by Ruby Laska
And then he dipped his hand lower and began to stroke her, gently at first, wetting his fingers in her slickness and sliding them around her hardened nub. He found his rhythm, alternating light teasing strokes with firmer ones, all the while drawing slowly out of her and plunging back, seemingly deeper each time.
Lauren let out a cry of pleasure that sounded like someone else. The breeze lifted the scent of their mingling to her nostrils, tart and smoky at once, and she inhaled deeply.
“I want to hear you,” Rafi spoke into her ear. “I want to make you come, and I want to hear you cry out. Come for me, Lauren.”
And she nearly did, right then, but with his permission to take her pleasure she suddenly needed to take it fully, more fully than she had ever allowed herself to do. She concentrated on the circling waves of pleasure woven by his deft fingers, and on the accelerating thrusts. It pleased her that his breath became more ragged. She was doing that to him. Her cries, her body, were bringing him to passion.
And with that realization she surged past the point of control, arched against him to take all of him more deeply than she knew to be possible, and exploded with a pleasure so intense that she cried out, a combination of his name and raw, primitive sounds, and in the stillness of the empty garden she heard her cries echo back to her.
But she wasn’t finished. Even as the first wave subsided she felt the next mount. Rafi plunged against her a final time and as he emptied his passion inside her, and his moans joined hers this time as she shuddered against him, her body spent in an ecstasy beyond anything she’d dreamed.
#
When he pulled to the curb at O’Hare, Rafi held out his arms to her and without thinking, Lauren slid into them for an embrace. Too late she thought of all her colleagues, her boss, arriving for the flight to New York. Who knew who might see her wrapped in the arms of her dark, uniformed lover?
His kiss made those thoughts disappear.
Rafi brought his palm to his face and inhaled deeply, then held it out to her. The scent of their union was unmistakable, and Lauren flushed with embarrassment.
“No,” Rafi commanded, frowning. “Do not be ashamed. All day today, I will treasure this scent, and I will remember.”
Emboldened, Lauren kissed Rafi full on the lips, then hesitated as she reached for the door handle. “Rafi—”
“Yes?”
“Next week, I want to do something…”
Her voice trailed off, uncertainty clouding the boldness of her request.
“Anything. You tell me what you want.”
“I want to do something that you have never done before.”
Rafi’s face flashed surprise, then amusement. “Lauren, I assure you, there is a lifetime of scenarios and techniques that I have not yet experienced.”
“Well, pick one,” Lauren said, embarrassed by his teasing grin. She did not meet his eyes as she slid out the door.
“Of course,” he called after her, as she strode toward the entrance to the airport. “You may trust me to come up with just the thing.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lauren ducked into the ladies’ room, pulling at the door behind her. Breathing hard, she stepped uncertainly in front of the mirror and listened. Silence. Everyone was still in the conference room, where, thankfully, her interminable presentation had finally come to an end, and now Barry was droning on about the latest figures out of Logistics.
She loved her job. Really. Loved assembling the facts she gleaned from the remote corners of the firm, making sense of them, crafting them into a pastiche so elegantly simple, in the words of a former boss, that even the most thick-skulled client could comprehend how much they had to gain from an association with her firm.
And she’d never shied away from public speaking. The self-consciousness she sometimes felt around men melted away as she stood in front of her presentation, the rich colors in the darkened conference rooms a counterpoint to her words. When the lights came up she prided herself on fielding the toughest questions with aplomb.
Until today.
They were hosting Karock Associates, a slam-dunk, who were all but signed up. It was a formality, really, this presentation, and Lauren had even allowed herself the luxury of sleeping in rather than going over her notes a final time, relishing the remnants of dream of Rafi.
She began with ease, but halfway through her opening remarks, as she scanned the room packed with mostly men and noticed something.
They were looking at her.
Looking at her. Their eyes, which she’d always judged attentive, now seemed bold, assessing, even…caressing. She felt her face redden as she stumbled through her prepared words.
Jack Morgan. Was it her imagination, or did he just run his tongue along his bottom lip? Before she broke her gaze in embarrassment, she felt sure he was looking, not at her face, but at her breasts. Frantically she glanced from face to face.
Some of the men, certainly, betrayed nothing beyond polite attention. Some tapped a pencil idly against the table, or checked watches. One man even yawned.
But there were the others. For the first time she felt their gazes as if it were their hands rather than their eyes that traveled hungrily along her thighs, her neck, the press of her breasts beneath her silk blouse.
Lauren blinked hard a few times, and took a careful, deep breath. Then she deliberately paused and adjusted the controls of her laptop, buying time. When she faced her audience again she sought the faces of friends, women she’d worked shoulder to shoulder with, men whose interests she were certain were no more than business.
But as she turned and emphasized the content of her slides, she could still feel the appraisal of her admirers.
And there was something else.
Lauren realized that she liked it.
Now, in the bathroom, she had to admit it to herself. It had been unsettling, shocking, even, but the warmth that spread through her body felt good. Luxuriant. She was hot, and she slipped out of her jacket, tossing it on the counter.
She wore emerald silk. The creamy vee at her neck was tinged with pink, embarrassment mixed with arousal, and she touched her fingers lightly to her throat.
Then, hesitating, she twisted the top button of her blouse.
Could she? Should she?
A tactile memory of Rafi’s fingers at her throat brought a low groan from her throat and she slipped the button free. Caressing open the folds of silk, she felt the swell of her breasts, the rise and fall of her breath, and smoothed her hands slowly down her body. At her waist the silk gave way to the smooth texture of fine wool, and she traced the curve of her hips to the hem slightly above her knees.
Lauren stepped back a bit and appraised herself critically, biting her lip. She looked…good.
Good wasn’t the word, Lauren knew. But as she adjusted her skirt, exposing her thighs, turning to examine her profile, Lauren stopped assessing. Something shifted, something inside, the idea of herself that she had carried for so long.
Before she left the ladies room, Lauren loosened her hair from its pins. She gathered it above her head, enjoying the stretch, the arch that thrust her breasts against her blouse.
She let her hair fall, and did not bother to tame the strands that curled beneath her jaw.
#
Rafi paced his apartment. He lifted a mug from the dish drainer in the kitchen, dried it with a towel, set it down again.
From the dim light sifting between the buildings he knew that night approached. The blackened brick of the neighboring building was punctuated by windows. Lights were coming on one by one. His neighbors were beginning their evenings at home, making dinner, talking about their day, laughing. Later there would be comfortable silences, lovemaking, perhaps arguing.
Anything would be better than living alone in this tiny box.
Rafi pushed the thought from his head. He was here by choice. Alone by choice. There were certainly alternatives, women who would be glad to share his life, even this life of hard work and interm
inable waiting.
Someday he would have his life back again, his real life. He would return to the work he had been trained for, make a home. Only then could he enjoy the luxury of hoping for more. Hoping for companionship, even love.
He suddenly pounded a fist against his thigh in frustration. Why had she had to come into his life now? Now, when he had nothing to offer her?
Thinking of Lauren, as always, made his heart pound in his temples, his chest. He could feel her skin, her body in his hands, the memory was so strong. His breath ran shallow, and he gulped for air, even knowing that mere air would not sustain him.
What if…?
Knowing it was a mistake, a pointless form of self-torture, Rafi let his thoughts follow their course. He sank into the straight-back chair and closed his eyes, and imagined. What if he was worthy of her, now, not years into an uncertain future? What if he could meet her at the end of the day not as her driver, but as just another man in the sea of professionals flowing in and out of the buildings downtown?
He would wear the business casual clothes favored by so many of the executives, the khaki trousers and soft shirts, the expensive sunglasses and the good leather briefcase.
He would wait for her in one of the upscale bars as the commuters hurried past. Perhaps he would pass the time in conversation with another man at the bar. He would talk about his latest engineering project, and they would ponder together the economy. The other man would be waiting also, for his own wife, and as the minutes went by they would laugh together. Women, they would say, always late, but what can you do?
And then Lauren would come through the door and the other man’s eyes would widen in appreciation. Lauren would approach him and brush his lips with a kiss, and he would help her out of her coat and offer her his seat. He would order her a glass of wine, refresh his own drink and that of his new friend. Care to join us?— he would inquire, but the other man would demur, smiling and waving and slipping off into his own life, leaving Rafi and Lauren to luxuriate in each other, virtually alone in the crowded bar.
Rafi sighed, a long, shaky breath. He opened his eyes and the darkened room was almost more than he could bear. Every surface was scrubbed clean, each of his few possessions carefully dusted and in its place. But now it seemed as empty and unappealing as a cage.
He must not indulge in such thinking again.
Lauren would return in a few days. She wanted him. He wanted her. It could be simple, this attraction between a man and a woman. He would make it simple.
A more sensible man would end it. He might even join his American friends at night, in the bars where the young women gave him appraising smiles. But Rafi could not. He didn't want to bring girls back here, forgetting their names by morning. He longed only to enjoy the awakening of the sensual woman that he knew Lauren to be. He would give her that gift, and he would ask for nothing in return. She would leave him then, once he had shared with her what he could; she would go into the world and find someone who deserved her, a successful man, well into his career, able to give her everything she wanted.
And Rafi would get over her. Somehow, some day, he would get over her.
#
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Lauren.”
Even on the phone, his voice sounded intimate and hungry. Lauren’s own voice caught in her throat. Seeing the name of his car service in the caller ID had started her heart pounding. She glanced at the opening to her cubicle; outside people passed in the carpeted halls, going for their late-afternoon lattes.
Lauren swallowed. His voice was setting fire to the sparks that had smoldered all day. She’d stayed in her cubicle through lunch, her awareness of her body almost painfully acute. “Where are you,” she half-whispered, cupping the phone in her hands.
“In my car, of course. I’m on my way to pick up a client at O’Hare. Someone not nearly as entrancing as you.”
Lauren could not help the pang of doubt. Another woman, perhaps? But he’s calling me, she reminded herself. Me. “Mmmm,” she said. “I — I’m glad you called. I was thinking about you.”
“You were?” His voice was an invitation. “What exactly were you thinking?”
Lauren caught her breath, darted a glance to the hallway, where two women from the support staff were laughing over some shared joke. “I was thinking…about us, together,” she faltered. “And what you said about, you know, people…looking at me.”
“Men? You noticed them looking? Ah, so you are beginning to understand what I see, Lauren. Do you imagine them touching you?”
Rafi’s words shocked, but his voice was gentle, coaxing, not accusing. It was not their hands Lauren imagined on her body; but should she tell Rafi it was his? That each night she twined her body with his in her dreams; that as she walked through the noontime throngs she sometimes imagined she caught a glimpse of him rounding a corner?
“No,” she whispered hoarsely. “I imagine you touching me.”
“Ah.” There was a pause, and she could hear his breath, measured, slow. “Lauren, I have been thinking about your request.”
“My request?”
“Something new, I believe you said. Something I have not yet experienced.”
Lauren felt her blood rush through her veins; she twisted in her chair so that her back faced the opening of her cubicle. She wished for a door. “Yes…”
“I have a problem, though. You see, Lauren, there are so many ways in which I wish to have you.” His voice darkened, lowered. “In fact I have thought of such a variety that I don’t know where to begin.”
“You…have?” Lauren could not tell if he was teasing her, gently mocking her shyness, but the velvet invitation in his voice was overwhelming.
“Have I told you how I love your neck? When I was inside you, Monday—Lauren, do you remember that?”
The inside of Lauren’s mouth felt dry, but the warmth between her legs bloomed. Rafi did not wait for her to answer.
“When I moved inside you, I pressed my face to your neck, tasted your skin. It is beautiful, your long neck, and do you know when I touched you there…just so…you arched against me. Do you believe a touch to the neck can be erotic, Lauren?
“But I cannot decide,” Rafi interrupted himself. “When I touched your breasts, when I found your nipples through your blouse, you spoke my name. I would not be surprised, Lauren, if you do not remember; perhaps I flatter myself to think that I caused you to cry out.”
Lauren made a sound then, involuntary; she was certain Rafi must have heard, but he continued as if he did not.
“Ah. But when I ran my hands down, when I cupped your mound in my hands, it was—how can I describe it to you, Lauren? You are not a man; you cannot possibly know how it felt to move inside you and caress you at the same time. You were wet, Lauren, so wet, I found your precious moisture and as I moved inside you from behind I found your secret place with my fingers. You know that place, do you not, Lauren? I can feel it now, in my mind, tiny, but so powerful. I touched you there and I could feel your own pleasure beneath my fingers. Do you remember that, Lauren?”
“Oh, Rafi. I—I’m at work.”
“Yes.” There was a note of triumph in Rafi’s voice, a trace of wickedness. “So you are. A shame. I too am working, driving, and I can only imagine how I will take you next. But you’ll return to work, Lauren, and you’ll forget me for now, put this conversation out of your mind. You have things to do, responsibilities. And that is as it should be. Do your work, and I shall do mine. But, Lauren—the next time I see you I intend to have something very special in mind for you.
“That is a promise.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It could not have been a more perfect day. Spring had finally begun in earnest in Chicago. The smell of moist earth and new buds mixed with the sharp scents carried from the coffee shop down the street, and crocus lifted their leaves to the sun, which was just cresting the roofs of the buildings.
But Lauren barely noticed. She hesitated, locking the
door of her apartment carefully, then taking a deep breath before she turned to face him.
He hadn’t called again, not since that afternoon last week when he’d set her smoldering in the tiny cubicle in New York. The rest of the work week had passed, and the weekend; each day she replayed his words, his insinuations. And she was ready to hear them again. Needed to hear them again.
He hadn’t called. Nor had he promised to. She had merely thought—
But she had no right to think that way. They weren't dating. For all she knew, he had a girlfriend, someone his own age, someone with whom he planned a future. Lauren realized she might just be a passing fancy to him. Some men, she knew, had a curiosity about older women the way others longed to bed a flight attendant or an athlete.
It shouldn't matter if Rafi was just indulging a whim. Clandestine love affairs were exciting because they were illicit, because lovers had to endure separations. After all, didn’t she want him all the more the longer she waited to see him again? His touch—oh, it would be like salvation, like water slaking a bottomless thirst. No doubt he knew this.
It was the affair she needed, Lauren reminded herself. Passion, forgetting old wounds, uncovering new pleasures. Not love, but mutual pleasure. She was lucky to have found herself in the capable hands of a man of experience and skilled far beyond his years.
So she would remember and heed the rules.
“Ms. Sherman,” Rafi greeted her. His hand rested on the door. The door of the back seat of a shiny black stretch limousine.
Lauren froze, stricken. Ms. Sherman. What had happened? What had she done? The beautiful, understated town car had been replaced by this vulgar thing, and she was being relegated back to the role of the passenger, the client. Rafi's eyes were unreadable behind his dark glasses.
Lauren took a step, stumbled. Rafi caught her elbow, opened the door for her, and bent to help her in.