"New York is alright," Alan continued. "It's just starting to wear a little thin." He frowned as he looked out the window, a little distracted.
I was supposed to avoid mentioning the kids, but I suspected they were part of the reason. "Couldn't you write your plays from anywhere?"
"Yes. But there's an energy in New York as far as the theatre goes." He returned to slice his salmon. "I would want to live in a city that at least has a professional theatrical company."
I wondered at that. Alan was never an actor or musician. He disliked being on stage. I didn't even know if he could act or sing. But he'd always been interested in the human condition. He liked to throw two people in an arena and see where it would take them. Of course he'd want to be somewhere he could make a living writing plays.
I watched him cut his fish, those long, slender fingers that half an hour ago stroked my hand. Those same fingers that half a lifetime ago stroked my body…
"Laura?" I looked up and realized he had asked me something. He must have seen me staring at his hands. How weird is that?
"I'm sorry, I…uh, was lost in thought." Not a good cover. Damn.
Alan looked down at his hands in puzzlement. I was sure he was thinking of a number of things. His smile caught me off guard. He knew! He remembered! My skin flooded with heat from head to toe. I must have glowed like a red beacon.
"You know…" His voice was low and husky. "We did explore a lot together."
There were two choices. I could melt in a puddle of humiliation or rise to the challenge. I chose the latter. "That is something I will never forget. Two virgins fumbling through it all."
Alan laughed. "Do you remember the first time?"
I choked on my wine. "How could I forget? In that AMC Green Hornet you borrowed from someone."
It was his turn to look impressed. "So it was. I almost forgot about that car!"
Memories crashed around me like waves. "Remember in the winter we had to sneak blankets into it?"
"That didn't last long. When we hit that rock and split the oil pan, coasting back into town just as the engine blew out."
"Oh my God!" Now, there was a memory I couldn't forget. "Your friend was so cool about that. I still cannot believe you tried to convince him we hit a steep curb."
Alan leaned back in his chair. He looked so amazing. "Well, he would have bought it if he hadn't seen the rumpled blankets spread out in the back."
We laughed together, and it felt good. Either the wine or the affection was making me all gooey inside. These were the kind of memories that made us the people we are—but not the kind of memories you can share with your family.
The check came, and Alan waved me off, insisting on paying. I let him. As we walked outside a cool breeze skipped across the lagoon and draped around my shoulders. Without a word, Alan slipped his arm around me, and I let him do that too.
We walked in silence for a while. His hand on my shoulder was warm and his grip firm. Just for tonight, we belonged to each other—making more memories that we wouldn't be able to share with anyone.
The plaza was humming with people, but the crowd was faceless. No one would recognize us and spoil this moment. I certainly wasn't going to spoil it by thinking of the kids, my husband, or his wife. They weren't with us, after all. I slid my arm under his and around his waist. His muscles tensed for a split second, then relaxed, and he pulled me closer.
Several bars were just on the other side of the bridge, beckoning. A deceptively small arrangement of nightclubs lay before us, it was easy to drift in and out. We settled for a club devoted to music from the eighties. It seemed most appropriate.
The crowd was sparse. Obviously eighties music didn't have much staying power. Not hard to believe when you contemplate the depth of "Karma Chameleon." We found a small table for two near the dance floor. A schmoozy, young waiter stopped by, making jokes and imagining some familiarity with us.
"I'll have a Becks in a bottle." Cold beer seemed to fit better than wine, and things were definitely heating up. The waiter asked if I needed a glass.
"No, because it comes in a glass," I replied. He responded by making the motion of a beating heart and told me I was a woman after his own heart. Alan smiled a bit guardedly and ordered the same, and I realized he was responding possessively. My insides turned to liquid.
"Hey," I needed to cut the tension a little, "did we have a song?"
A puzzled look crossed his face. "I think so. I'm sure we did."
"Well, what was it?" How could I forget something like that? Everyone had a song when they dated, didn't they?
"It must have been something by The Police, right?" I couldn't help but laugh. Alan was obsessed with Sting in college—once even bleaching his hair and speaking with an English accent. He rose with a mock look of disapproval and disappeared. Within moments he returned.
The song that started playing clicked in my brain, rusty gears beginning to turn, reminding me that we did, indeed, have a song. The beginning strains of "Every Breath You Take" began to play. Alan stood beside me with his hand out. Without a word I took it and followed him to the dance floor.
Alan pressed his body to mine and slowly began to move. His dancing had improved. I rested my cheek against his—dancing like we did in the eighties was out—we were adults now. My palm rested against his, our fingers interlaced. I could feel his other hand slowly stroking my back. Could he feel my heart pounding against his? My breathing became shallow. And yet we were not transported back to a dark bar with a checkerboard dance floor, interlocked, oblivious to the others around us. We were here. It was twenty years later. And I felt just as consumed as I did then.
The music was flowing toward its heartbreaking conclusion. I forgot about the dance floor, the club…everything. My body moved, willing the song to go on forever. He smelled so good. Soft lips brushed my cheek, and I felt my fingers twining through his soft, brown hair. We were completely lost in time. His lips swept past my ear, and he pulled me hard against him.
"Oh Laura," he murmured in my ear breathlessly. Our palms became moist, our fingers clutched so tightly as if we were afraid someone would try to pry them apart.
Alan's hand slid up and down the length of my back. I pulled my head back to look at him, and our eyes locked in a passionate embrace. The intensity of his gaze sent gooseflesh rippling across my skin. Yet I could not look away. Our history held us. This history was based on a primeval lust that asserted itself. There was no use fighting it. And I suspect that neither of us wanted to.
The song was ending, but we still held each other, gazing into each other's souls, afraid to blink. At that moment I realized that I wanted him.
Another song started, but we didn't move. I couldn't even recognize if it was fast or slow or if anyone was even within two miles of us. My heart was beating like it would explode. But there we were, holding each other, overwhelmed by what passed between us. It was then I realized that we had stopped dancing, that we were just standing there in the middle of the dance floor.
Loud music trickled into my ears until I awoke from my trance. Couples were moving all around us to wild rhythms. I smiled weakly and started to pull away, but that look of fire still burned in his expression. After a second, Alan relaxed and smiled, following me off the floor. Wordlessly we agreed to go outside. Maybe some cooler air would dampen this growing sense of need.
Music beckoned from the outdoor stage, and we wandered up to the crowd. In spite of the blazing rock music, Alan came up behind me, wrapping me in his arms, and together we swayed slowly, as if the band were playing a simple ballad. He was taller than me, and I pressed the back of my head into his shoulder. It felt good.
I don't know how long we were like that. His lips would occasionally kiss my ears and neck, but we said nothing. Alan's arms felt good against my breasts. His hands didn't wander, but I wanted them to. My arms reached behind me, and I placed my hands on his hips. I could feel his muscles tighten as my fingers gently traced small circles
. He moaned in my ear, and I was engulfed in a wave of desire. Alan pressed against me, and I discovered that he was also aroused. At any minute we would be in danger of violating a number of decency laws.
"Good night everyone!" The lead singer clapped for himself and waved us away. I turned to go but Alan pulled me around to face him. Once again, his expression was hungry. Both hands slid up to my face, his fingers tangled in my hair. He looked at me like he did all those years ago when we would make love as often as possible in a vain effort toward satisfaction.
"Alan…" my voice had dropped an octave, dilated with lust. In a swift movement he pulled my face to his and kissed me. I could feel years of pent up regret boiling inside me. Years of "what if" became smoldering kisses. His lips moved over mine, covering them, pulsing, needy. I wrapped my arms around him, crushing his chest to mine. "Oh, Alan," I moaned with pleasure between kisses, my hands running over his back.
"My God, Laura. I want you so badly." His lips found mine again, and I was lost.
The bus was waiting for us, and we climbed aboard, finding an isolated bench in the back. After a few minutes, the interior lights dimmed, and the noise of the other revelers died. I felt him reach for me and gave in willingly. This time as he held me, his hands moved over the landscape of my body.
The motor on the bus drowned out the drunk and sleepy conversations ahead of us. We didn't speak. His fingers silently slid along my arms and traced the outline of my breasts. They moved hesitantly at first, as if waiting to see if I would protest, but hell itself couldn't make me do so. I thought I could feel him smile in the darkness as he cupped my breast. His hand paused for a moment when he realized I wasn't wearing a bra, and then traveled with abandon. I slid my arm between his thighs, barely brushing his erection. Lightly, my fingers trailed his inner thighs.
Alan's breathing became more ragged, but he didn't speak. While his left hand continued to stroke my left breast, his right hand traced up and down the length of my neck. He remembered that erogenous zone. I remembered too, and my fingers dipped between his legs, lightly caressing the growing bulge beneath his pants.
I felt like a kid again, desperately groping in the darkness in public places because I didn't have a place of my own. And if felt pretty damned good. My nipples were completely erect beneath Alan's expert strokes, and I could feel my labia swelling with expectation.
The bus came to a stop in front of the hotel, and the lights blazed. I couldn't look at him as I stepped off. If I did, he would know how much I wanted him.
"Stop thinking," he growled in my ear, as if reading my thoughts. I nodded and pushed all reason from my mind. He easily read my feelings. With a smile, he took my hand and held it firmly as we walked back to our room.
"Such lovely children!" Martha gushed as Alan paid her. "You must be very proud of them."
He smiled. "Can you watch them for us again tomorrow night?" I shot him a quick glance and then turned to hide my own grin.
Martha nodded and left. All four kids were in one bed in Alan's room. He put his finger to his lips and led me into my room. Once inside, he carefully closed the adjoining door.
I was trembling with anticipation. It wasn't the idea that we were doing something wrong, because that thought never actually entered my mind. All I wanted was for him to look at me again the way he had on the dance floor. Please touch me…please!
Alan continued to walk the room, turning on the radio and closing the curtains. A Melissa Etheridge song came on, steaming up the room. He stopped in front of me. There could be no mistaking his intentions. His chest rose and fell dramatically, and his eyes burned into mine. I couldn't remember ever being wanted like this.
Our hands met first. His strong fingers stroked my palms, teased my fingers, and drove me to a state of madness, all the while never taking his eyes from mine. I wanted to close the gap between us, tear his clothes off, throw him onto the bed, but I hesitated. For some reason, it was important to me that Alan would make the first move. If only I could wait for it.
Alan took one step closer to me, still holding my gaze. His hands left mine and reached up to my face, stroking my chin, my neck and shoulders, tracing the outline of my quivering body without looking away. It was as if he was sending me every ounce of emotion he had.
Slowly, his hands returned to my shoulders and slipped under the thin straps of my dress. Running along the length between the straps and my skin, his fingers lingered where they met the velvet neckline. His index fingers then dipped a fraction of an inch and traced until they came together at my trembling cleavage. I thought I was going to lose control.
Just when I thought I would collapse, his hands traveled upward, entangling the fingers in my hair. He brought my face to his so very slowly, looking into my eyes, driving deeper into me than I thought possible. Our lips met, and something exploded inside. How did he know to do that? I'd never experienced such intimacy, and it had a terrifying effect on me.
He kissed me, making love to my lips with a firm touch. I moaned, and he became ferocious, hungrily tasting my lips, my tongue, my breath. My hands stroked his back, slipping below his waistband just enough to touch his skin. A guttural cry tore from his throat, and his thumbs slid under the straps of my dress and eased it downward.
As the velvet slipped from my breasts he stepped back and studied what he'd uncovered. "You know," he said in a husky voice, "all those times in a dark car or your dorm room, I always told myself that next time I would look at your body." I gasped at this revelation, and his hand rose to my cheek as if to comfort me. Once again, he looked into my eyes. "You are so beautiful. I wish I had seen that then."
Over the next few hours, we found bliss again and again.
Lying there, tangled arms and legs, our lips met again and again.
The lights were still on, an hour had passed, and we were still awake, lying in each other's arms. Now and again fingers would stroke skin, and lips would meet, but for the most part we just looked into each other's eyes. Whether we were searching for love or hoping for an explanation—all that mattered was that we were there, together. Somewhere along the line, I drifted into sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mike and I had met a couple of years after college. I had spent my whole life in Indiana, so after college I'd decided to move somewhere exotic. For reasons I can't explain, Ohio became that exotic place. I'd been teaching at the local community college and working on my master's degree and everything seemed good. I dated a few guys, but nothing ever came of it. Then I met Mike.
I was out with my grad school friends, having a few drinks at this hole-in-the-wall in Columbus. It was my turn to buy, and so I walked up to the bar, and there he was—the most charming, attractive man I had seen in a long, long time. We became friends at first, but it quickly turned into something else. When we weren't together, we spent every moment talking to or thinking about the other. And the sex was incredible. While my experience had been limited to half a dozen men, most of them were horrible in bed. Mike was different. He had experience, like he had been trained by a stable of upscale prostitutes before being released into the world.
Within a year we were married, and for ten years we were happy. I never wanted anyone else. Or so I thought. Mike was my best friend, my lover, the father of my beautiful children. Then he got his dream job. (Cue ominous music.)
At first I was so happy for my husband. He had worked hard to get this job, and it suited him perfectly. I was able to go part-time and spend more time with the kids. We moved into a big house, the kind we'd always dreamed of.
But something changed after six months on the job. He started working longer hours, talking only about work every minute we were together. He insisted he wasn't having an affair with a woman, but with his job. Then came sobbing, repentant phone calls from a secretary and a copywriter. They had names. I refused to remember them. Mike insisted that was all in the past. My affair with Nick reminded me that we had problems. This trip confirmed it.
&
nbsp; * * *
"Do you feel guilty?" I asked Alan. We were watching the kids play in the fountain the next afternoon. It had taken me half a day to get the courage to ask him.
He shook his head. "No. And I expected to. You?"
"Not really. But I didn't feel guilty about Nick either." It was true. The lack of guilt bothered me more than what I'd done.
Alan clasped my hand. "I felt guilty when I was younger, when I cheated on you. But not today. All I can think about is how fantastic it was, and how to keep from getting an erection here in public."
I laughed. "You're driving me crazy."
His face turned serious. "One thing I am worried about though, is birth control."
I put my hand on his thigh. (I really wanted to stroke it.) "It's alright. I had my tubes tied after the twins." What a weird thing to say! Next I'd be telling him about the wart on my foot and that Cheetos made me gassy.
Alan smiled. "Tell me more about Nick. I have a feeling you left something important out."
I swallowed hard and turned to look at the kids. He was right; I had left out one or two things.
Alan turned my face toward his. "What is it?"
My voice was unsteady. "That I was falling in love with him."
He searched my face for more, his eyes roving the landscape of my eyes. It was the truth. And I think he knew that.
"It started before we made love," I began hesitantly. "Afterward, I realized how dangerous my feelings were, so I tried to end it."
Alan's voice was quiet, and I wondered what was going on in his head. "Why?"
I pulled back from his gaze, looking at our hands, clasped in my lap. "I don't know. He was smart, funny, but very quiet…no, introspective. It was more than just a sexual attraction, at least for me."
"You never talked to him about it?"
Again, I was unsure how much to reveal. "I didn't want to break up his marriage."
Alan's voice relaxed. "Do you wish you had told him?"
Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations Page 6