the dance floor, dancing to music no one else can hear. No one except us.
I allow myself … to feel.
Minutes later, I hear a female voice tell us, “We’re closing up.” Yet, I leave my head where it feels most comfortable.
“Bridge.” His sigh is sorrowful, like he’s mourning the moment I will step back, so I don’t.
He removes his hand from my hip and wraps it around my hair lightly, gently pulling my head back so I look up at him.
Lips that I know beyond reason, beyond doubt, will be life-altering and never forgotten, start to descend, and I ready myself for what I know deep inside my chest will be a point in which I will give in to whatever this man … Joe wants.
When his full, soft lips land on my forehead, I feel its reverence, yet I don’t understand why or how that could happen in just a few minutes, or maybe hours. Time still makes no sense to me. He then steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth of his body.
As goosebumps cover me, Joe reaches out to pull my shrug up to cover my shoulders. Then he takes my hand and together we walk toward the stairs to the beach.
“My purse, my shoes, my …”
When he holds up my shoes, I wonder how long he’s held them in his hand. Could it have been all night? He then runs his finger under the shoulder strap of my cross body, and I realize I have worn it all evening.
“Well, I guess we should say goodbye.”
He shakes his head no.
“I’m not going to sleep with you the very first …” I pause when I almost say date, “time we met?”
He chuckles as if I’m joking. “Bridge, there will be no sleeping.”
When I don’t laugh, don’t even smile, he literally steps back.
“I’ve enjoyed tonight immensely,” I begin.
“What’s standing in the way of me and you and what will be a night you’ll never forget?” he interrupts, this time much more intensely.
My words are again caught in my throat.
“Lay it all out, Bridge. We’ll figure it out.”
He waits for my answer, one I don’t want to give him because it’s embarrassing.
“Christ,” he sighs exaggeratedly as if I’m acting like a child.
“I’m not a child.”
“Clearly.” He nods.
“You’re … younger than me.”
“Explain why that’s a problem for you.”
When I look away, he turns and looks out over the ocean.
“I may be younger, Bridge, but I assure you that I have more experience in pleasing women than you do.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, Joe. I’m a forty-year-old, single woman whose career means a lot more to me than dumbing myself down to boost an ego just to get off.”
He turns around and shakes his head. “That would be funny if not for the uncomfortable situation I’ve had tucked between my legs since I heard your voice, saw your face.”
He steps closer, and I know I should step back, but there’s an invisible magnetic force that doesn’t allow it, like he’s the north to my south.
He leans down and whispers, “You’ll regret walking away, Bridge, and I sure as hell don’t want you to spend all those long nights ahead of you picturing this moment as you try to get yourself off.”
I close my eyes, ready for him to kiss me. Though, when I feel his body heat lessen, I open them.
“I admitted I want you and, truth be told, Bridge, regrets are a bitch to chase. Somehow, I feel like you’ve been through enough shit in your life to add the moment you said no to something that will be amazing to that list. I know I have.”
We stand looking at each other, both wanting the same thing, but I can’t bring myself to admit that this man may be more emotionally mature than I am.
“Tell me what it is.” He shrugs. “Tell me what’s holding you back.”
The concern and care in his eyes cause the words to fall freely from my lips. “Tomorrow.”
He takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his thick, wavy hair. Hair that I want my hands in so badly my fingertips itch. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket. “You have a phone?”
I nod.
“Take it out.”
I reach into my cross body and pull out my iPhone.
“Hit settings, hit about, put the name Brigitte under names.”
“Why?”
He peeks up at me. “Because you’re apprehensive. Because you’ve yet to give me your real name. Because I kind of like the story, of how we met. And because you’ve now mentioned independence twice. Trust me, okay?”
I nod then change my name to Brigitte.
“Go back to general settings and turn on air drop.”
I do as he asks.
“Hit everyone.”
Again, I do as he tells me.
When I get a screen that says Joe’s iPhone would like to share a photo, I smile.
“Tap it.”
I touch the screen and see a picture of him with one arm around me, my eyes closed and my head on his chest.
“I’d like to walk you to wherever you’re staying, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold back much longer, Bridge. I see how fucking badly you want me, and I want you just as much. If tomorrow we’re in the same approximate area, I’ll know it and send you a message.”
“Tomorrow?”
He cocks his head to the side. “You told me tomorrow. I’m honoring your wishes.”
I don’t correct his interpretation of my answer. It’s better that he doesn’t know the truth behind it.
“Brigitte, go.”
“But—”
“I’m being considerate. Considerations are an illusion. Savagery is the default state of humanity. I respect the woman you are, but I can only take so much. I can’t even fucking kiss you knowing damn well that, when I do, there will be no stopping what happens next. And once I have you naked, considerations be damned. I’ll be greedy with the vicious need I have to make you come continuously.”
His words cause my nipples to immediately pebble, and my insides liquefy.
“Joe …”
He closes his eyes and releases a slow breath as he reaches between his legs and squeezes himself.
My mouth pools with desire, and I whisper, “Dear. God.”
He clenches his jaw and, through his teeth, begins a countdown. “Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … Fuck, Bridge, go.” His words are a plea. “Five …”
He stops when I turn and hurry toward my hotel just yards away.
Chapter Two
My phone rings as I step inside the hotel, and I see Autumn’s name flash on the screen.
I answer immediately.
“Hey.”
“I’m back at my hotel.” She sighs then giggles.
“I’m heading to my room as we speak,” I tell her, walking to the bottom of the stairway leading to my second-floor room. “How did it go?”
As I walk up the stairs she tells me that the man, whose name is Eric, was amazing. So amazing in fact that she let all her inhibitions go and they had sex on the beach.
“With protection of course. And Ang, I have sand in places sand should never be.” She laughs.
This was a momentous occasion for her.
I can’t help thinking of Joe and wishing I hadn’t been foolish enough to walk away. If I didn’t, I would be as giddy as she is. But no, heaven forbid I let myself go and relish being in the moment without thinking how I will regret it.
“Ang?”
“Yeah?” I answer, realizing I missed every word she said while regretting the decision to let go … just like he said I would.
She laughs. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
As I slide my key card through the slot and open my door, I admit, “You lost me at sex on the beach.”
She giggles. “You drank a lot tonight huh?”
I pull my bag over my head and drop it on the floor. “I did.”
“We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
“Absolutely.” I hit speaker and toss the phone on the bed as I grip the hem of my dress and pull it over my head.
“Chat later.”
“I’m glad you had a good night. Sleep well, Autumn.”
“You, too.”
I bend down and hit end call then slip out of my panties and unclasp my bra before heading into the bathroom.
Stepping into the shower, I instantly regret not grabbing my vibrating bullet out of my bag to take the edge off. Then I spot my razor and immediately praise myself for not sleeping with Joe because I haven’t shaved in months.
After washing my hair, shaving my legs, under arms, and bikini area, I step out and grab a towel then brush my teeth.
When I walk back into the room, I see the bottle of wine I drank a glass from this evening before going out and decide to have another in hopes I’ll pass out. Then maybe I will stop second-guessing my decision.
After throwing a white tee-shirt over my head, I brush my hair, grab the empty glass, and fill it completely. Then I walk over to the French doors leading out to the balcony and step outside.
It’s beautiful, I think as I look at the moon’s reflection over the ocean.
As I hear thunder in the distance, I walk over to the railing and lean over it. Immediately, I think about what he said about bending me over the railing at the bar and my thighs clench together.
“He sure did a number on you.” I sigh and take a drink of my wine.
I feel sprinkles of water hit my face and look up. The sky is clear, so it must just be the moisture in the air from the ocean.
Standing there, I finish the glass of wine, enjoying the view and thinking of how much better it would be if someone was here to share it.
When I hear my phone chime, I walk into my room, wondering if Natasha is calling, if she senses my loneliness.
I grab it off the bed, fill my glass back up, and walk out again.
Setting the wine on the glass table, I feel what I know is raindrops and look at the screen.
Joe’s iPhone would like to share a note with you.
I’m shocked that he’s already contacting me.
I hit accept.
You’re close enough that my phone picked yours up. Tell me your room number.
I gasp and hold the phone to my chest, taking a deep breath then reaching for my wine, because I surely need it for this.
Taking a sip, I feel more sprinkles hit my face and look up at the sky. Then I set my glass down and look out toward the water where I see a man pacing below.
I know you saw the message. Just answer me.
I hit reply.
I don’t think it’s a good idea tonight.
I watch him run his hands through his dark hair. Then he paces some more before he looks up to the sky and throws his hands in the air.
I step back quickly, fearing he saw me, and when I feel brave enough to step forward, I see him looking up at me.
Shaking his head, he looks down and taps on his phone.
I step back, trying to catch my breath, and when I look back down, he’s gone.
“What have you done?” I scold myself.
Panic begins to set in, and I’m suddenly so fearful of regret that I type, 277, then hit send.
Now pacing back and forth from the balcony to the door leading to the hallway, my heart races a mile a minute. I feel like hours have passed when it’s only been moments.
When I hear a knock on the door, I rush to open it.
He steps forward, holding my shoes in front of him. I take them and step back as he pulls his rain-soaked shirt over his head, causing a wave of nervousness to roll through me.
He’s even more beautiful than I imagined.
Then he steps toward me, and I drop my shoes as I practically fall when I step back and feel the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed.
“My shirt’s off; it’s only fair that yours is, too.” He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head.
Immediately, I reach back and cover myself with the duvet.
Seeing a man as beautiful as him, more beautiful than any I have ever seen in my life, makes me insecure.
“Oh, Brigitte, do you know how sexy confidence is?”
Before I have the chance to answer, he pulls the duvet off me, takes my face in both hands, and tilts my head up so we are eye to eye.
“You’re so fucking sexy.”
I whimper at the feel of his calloused hands on my face, something I have never experienced with a man. It’s what I imagine an addict’s first hit of heroin is like. But then, when he presses his forehead to mine, I think maybe I was wrong and this is the first hit that makes someone an addict.
He moves his hands from my face to push my hair away before wrapping them around my neck while rubbing his thumbs along my jawline as he groans out, “So fucking flawless.”
An unrecognizable sound escapes me, like a moan mixed with a sob. It’s embarrassing.
I attempt to bury my face in his neck, hoping the moan muffled the sob and that he didn’t hear it, but he doesn’t allow it. He presses his thumbs up, lifting my face. Light returns and the dark desire starts to evaporate.
“Who hurt you?”
Emotions surface, so many emotions. Emotions buried for decades. Emotions I have no idea w
hy they would surface now of all times.
I pull up my hands that are trapped between our bodies and push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
He presses his forehead harder against mine. “Bridge.”
“Just …” I sigh and cover my chest with my hands, the very ones I tried pushing against his just moments before. Though, honestly, I don’t want him to move.
When he pushes off me, I expect him to leave. I wouldn’t blame him. But then he pulls the duvet to the side, lifts me up, and moves me so that I’m on the sheet.
I feel tears threatening to sting my eyes.
I’m not a crier.
When he looks at me with sadness, I shrug. “I’m a horrible drunk.”
He sighs and looks up. “There she goes again, blaming the alcohol.” Then he steps back and walks around the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shorts along the way. I watch them drop to the floor, exposing his dark gray boxer briefs and a very, very impressive outline of his manhood.
He slides under the duvet, wraps his arm under and around me, and then pulls me so I’m on my side and tucked against him. With his other hand, he pulls my head to his chest.
“Get comfortable,” he tells me, placing a kiss to the top of my head.
I try, but I still feel ridiculous.
Maybe sensing this, he takes my wrist and pulls my hand gently across his body. Then he grabs the back of my knee and pulls it up and across his body as well. “Can you sleep like this?”
“Sleep?” I look up into his eyes.
“How long has it been since you spent the night with a man?”
“Five years,” falls out of my mouth.
His eyes widen dramatically. “You haven’t had sex in five—”
I cut him off, “You asked me when was the last time I spent the night with a man.”
“How the hell do they let you out of their bed after being inside you? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
“I leave when I choose.” I glance up into his questioning eyes. “I haven’t invited a man to my bed in ten years.”
“Divorced ten years.” It’s a statement, yet I nod, confirming.
He studies me further. “How many children?”
“One.”
“Why only one?”