by Gina Kincade
The Flame of Hunger
by Muffy Wilson
Riley Parker was focused on a dream.
Her dream.
She hadn’t a care in the world for any one-person other than herself in the fall of 2007. Her success and her goals within reach, she oozed a vitality, an energy, a robust lust for life and raw sex appeal unconsciously. It radiated from her pores.
She was a walking sex magnet, fuckably fuck-a-licious.
Raised in privilege as an only child, she had worked hard nonetheless, sometimes holding down two jobs, to get her under-graduate degree. It seemed unbelievable to her friends that a girl of such small stature would have such lofty dreams, but she surprised them all with her tenacity and perseverance. All she ever wanted was to pursue her artistic interests and earn a living as a designer. Where that took her, she was unsure, but she loved design, fabrics and furniture.
It was the texture of life.
It seemed simple to her so she never saw anything as insurmountable or unattainable.
All she ever wanted was now within her grasp.
She was more invigorated than ever before.
She was radiant.
Her style, demeanor, the way she moved, glided no floated through a room was delectably fuck-a-luscious.
It was opening night of the San Francisco Symphony. That was when she first saw him. She never planned nor expected to be swept away. That’s rare.
Rare for her.
Rare for anybody.
When the air is thick with excitement and anticipation, it ignites a charge within and you are on alert for the “something” to happen while not knowing what that something, that “it” is at the time. The orchestra warmed up in a disconnected, faltering collection of notes, strings and horns as the wealthy patrons filed into the theatre and settled.
Their movement, the collision of bodies, moving to their seats in unison, created a low throaty like rumble in the hall.
A near silent roar, thunderous quiet pulse.
It was exhilarating.
One could feel the hall awakening and coming to life, moving, stretching, yawning, warming up to the occupants.
It was alive.
Riley felt alive.
She wore a flowing yet form fitted white spaghetti strapped gown with a backline that dropped to the small curve of her back above the dimples of the well-rounded cheeks of her ass. Riley felt so sensuous, so sexy and imagined what others saw when they looked at her which made her feel even more visible, exposed with a naked heightened sense of arousal.
She felt naked when they looked at her.
It was exciting.
It was a roller-coaster, a cacophony of emotion.
She felt exposed and on display.
She loved the indulgence...the naughtiness.
She loved the brashness and the privacy of her thoughts.
She loved how she felt in her gown.
The cascading neckline tumbled in silken folds to her abdomen which revealed her breath in the soft rise of her alabaster breasts.
She loved this dress and the way it made her feel.
Of course, the soft swish of her thighs rubbing ever so slightly led to her arousal and her heightened sense of her own sexuality.
She was of medium height with an envious shape most men admired: long, shapely legs nipped tightly at the ankle tapering to narrow, small feet elegantly adorned in satin heeled open-toed slippers with scarlet, well-pedicured peek-a-boo toes, a full breasted bosom with pert, erect nipples and stretched to arousal against the fabric of her gown.
They felt like a beacon, announcing her entrance into the symphony hall.
Her generous round hips accentuated a narrow waist and a lovely pleasing back that joined all her sumptuous qualities. Her eyes reflected an emerald depth with gold flecks that edged to hazel and were framed by neat, arched brows that narrowed to her temples where her heartbeat announced the rhythm of her life...
...like a drumbeat.
Her rounded cheekbones accentuated the graceful curve of her jaw line as it narrowed to a slightly dimpled chin below heart-shaped ruby lips. Her only adornment was a starkly white gardenia nestled in the curves of her auburn curls that caressed the pale white opaque flesh of her face. The heavy floral fragrance of the corsage announced her arrival. She glided elegantly to her aisle amidst the heartbeat of the crowd.
Riley found her seat and sat, no settled, like a dove, into her fourth row, center seat.
She was alone.
The pressure between her legs as she sat nearly catapulted her over the top.
The house lights dimmed yet, unaware, she glowed demurely in the white gown, as if she were unmistakably the main attraction.
Or had a secret.
She stared as he walked onstage.
He was a towering, self-assured giant of a black man, broad-chested and confident, his arms in black opulent leather outstretched as if to embrace the audience.
She felt as though he was embracing her.
His piercing gaze locked irresistibly onto her, in all her radiant purity. His intense black eyes seemed to declare his hunger with mahogany intensity.
Riley couldn’t take her eyes off him.
The opera house erupted with his full bass-baritone harmony. He sang, it seemed to Riley, to only her and she smiled quite involuntarily, opening, encouragingly. Every throaty, reverberating note he released strummed each nerve to her very foundation.
Especially the nerves clustered in a knotted, anxious twist between her legs.
The surrounding atmosphere was elevating, inexplicably electrified, nearly lifting the lamb to the altar.
Riley walked eagerly into the hunger.
That undeniable connection felt romantic, exciting, illicit, forbidden — even though it was not — making the magnetic attraction feel more like destiny.
The lit tether of desire was a burning fuse and she was helpless to resist.
The rest became a foregone shared conclusion — a conspiracy of lust — of mounting excitement and crescendo.
Her pulse raced, heart soared, knees weakened — her flesh tingled with a heightened anticipation of being touched.
Riley’s stomach tied her eagerness into a series of fiery knots.
Her secret folds began to engorge with a mounting fervor.
A burning heat automatically swelled the tender flesh drawing the soft tissue back at the very core of her existence as they grew. Her petulant feminine petals nestled in the protective mound where her thighs kissed. When the movements of soft thighs rub silken panties against the growing, demanding bud, a primal lust accelerates.
Her primal lust accelerated.
There is no denying a woman ignited under those circumstances. His musical seduction began, and would surely end, she thought, with her in his outstretched arms.
Riley slowly flushed with excitement while her eager response filled and unfolded the protection of the essential pearl of her existence.
She answered his desire with a blush.
She sat through the entire performance held by his gaze. The magnetism she could not resist overtook her fully.
She did not try to resist.
And her response was involuntary yet welcome.
She felt his gaze through her gown caress her, push her, tease her and excite her with every deep vibrato he released into the hall.
When the house lights rose, the fluid embrace of his voice was gradually replaced by the swelling bustle of movement from the exiting audience. She looked to her left and right, then up to the stage beautifully shrouded by long red opulent velvet curtains separating her from the object of the gathered passion in her belly.
Her reverie broken, she returned to the moment.
As she rose, the romantic trance invoked by his voice broke, the hold eased, and dropped shard by shard from her body like shackles so she could now move. She gathered her wits, shook off the spell and seemed to float in the afterglow with the others to the atrium. She
exited the main entrance to the broad threshold above the street below.
She took a few steps outside and she shocked by the damp San Francisco night.
Riley shivered against a San Francisco chill that should have held no surprise.
She drew her wrap ever tighter to her heaving breast; her nipples still erect from the seduction of the opera star. She paused a moment to shake off the damp night to enjoy the remains of her trance, and proceeded down the steps to hail a cab.
The after-symphony reception was held at the home of one of San Francisco’s most prominent elite, a huge supporter and member of the Symphony Board of Directors, Drake Morrison. Drake and his wife Amelia were friends of Riley’s parents who were absent because of a holiday in the Orient. Riley’s parents were regular supporters of the Symphony and met the Morrisons frequently during intermission on most opening nights for a glass of champagne. She had been invited as a distraction from her solitude to join them on opening night at the reception in their home. She agreed to attend eagerly as she often attended the symphony with her Mother when her Father was unable.
She felt her low-belly tighten; her heart pounded and her palms tingled with perspiration in aroused anticipation. The main opera lead and cast always came to the receptions. The non-profit organization relied upon their attendance to boost donations so she knew she would see him here. She wondered if he would even recognize her.
Perhaps the reverie of connection had been hers alone.
When Keenan Basarich entered with his entourage, he towered over everyone with his black elegance. He was beautiful, a stunning black onyx statue carved to magnificent perfection. When she saw him, only feet away, she staggered slightly as he turned to her with an outstretched hand in greeting, eyes locked in a magnetic embrace.
She lost her breath and her heart in one moment as she touched his fingertips with hers.
He clasped her hand with both of his and pulled her close to his body with a knowing smile curled on the curve of his chiseled jaw line. She felt his heat, was hypnotized by his aroma. She knew then he remembered her in the audience; he had sung to her, he had sent his words in musical notes on romantic air foils to surround her, lift and seduce her.
He had embraced her with his powerful voice.
It was the beginning of a happy ending.
She was sure of it.
The moment was suspended by an interruption.
He was directed to further introductions.
He bowed ever so slightly with his departure and barely whispered a bientôt, ma’am’selle.
His breath seared her neckline.
She weakened in his presence and felt ill-balanced on a passionate precipice as he moved away. Their arms outstretched unwilling to be parted, her hand slid from his as their fingertips relinquished an electric hold.
“A bientôt, ma’am’selle,” he had said.
She hung on every word with rapt expectation of their next meeting as he moved into the crowd of admirers.
The adoring crowd swallowed him whole, just as she wanted to — swallow him whole.
She watched as he worked the room, seducing male and female alike with his charisma.
It was his brilliance.
He was a master in the simple ministration of his charm. He spoke with confidence, smiled at nonsensical nervous banter and made everyone most relaxed in his presence with an effortless touch.
The night edged on and she resigned herself to being like all the others, seduced by the sheer presence of the man. She sought out the Morrisons and bid them a grateful goodnight. She went into the library where her wrap was hung. A manly black hand extended and took it from her grip and as she spun, he curled her into his embrace as well as the shawl.
“My room key at the Hotel Whitcomb. The town car service I called to take you there is waiting outside. Room 457. Have I presumed too much?” as he pressed himself to her body and the key card into her hand.
The low melodious tone of his voice melted any thought of resistance.
“I, ah...No, you have not presumed beyond expectation.”
She kept her voice low despite their momentary privacy.
“The Morrisons are longtime friends of my parents who don’t yet consider me a grown woman.” She smiled into his down-turned eyes and smelled his heat. “I thank you for your discretion.”
He ran his fingertips from the wrap on her shoulder down the inside of her arm to the soft swell of her breast and lingered. His fingers caressed her naked flesh under her arm above the cut on the satin of her gown.
Her knees buckled under the weight of her desire and he caught her as she fell into his full embrace.
“Oh, God,” she breathlessly gasped and looked up into his dark eyes. “Do all women respond to you like this?”
“You are not all women. Go, now. I will be there within the hour. Sooner, if I can get myself out of here. Room 457, do not forget. It isn’t written on the card.” He bent and put his lips, so soft, warm and pliant, on hers in a sweet parting kiss.
Riley reached up and touched his ebony cheek in a promise then left for the town car waiting out front.
She felt like Cinderella.
He watched as she opened the library door, looked back at him over her pale bare shoulder and smiled farewell. He delayed a moment then rejoined the party in the main of the house.
Riley approached the town car and the driver. He leaned casually against the fender and he smoked. As she descended the steps, he dashed his smoke and jumped to open the rear door for her. She took a breath after she relaxed nervously in the rear of the car.
The driver anticipated her comment and confirmed, “Hotel Whitcomb. Yes, miss.”
“Yes, thank you.”
It was a short ride to the beautiful historic hotel. It was in the same district as Davies Hall, the home for the Symphony. She had been there many times for receptions, weddings, fund raisers and her own coming out: her introduction to San Francisco society when she was sixteen.
It was a favorite of hers and she knew it well.
As she was superstitious.
And no virgin.
That they would meet and make love in this building, student of the arts that she was, held great significance to her. It was only fitting that here, in this building, she would make love to the man that would most likely change the course of her entire life.
She loved the Hotel Whitcomb and everything about it: the history, the charm, and the architectural design elements. It was built in the early 19th century. The Edwardian architecture was artistically visible throughout the historic hotel. Around every corner and every bend, the Austrian Cristal chandeliers, marble columns, rare Janesero wood paneling.
The beautiful Tiffany stained glass at the front desk and in the piano bar shown with a rich history and seduced her every step as she filled with romantic confidence. They are but a few of the spectacular features of this exquisite, historic hotel. Close to many of San Francisco’s historic sites, including Davies Hall, the hotel is a quixotic short trolley ride away from Union Square and Fisherman’s Wharf.
It was an exquisite, serendipitous choice.
In a city known for its history, the Hotel Whitcomb has a story of its own. As the city emerged from the devastation of the 1906 earthquake, the hotel became a substitute city hall while the original was being rebuilt.
The heart of San Francisco beat here, at one time, and she was hopelessly romantic about it.
In 1910, the city of San Francisco was still rebuilding and in need of a place to house government officials. They found such a place across Market Street in the then-under-construction luxury hotel, the Hotel Whitcomb. The developers quickly changed their plans and converted the hotel to city hall. After the hotel’s civic duty ended, it was converted back to its original design and became the Hotel Whitcomb in 1916. Reminders of the landmark hotel's early history are still present in the hotel: the original jail cells were in the basement.
Riley knew as much as any
living person knew about this old grand lady and she was in love with her.
Until the mid-1990s, the words City Hall could still be seen faintly etched above the hotel's main entrance. Riley found all that history so romantic and she could relate almost verbatim a scant history from the travel brochures, she so loved this beautiful building.
But then, that was her passion, design and beauty — and tonight...him.
She would so love him.
When the town car driver stopped at the hotel entrance, she gathered her clutch, her wrap, and her courage.
The driver emerged from the front seat and walked around the vehicle to open the rear door for his passenger.
She extended a long shapely leg, to the driver’s discrete appreciation.
He smiled politely and reached for her hand to steady her as she stood.
Riley entered the lobby nervously.
It wasn’t as though everyone knew why she entered alone, but as though there were a reception being held in her honor. The lobby was busy for such a late hour.
Her head was covered in wild auburn curls from the damp night sky which framed a face held high with shoulders square. Riley smiled at the door man with her back proud and straight.
Contrary to her parents’ belief, she was a grown woman with desire coursing through her veins from a wellspring of hot volcanic passion at the very pit of her womanhood.
She crossed the hotel foyer to the lobby slowly; she took in everything she loved about this building and she breathed in the excitement. The history of the building, the very notion of decades of others before her, filled her with a tempest of monumental proportion.
Or so she felt. This man was not her first and, she ventured in her thoughts, nor would he be her last.
But he was her ‘now’ — and she ached for him, every bit of him in every inch of her.
She floated with grace across the lobby, the fragrance of her gardenia still piquant and vibrant. She did not go unnoticed — a vision of white, almost virginal, as she crossed the expanse and neared the elevators to the remaining floors.
The elevator attendant nodded, acknowledged her presence as she entered, “Floor, miss?”
“Four, please,” she answered with a surefooted confidence only the privileged possess and entered the elevator with him. They rode to the fourth floor in silence and she grew edgy with anxiety as cab rose slowly.