by Ruby Laska
And immediately the sensations of the week before, when he had somehow made love to her by simply holding her hand, came rushing back and she leaned hard against him as her legs betrayed her.
“Careful,” Rafi ordered, and she chanced a look at his face. His brow was lowered, his jaw set; the caution he commanded seemed somehow to be about more than the weather.
“Today you ride in front, no?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Lauren murmured her assent even as Rafi deftly opened the door and eased her inside, where it was warm and welcoming.
His scent teased her, a curious mixture of spice and tobacco and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something old, like the heady musk of old books in a dusty attic.
No doubt it was just the leather interior of the car, nothing more.
Rafi slid into his seat and the door shut with the heavy click to which Lauren had become accustomed. As she eased out of her coat, he took it from her, folded it carefully and laid it on the back seat.
“I brought the latte,” Rafi said, indicating two paper cups in the holders in the console.
“Oh,” Lauren said. “Thank you.”
“Tell me,” Rafi said. Though he put the car in gear, he did not start it moving. Nor did he look at her, though Lauren could not keep her own eyes off him. His profile was such a new pleasure; all these months he had turned to greet her with that solemn smile, and then she had stared only at the back of his head as he drove. “These flights to New York, they are hourly?”
“Of course,” Lauren answered automatically. His features were strong and sharp, as though they had been chiseled out of marble. She had to fight an urge to reach out her hand and trace the taut line of his jaw, the straight nose, the lips that were just on the sensuous side of full.
“And you are always at the airport early. That is your way.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Lauren murmured a reply. It was a pleasure to look at Rafi this way, especially as he finally eased the car out of the tight parking space and out into the street, alone in the darkness.
And so it was that when he spoke again she didn’t really understand at first. In fact, by the time his words sunk in, she’d already spoken her assent.
“So today, we take a little extra time. Lauren, there is something I want to show you.”
#
There was nothing new he could show her in the forest preserve. She’d driven by it a thousand times, walked and cycled in it dozens of times. A thick forest criss-crossed by paved paths, its most interesting feature was merely that it existed at all, an unlikely haven in the midst of miles of crowded city neighborhoods.
Rafi drove a slow arc around the parking lot, but then he veered off on a crumbling service lane. Ahead, under the overhang of the forest’s edge, a small, squat building hugged the ground. As they drew closer, she saw that it was made of red brick, its stone details blackened with age, its wide windows shuttered.
“I don’t know what they do here. This much is like home.” Rafi gestured. “Buildings in the park, perhaps they store equipment, perhaps they control the water, the sewer...perhaps they are empty."
Lauren looked where he pointed, trying to see what he saw, realizing that so many of the features of the city were invisible to the people who lived there. He spoke of home; was his home like Chicago? Were its streets like the streets he now drove?
“No one looks any more,” Rafi continued. “But then, maybe one day someone does. Someone sees more than a discarded shack. See there.”
He pointed to the corner of the building, where a patch of scrubby weeds partially obscured a smooth stretch of granite.
“The cornerstone, I believe it is called.”
Lauren strained to see in the faint morning light—and sure enough was rewarded by the carved lines of numerals. “1922,” she read.
“Yes, 1922,” Rafi agreed. “Not so long ago. But for this city, very old indeed. And, I believe, rather beautiful. I am no student of architecture, but I know what I like.”
Lauren caught her breath. Again he seemed to be speaking straight to her, his words only half the story, his voice sharp and direct and aimed straight at her.
“I never would have noticed this, if you hadn’t brought me here,” she faltered. She fixed her gaze on the small patch of smooth dark skin at the throat of his white cotton shirt, not daring to look into those eyes that seemed to always hold a challenge.
“Not so different from yourself, am I right, Lauren?”
Rafi’s voice deepened and roughened. She felt it vibrate through her as though he had touched her. A hollow ache throbbed deep in her belly; she wanted to listen to that voice forever.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“You think you are like this building, worn, passed over, unnoticed. You are not aware that you are a treasure worthy of desire. That foolish man who has let you slip through his fingers—”
Lauren flinched at the mention of Philip; Rafi must have noticed, because he reached out a hand to steady her. He pressed his palm against her cheek, its heat startling and intoxicating. His fingers grazed the soft flesh under her chin and then found their way into her hair.
“He is blind to you. Blind, Lauren. But others see. Others see…and they desire.”
He wove his fingers through her damp waves, then gently pulled against her neck. Lauren felt her nipples tighten against the silk of her blouse, felt the pooling desire inside. She slid toward him, succumbing to the pressure of his fingers, drawn as though by a magnet across the expanse of soft leather.
“I desire you, Lauren.” Rafi spoke now against her ear, his lips not quite touching her, his breath hot on her skin. “You must know that I have desired you for so long.”
“I—I didn’t,” Lauren breathed.
Somewhere in her brain alarms were going off, rationale was struggling to assert itself. She was with a man who was so much younger…but at the same time the attraction between them was impossible to ignore, his body next to hers so inviting. Could such passion really be wrong?
And then Rafi’s lips brushed the lobe of her ear and silenced the alarms. In dim amazement Lauren realized that the low moan she heard was her own, as Rafi softly kissed the hollow behind her ear. She tried to pull away, but when Rafi slid his arm down her back to hold her closer she melted against him, suddenly desperate to taste him. She breathed deep his heady scent, then twisted in his arms to guide his kisses. But as she offered her lips to him, parted in anticipation and hunger, it was his turn to pull back.
“Lauren,” he murmured. “I want to make love to you. I want to pleasure you until both of us are exhausted. I want to wear your smell and remember your touch as you fly away to New York.”
His eyes narrowed and Lauren saw the dangerous spark of provocation. “But if you do not want this, you must stop me now.” His body was suddenly still, perfectly still, like a tiger crouched in stealth.
“I…” She wanted him, it was certain. The damp heat in her core was proof of that. But it was crazy, unimaginable that she should be here, in the open, contemplating allowing this man to take her—
“Ah,” Rafi nodded slowly. “As I thought. As I hoped.”
Only then did he meet her lips with his own.
The kiss made Lauren forget that she’d never really answered him. The kiss was an answer.
He tasted her slowly at first, like a connoisseur, taking his time, while she felt as though she would die from his tender ministrations. He nipped the corners of her mouth, kissed her chastely, a butterfly brush.
And then he plundered, seizing, demanding, compelling. She met his tongue with her own, felt her teeth click against his and then melted more deeply against him. The pulsing heat within her raged hotter.
Philip had kissed her delicately. Philip never tasted her this way, his teeth never raked her skin. Philip’s breath was never hot against her throat.
Philip was gone.
As Rafi’s lips
played at her collarbones and the hollow in her throat, his fingers made short work of the buttons of her blouse. He didn’t falter as he found the lace bra underneath and unhooked the clasp with a flick of his thumb.
Rafi’s hands were practiced, deft. He brushed one nipple with the palm of his hand and Lauren moaned, the sound deep in her throat, and then the moan became a hum of pleasure as he stroked and kneaded. She felt her nipples harden at his touch, and when he bent to taste her, the sensation was so sharp it was almost like an ache, but so sweet she gave herself in to it and begged for more. She laced her fingers through Rafi’s hair and as he traced hungry whorls around her other nipple she pressed him closer against her.
But then he pulled away and regarded her, his breath on her damp nipples exquisite torture.
“Oh no, please, more,” she whispered, but he merely covered one breast with his hand, almost tenderly, and cupped her chin so she looked at his face.
“I want to be inside you,” he muttered. His gaze held her own, his eyes clouded with desire. She could not look away, no matter how exposed she was. Words were out of the question. Lauren nodded, drawing a shaky breath.
Rafi slid his hands around her waist, found the clasp of her skirt, and loosened it. Lauren eased her hips off the seat, and he slid the skirt down, but this time he did not take care to fold it. He tossed it over the seat and Lauren forgot it as he eased between her legs.
She felt the fevered length of him against her thigh through the soft gray fabric of his trousers. She wanted him closer, she wanted to touch him, take him. Lauren pressed against him, rocked his shaft against her cleft.
Rafi moaned and a shudder coursed through his body. Lauren could feel the vibration against her. She had done that to him. She caught her breath at this new discovery, her own power.
Emboldened, she took him in her palm through the fabric. She had not held a man this way before. But she wanted to touch Rafi. Wanted to encircle him with her hands, get the feel of him, remember it forever.
But he took her hands away. Gently, but firmly, he folded them together and held them up, behind her, and examined her length, and she could feel his hungry stare tracing her breasts, the soft curve of her belly, the damp patch of silk clinging to the folds of her mound. Lauren knew that her thighs were flattened against the seat, that her breasts lay slack, and she longed to cover herself. Trapped in his hands, unable to move, her skin flamed under his unhurried assessment, and she pressed her thighs together.
“No, no,” Rafi whispered, and he eased his free hand between her knees, drew it up to caress her thighs, cupping the flesh and gently drawing them apart. “Don’t hide yourself, Lauren. I want to look at you. I want to see all of you.”
Quickly, he loosened his trousers. When he let go of her hands to remove his boxers, she didn’t immediately reclaim them. Instead she glanced down, and then her eyes went wide at the beauty of him.
Rafi’s skin was gorgeous, coffee lightened with cream, and here at the most intimate part of him, it deepened to a burnished bronze.
Then he lowered himself against her and she felt him press against damp silk, then slowly, almost gently, rub against her. She ached to take him inside her, but he was in no hurry. He found the top of her panties with his fingers and pushed them down a bit until his thumb circled the tiny nub. As sensation rocketed through her, he bent to kiss her, and this time she echoed his gentle thrusting with her tongue.
Rafi rubbed slowly, rocking against her, until Lauren felt she would lose her mind with desire. She felt herself come close to the edge of a precipice only to fall back again as Rafi’s exquisite touch eased and played with her. She cried out against him, felt tears at her eyes.
Frantic with desire, Lauren circled her arms around Rafi’s taut, muscular hips, and levered herself against his touch. Rafi breathed a low rumble of amusement, only to gasp as Lauren stretched her legs and wrapped them around him.
She had to have him inside her. Everything else faded away, the car, the filtered sunlight, even the tortuous explorations of his fingertips.
“Lauren, I think you are ready,” Rafi muttered, but now it was his voice that shook as he joined her own hands in pulling the thin silk panties out of the way. Lauren lowered her legs only long enough to wrestle the wisp of silk off, letting it fall to the floor, and when Rafi hesitated she found herself chanting, “Yes, now, yes,” and then she felt the velvet heat of the head of his shaft nestle into her own silken wet desire.
Lauren arched to take him inside, and Rafi did not stop her this time. He eased his way slowly until his entire length filled her, and she cried out. She had never been taken so completely, and yet it wasn’t enough, could never be enough, and she rocked against him and felt his control slipping, heard his own struggle in his labored breathing.
“Lauren,” he gasped, “You are—”
“Rafi, please, now,” Lauren breathed, and then shut her eyes as he finally complied, finally let loose the rhythm she hungered for. As he plunged against her, resting at the hilt for only a fraction of a second before drawing back again, she met his thrusts with her own.
As his breathing crested, his whispers turning to moans, Lauren tried to hold on. She tried to wait for him, but she couldn’t, as every thrust went deeper and every moan wrenched a cry from inside her. She felt herself fall apart and gave in to the explosion of pleasure, and Rafi cupped her hips in his hands and held her there, held her and didn’t let her go even as wave after wave of crashing pleasure writhed through her body.
Not even when her last cry finally died away did he loosen his hold. He arched into her and found his rhythm once again as she melted against him, and when he thrust against her one final time, she thrilled to hear her name on his lips.
They rested together for what seemed like hours. Rafi did not pull out of her, and she felt the slowing of their breathing, the return of their bodies to rest.
“I feel—”
“Did you—”
When they both spoke in unison, Lauren could not stifle her smile; nothing could intrude on the pleasure of resting in Rafi’s arms, utterly spent.
“You first, Lauren,” Rafi murmured against her ear, his voice rusty and deep.
“I just, I feel better than I have…I feel wonderful,” Lauren finished simply.
Even to her own ears, her words sounded naïve, but somehow she knew she could trust him to understand. In making love to her, he had given her a gift; she felt desired, and desirable, for the first time in ages. Shyly, she nestled closer into his neck.
“Thank you.”
Rafi didn’t speak for a moment, but instead traced patterns with his fingertips on her back.
“It is I who should thank you,” he finally said. “You are an incredible woman, Lauren. A woman of passion.”
Lauren closed her eyes and let his words echo in her ears.
But she knew she was no woman of passion. No, she was only a lonely middle-aged woman who had somehow had the incredible luck to share some stolen moments with the kind of gorgeous young lover most women only dream about.
It couldn’t last, of course. He gently eased her from his embrace, and began gathering their things from where they’d been tossed. Self-consciously, Lauren busied herself with her clothes, aware that Rafi watched as he dressed. She wished he would look away. The car seemed suddenly public, dangerous even, and she forced herself to put aside the memory of what had just happened between them to focus on returning to her world.
She glanced at her watch, as much to avoid looking at Rafi as anything; she didn’t even register the numbers on the dial.
But Rafi took note.
“And now,” he said, slipping into his place behind the wheel, “we must get you to the airport, so you can work well this week, Lauren, and be ready for me when I come for you next Monday.”
As he eased the car out of their private bower, back toward the city, Lauren gazed out the window. They passed joggers, mothers pushing baby strollers, men and women in
suits flagging down taxis.
Astonishing, thought Lauren, that the city should be unchanged, when her own world had just turned upside down.
#
Thursday. One more day to get through until she could go home.
Four more long days and even longer nights until she would see him again.
Lauren groaned and rolled over, the knotted twist of sheets around her legs proof of her sleeplessness. She squinted at the red numerals on the bedside clock. One a.m. Well, there was still hope, then. As long as she could coax sleep soon, she might be able to get through tomorrow’s meetings.
Monday night she’d been up until nearly dawn, replaying the morning’s loving in slow, exquisite detail in her mind. It had been like some crazy dream, a dream more real than her life felt now. She remembered each touch, each caress, and ran her fingers over her skin as though searching for some evidence that it had really happened. Tuesday she’d lost her place during a presentation, stumbling through her slide presentation while her face burned with thoughts of Rafi.
Last night on the way back to the hotel she’d stopped in an all-night grocery for a carton of juice and a sandwich, tired of room service. As she paid, she idly scanned the rows of brightly-colored packs of cigarettes. And then she’d spotted it: the drab brown wrapper of his European brand, the pack that rested always on his console, though he never smoked in her presence.
“I’ll take those,” she’d said, pointing, before she could change her mind.
She hadn’t lit a cigarette since high school. But tonight, as Lauren watched the red numerals marching slowly through the misery of waiting, she rose and pulled back the heavy drapes, and the room was lit with the glow of middle-of-the-night Manhattan, dozens of floors below. She found her purse and dug out the pack of cigarettes, the book of matches. Fingers trembling, she broke the cellophane and tore the paper. The cigarette felt as foreign to her fingers as it looked, flecked and slim.