by Tracy Ellen
Seeing my surprised, wary look at his clothing specifications, a huge grin transformed his harsh face with boyish charm.
He snapped his fingers. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Tiny, pink panties are optional.”
It was extremely difficult, but except for a small moan of agony and squeezing my eyes so tightly shut I saw stars; I stifled my mortification knowing he had seen my bare ass within five minutes of meeting me. These weren’t just tiny, pink panties I was wearing, but a butt-flossing thong.
I opened my eyes to frown very sternly at his smiling face. “Look, Luke, if I break my rule about being picked up can you promise not to dismember me on the first date or worse yet, bore me?”
Pushing the door open, Luke casually shrugged a shoulder. “I never make promises I can’t keep. You may prove irritating.”
I blinked in disbelief. By the time I recovered to retort, I was talking to the screen door. Stunned, I realized Luke really had left. After a moment of taking this in, I started laughing in rare enjoyment. This first date could prove very interesting indeed.
I went out on the front porch to the top of the stairs. He was almost at his truck. I called out, “You didn’t even ask me where I live, Mr. Will-of-the-Wisp. You’d better show up!”
He opened the truck door and called back, “Somehow, I don’t think finding you will be difficult.” I could see his confident grin. “You’d better be ready when I get there.”
I have to get in the last word; it’s a failing and a gift. “Let it be on the record; I am very disappointed you have something against tiny, pink panties!”
War-god was laughing behind the light tint of his windshield when, with a final wave; he drove away in my shiny, new truck.
I stood on the porch staring unseeingly outside.
By my track record, I tend to go out with men who are fun and possess a sense of humor. They generally share the personality trait of being easygoing. Or to rephrase the great Chief Jack Banner, they are pansy-asses that jump through my hoops. They don’t find my rules a problem and they don’t try to control me.
If Luke’s personality matched his persona; this was no docile, nice guy. I didn’t see any voluntary hoop jumping in Luke’s future. Control was his first name and probably his middle name, too.
It was puzzling I felt such an intense attraction to a man I had a sneaking suspicion fit none of my criteria. I snickered to myself; I probably fit none of his, either. I’m most definitely aware that most men thrive on the challenge of the hunt. Never before in my dating career have I skipped to the kill and offered myself up on a platter, complete with an apple in my mouth, like I did today.
I laughed out loud recalling the expression on his face. I cheerfully decided it would take more investigation, up close and personal, to unravel this mysterious behavior on my part. I highly doubted I’d prove too easy for war-god Luke, no matter what his thoughts may be right now.
I brightened a little at my next thought. Maybe Luke and I just needed to hit the sheets and I could get it out of my system. Although honestly, I have never before felt such a sexual attraction for a man with no basis on anything but being in his presence for a few minutes. Even after I had a basis of knowing most men, I’ve never felt so…whatever the hell I am feeling. This was off the charts for me, but I wasn’t too concerned.
You can never tell what life may bring. Anticipation of the unknown is half the fun of living. The other half is doing it. This stirring of interest for our first date was worth it, regardless of what happened down the road.
I had a hop in my step as I headed for the deck to grill my brother about his new neighbor. I also wanted to make sure my cousin Candy, of the light blue Honda Civic, was eating all the donated, and probably poisoned, bakery cookies. Not stuffing her face with my yummy banana bread.
Chapter III
“Son of a Preacher Man” by Sarah Connor
Saturday, 11/17/12
6:45 AM
In theory, I have the odd weekend free from work to enjoy my life. In practice, I pop in and out of the store frequently on these days off. It can hardly be avoided living as I do above my store. Or so I tell myself.
The life of a small business owner means there’s always work to be done. I am fortunate to love what I do. I am lucky to be surrounded by an experienced, loyal staff that has become my second family. Working at the bookstore can be tons of fun.
I do have a life outside of Bel’s Books; it just doesn’t start until after store hours. I’ve developed some habits over the years that are hard to break. One of them is routinely working six or seven days a week. My family and friends know where they can find me most days from ten in the morning until eight at night.
Stella’s opinion is that I’m a control freak and a workaholic. She supported her logic when pointing out I describe working seven days a week as only a habit, and not a bad one. She’s encouraging me on the weekends to let go and let Stella. I have a feeling she’s a wee bit right. I have been giving her more responsibility. I’m making a concerted effort to live a less vampish lifestyle by actually going out and having fun during daylight hours, not only later at night. Both ideas are a work in progress.
This Saturday morning, I silently slipped out of my warm bed and from Luke’s warmer arms. It was harder than I liked to leave the bed. It was harder yet to do it quietly; my antique bed is a real springy squeaker. I did both, though, because I like my morning alone time. I have my rituals. I guard this time so zealously from friends and family, all but one don’t remember I exist before ten in the morning.
My brain wakes up around the same time every morning regardless of the amount of sleep I have. Luke told me his brain was trained to sleep whenever and wherever he got the chance.
After our first date, and to explain his sudden and frequent absences, Luke told me in the vaguest terms about his current career. He’s employed by a consulting firm based out of Chicago. The firm specializes in prevention security--whatever that is. I can only picture Liam Neeson beating up bad dudes all around Paris in the movie “Taken”. If that’s what Luke does, I have never noticed any bloody knuckles or nasty wounds when he returns, so he must be good at preventing.
I do know his work involves travel and long hours. He is gone from town for varied lengths of time. Often, he’s away for a few days, sometimes a week or more. I don’t know who or what is being prevented and secured, or if it’s a dangerous career. I do know I can’t picture Luke placidly manning a desk without going nuts.
What Luke has told me about his recent past is also very sketchy on the details. He saw right away I was skeptical with his glossed over, surface descriptions. It was probably the raised eyebrows and scoffing noises that gave me away. He bluntly suggested I trust him in general about everything, and to specifically not ask questions about his job. The job part was non-negotiable.
Oh hello, I’m female and breathing. Of course this made me want to ask a million questions, but I honored his suggestion and haven’t asked him a single one.
Generally, when a man I’ve known only a short time says the words ‘trust me’ with the implied message ‘or else’, it doesn’t exactly inspire my confidence. It does inspire hilarity at the idea I could be manipulated by the inferred threat if I ask too many questions he’d break it off. These men think they are pulling a fast one. Typically, they are jerks hiding a girlfriend or wife. I’ve seen women fall for this line of BS. Most likely it’s because this type of ‘if you loved me you’d blindly trust me’ men are pretty slick at romancing girls wanting desperately to believe in love, and to be loved.
I don’t think I am delusional about Luke. I do trust Luke has legitimate reasons to be closemouthed about his professional life. He is not telling me to ‘trust him’ to have his evil way with me. I love letting Luke have his evil way with me. No, I believe he is in a profession where loose lips sink ships, and any knowledge can be dangerous to the unwary. I could easily see him killing someone if there was a good reason. Chances are I�
��d agree if I knew the reasons. Whatever his job entails, what I don’t sense is a mindless, gun-for-hire mentality. Luke is no thug.
I am happy to give people their privacy, unless it doesn’t coincide with my needs. So far, Luke’s detailed career path wasn’t on my need-to-know list.
That is trust for Luke in his career. Luke’s a man. As programmed, he will try to take advantage of me not asking questions about his professional life, and carry that unquestioning trust over to his personal life. Most men balk at sharing their personal, innermost thoughts and feelings at the best of times. Telling a woman they’re starting to get involved with to just ‘trust them in general, no questions asked’ was a nice move, if you could pull it off.
Like most rational people, I give my trust and respect as it is earned by actions to back it up. Like most rational women, I know better than to state any of the above to a man needing to be in control and keep his secrets.
Does it make me a nosy girl if I found any answers I need from other sources?
I don’t think so, either.
It pays to be friends with the older generations in town. These elderly folks are an amazing and underutilized networking resource. They have everyone’s bloodlines memorized. They recall family scuttlebutt going back thirty or forty years like it happened yesterday. I simply put the word out I was looking for someone who had been friends with Luke’s deceased great uncle, Benjamin Drake.
The only drawback to this plan was getting these nice folks to stop telling me stories and quit talking once they’d started. I may not know exactly what Luke does on the job, but I had more scoop on his life history then a girl could ever want to know.
For example, growing up Luke had been Army mad and it was never doubted he’d have a military career. The various storytellers were all murky on which branch of the military Luke actually served. They all agreed, with a wink and a nod, he was definitely in some elite, everyone was kung-foo fighting, sharpshooting unit. According to his elderly cronies, it was a sad day for Uncle Bennie when his great nephew retired from the military. The culprit was an undisclosed injury Luke received that no longer allowed him to perform his ass-kicking duties.
Luke has actually told me a lot of these same stories of his life as our dating progressed over the last two months. I have to be careful to pretend surprise when hearing them a second time. I was nearly caught hurrying him up on one anecdote and beating him to the punch line. He had squinted, and scrutinized me suspiciously after this faux pas, but I avoided detection with a failsafe diversion—I started talking about sex.
Luke speaks of any childhood memories fondly and easily. He is an only child, his growing up years took place without any angst or trauma, and he actually likes his parents. His dad is a pastor and his mom’s an attorney in the Chicago area.
Any of his adult stories of the last ten years are still vague on specifics and glossed over on the details. It is true; his twenties were spent in the Army. He did opt out after an injury left him less than one hundred percent up to snuff. He alluded he was in a Special Forces unit. I have the impression he still uses those skills currently, but I’ve never asked a direct question of him towards further enlightenment. I think it’s driving him nuts I don’t seem interested in his ‘special skills’, but he started it.
The info important to me that was garnered from the village elders is that Luke doesn’t have wives and kids tucked away in a compound in Idaho, he did not torture small animals or set fires, and there are no known felonies. It doesn’t hurt matters he turns me on like no man ever has before, and he hasn’t demanded the exclusivity I’m not willing to give any guy at this point in my life.
I quietly left the bedroom, and my uninvited sleepover guest, to attend to my morning ablutions in the bathroom across the hall. Catching a glimpse of my matted, wild hair in the mirror, I burst out laughing.
‘Yikes! Mental note to self; don’t go to sleep with damp, tangled hair after being tossed around your bedroom.’
I twisted it up, tangles and all, and stuck in a clip. I went straight to the walk-in closet and threw on shorts, a sports bra, and running shoes.
I headed back out to the wide hallway on this side of my apartment and went left, towards the open stairs.
Before you reach the stairs to go down, and if you hang a left again, the hall widens into a foyer area. Along the left wall sits a large church pew painted white; a find at the Elko Flea Market this past Labor Day weekend. A massive, elaborately framed mirror is leaning propped against the opposite wall.
I moved on through a wide arch into the open living room. My apartment on this side is designed shotgun-style. The living room opens into the dining room, which opens into the kitchen. The kitchen leads into a back hall with a laundry room. There’s a back door to a balcony off this end of the apartment. This whole space runs the length of my apartment from front to back. It’s parallel to the bedrooms on the other side of the middle wall dividing the second floor in two.
Once I did my routine of opening the white shutters covering the tall windows, these three main rooms were about one hundred by forty feet of airy, light-filled space. Loft-like, the tall ceiling and open duct work was painted a soft, chocolate brown.
This apartment is my Shangri-la, my bastion of tranquility. I know it’s probably silly and sentimental for a building to mean so much, but there is no place on earth I’d ultimately rather be.
Scattered with my treasures, the spacious rooms are decorated with an eclectic twist. There’s a mix of valuable antiques, my flea market finds, a few modern pieces of furniture, mementos of my family life, and colorful, old Persian rugs covering the hardwood floors.
Standing at my kitchen island, I ate a handful of mixed nuts and dried fruits while downing a small glass of apple juice. I took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and headed back the way I had come.
Eyes averted to avoid testosterone temptation; I passed my closed bedroom door. I continued down the hall to the farthest bedroom on the right.
I had converted this second largest of the apartment’s original six bedrooms into an exercise room. I jumped onto my treadmill and pretended to enjoy jogging in place for the next forty-five minutes. I left the overhead TV off. Today seemed like an awesome woman singer day. I have hundreds of songs spanning four or five decades on my iPod guaranteed to get the blood pumping. I ran and sang my heart out until I was sweating like a piggy and feeling it in my legs.
I prefer to run outside, but with Luke still here I wasn’t sure of the sleepover etiquette, so I’d decided to stick around. Besides, singing inside was way less embarrassing to my street cred.
Temple worshiping complete for now, I headed for the showers. I stripped off my sweaty clothes and stepped into the pounding waterfall. It felt amazingly soothing. I rotated by head and neck.
‘Holy Moly, I was sore!’
I ached all over in places I didn’t even know existed on my body. Not that I’m complaining, but I wasn’t used to being chased, manhandled, and flipped around as part of foreplay. I felt myself relaxing as the steam and pummeling, hot water did its magic.
I took care of the labor-intensive process of shampooing and conditioning my tangled hair. I lathered my body with Spanish Gardenia shower gel, my most recent present from Stella to try out. As I did my routine of exfoliating, shaving, and washing, I thought objectively about the previous night’s fun and games.
Sex can potentially be amazing under any circumstances. For me, the fantasy Luke and I played out beforehand raised the eroticism, physical and mental, to a whole new level of excitement and intensity. I was definitely budging to the head of the line to sign up for more play dates.
I decided I relished every minute of being dominated Luke Drake-style, even when I fought it the hardest. I rubbed the tender area on my poor skull where I could still feel the divots from Luke’s front teeth.
I grinned ruefully. ‘Well, maybe not when I fought it the hardest.’
Role-playing as an
adult is reminiscent of putting on a play like when we were kids, minus the actual sex parts, of course. As a young girl, I remember how thrilling it had been when the neighborhood boys would participate willingly in our little productions. Often in the lead girl role, it was the difference of shyly kissing a real, live boy or having to lip smack against the back of one of my sister’s hands in the name of theater.
The thrill has not lost any of its shine to have a real, live man participate with enthusiastic willingness in our very own private theatrical production. Kink is way cool.
One of the reasons I have never acted on any of my sexual fantasies in the past was it requires a level of trust I am not willing to give a man without some basis in reality. Since I don’t really do relationships, allowing a guy I don’t know very well to have access to my home and control over my body would be incredibly stupid. Having no idea if he would physically harm me, or give me a STD, is not my idea of a sexual thrill. Sounds more like a nightmare on Division Street to me. I am not that kind of adrenaline junkie, nor do I have a death wish.
Luke’s been out of town working longer stretches than the norm lately. We’ve gotten together maybe five or six times in the last two months. This doesn’t sound like many dates, but when he’s around and I can get away, our dates often start in the morning and last until very late.
Luke also calls me several times a week when he’s gone. He has a pattern of definitely calling on Friday nights if he won’t be around on the weekend. I’ve always despised talking on the phone. Now I have epically long conversations that would rival a teenager. I’m surprised how intriguing it’s been getting to know a man this way. I feel a connection to Luke on a different level because of these marathon phone sessions.
The only hint I had that Luke may surprise me with a live performance of my very own sexual fantasy was a conversation that took place on a date about three weeks ago--at the end of October.