by Julie Cohen
At one point he’d licked his bottom lip and she’d almost dropped her water glass because all she could think of was his mouth on her, his tongue in her mouth, how his hair would feel under her hands as she kissed him.
And then he’d looked at her and smiled, with that somehow warm and intimate look, as if he and she shared a secret from the rest of the world.
The man was the most beautiful human being she had ever seen in her entire life and she could not work out what he thought was going on between them. Unless he gave every woman this feeling, unless he had charm down to such an art that he appeared to be sincere in the most unusual way she’d ever encountered.
And what on earth was she going to do with him tonight?
Jane stopped pacing, sat down at her desk and opened her laptop, going straight to the Giovanni Franco cologne campaign files. She clicked on the notes her art director, Amy, had made for her when they were in the process of choosing Jay Richard as the model for the campaign. Maybe they would tell her something more about this man.
She skimmed the notes, picking up phrases as she went. ‘Client wants an easygoing attitude.’ ‘Warm face, which customers can relate to.’ Well, that was correct, and went some way to showing her that she hadn’t lost her mind. ‘Model not perfect, but appealing, likely to conform to image consumers would like for themselves.’ Jane snorted at that one. He looked perfect enough to her.
She called up one of his portfolio photos. He was leaning with one hand on a doorframe, wearing a slim-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt that emphasised the lean lines of his body. He was smiling just enough to dig a crease in his left cheek. He looked as if he was about to start a conversation, or reach out and touch the observer.
He looked nearly exactly as he’d looked when he’d stood outside the ladies’ room, talking with her.
Rationally, she knew it meant he’d been acting. But the familiar pose still made her warm, made her breath come faster.
‘Oh, crap,’ she moaned. ‘Why did I decide it would be a good thing to date a model?’
Her laptop made a ‘whishht’ sound and a little box popped up in the corner of the screen to tell her that Jonny Cole had logged into the chat program they sometimes used.
He’d probably emailed her earlier; he emailed her just about every day. But she’d been so busy this morning and this afternoon after lunch that she hadn’t had time to check any personal stuff, and whatever he’d sent was most likely buried in her inbox. And of course since she’d got home she’d been angsting.
But Jonny would calm her down. She opened her email application and began to scroll through messages, looking for his return address. Most of the stuff she had that wasn’t work-related was spam about stock tips and enlarging her penis. How she was supposed to find the single message that actually meant something …
Her laptop chimed. A glance told her it was Jonny hailing her. She abandoned her inbox and clicked on the chat icon.
Hello gorgeous! How are you?
She could see Jonny’s message appearing as he typed. Jane hadn’t seen Jonny in person for fifteen years, but she could remember well what he used to look like when they were kids and he would come over to her house nearly every day to play. He’d been a skinny boy with a brown bowl cut, knobbly knees, and round glasses. He was a lot more fragile than her four older, boisterous brothers; at times, his shyness had made him seem even more fragile than Jane was herself. Jane was used to being around bigger boys, but Jonny always liked hanging around with her more than with her brothers.
Whenever she pictured him now, at twenty-seven, she thought of him as a skinny man with the same bowl cut and round glasses, sort of like a grown-up Harry Potter. He was a self-described computer geek, but she bet he was cute.
It was typical of him that he called her ‘gorgeous’. Of course, he hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, either.
Before she replied, Jane glanced down at herself. She wore the skirt of her brown suit, and a shell top. Her light daily make-up had probably worn off, and her plain brown hair was pulled back into a clip, as usual.
She looked businesslike. She wasn’t gorgeous. She typed back:
Hey Jonny. I’m fine.
Liar.
The reply came back lightning-fast, so quickly it made her gasp in the empty room.
Jay had said nearly the same thing.
Suddenly Jane was blinking back tears. She’d fought and fought for the past few days to act as if everything was okay, as if she had no worries. She was sick of it. Surrounded all day, every day, by people who wanted her at peak efficiency, who didn’t want to know how she felt, and when she came home, she was all alone. She didn’t even have anywhere comfortable to sit because Gary had taken his couch.
Gary and I broke up.
She typed and sent it before she could think better of it. And then she did think better of it, and wrote the more honest truth:
Gary left me for another woman.
It was a moment before Jonny replied.
I understand. I’m sorry, Jane.
He’s a bastard.
Well, that goes without saying.
And she’s a waitress with bad shoes.
Again, a slight pause before Jonny wrote back.
Why does her job make a difference?
Because I’ve worked so hard to be a success, to be good at my job, and Gary was proud of me. He said he was proud of me. And then he leaves me for somebody who comes home every night smelling of other people’s food?
As soon as she typed it, the answer felt inadequate, but she didn’t think she was going to get much closer to the truth typing into a silly little box, so she sent it.
I was wondering about the shoes, but now I think I get it. You’re saying she doesn’t even have good taste and it feels unfair.
It’s mostly because Gary wears these Italian shoes and I had some comfortable slippers I used to wear around the house and he kept on commenting about them until I had to throw them away. I’ve never found another pair that was so comfortable. How come it’s okay for her to wear crappy shoes and I can’t even keep my slippers?
Her fingers were flying over the keyboard and Jane didn’t feel like crying any more. Instead, she felt lighter. It was a huge relief to say what she was thinking to somebody who wouldn’t judge her and who tried to understand, even if it was via a computer and a network, even if it was to someone whom she never saw in person. She hit ‘send’ and started typing again immediately, without even taking a breath.
So now I’ve got this date tonight with this gorgeous model person and I don’t know what to do.
It’s a date?
Jonny’s reply came back fast as thought.
Yes. And I don’t know what to do.
Excuse me for a moment, while I run around the room whooping in joy.
Jane laughed out loud. She loved Jonny’s sense of humour, and it was typical of him that he was so happy for her that she had a date.
Okay, I’m back. I think I scared the neighbours. So what do you mean, you don’t know what to do?
Jane sighed.
I haven’t dated for ages. I’m not sure how you behave. Even with Gary, we didn’t really date … we were working together and we just sort of got together. I’m not sure I know what to do with a man.
I’m sure you know perfectly well.
She glanced down at herself again. Plain Jane, career woman with no social life. She couldn’t even keep a man faithful to her when she was engaged to him.
She understood men, she thought. She’d grown up with four brothers, after all. Most of her colleagues at work were male. She’d always thought that men were refreshing, because they usually said what they meant, and the motivations for their actions were usually pretty clear.
But when it came to relationships, she obviously didn’t have a clue. Because she’d thought that everything with Gary was fine, right up until the minute he’d introduced her to his new girlfriend. She wrote:
I don’t know
what men like in a woman. I’m not sure what they think is sexy, or what they’d like a woman to do on a date.
She pressed ‘send’, and then, in one of her impulses, her second today, she typed:
Tell me what to do, Jonny. Tell me what you would like.
Jonny stared at the screen and swallowed.
Had he stepped into some strange virtual world, or was this one of his fantasies coming true?
Jane Miller was wonderful, beautiful, intriguing. It had been fifteen years and she was all grown up, and he’d recognised her the minute he’d walked into the restaurant. Even though her hair was pulled back neatly into a clip, the strands that escaped were still as thick and soft and wavy as he remembered. Her eyes were big and grey, her lips were a perfect bow, and her skin was as delicate as the petal of an orchid.
He hadn’t just recognised her with his eyes and his mind; he’d recognised her with his heart, as the girl he’d followed around and adored for years when he was a kid. She’d been a crush, yeah, the untouchable girl he’d dreamed unformed pre-adolescent dreams about, but she’d also been his friend. She was still his friend.
And he’d recognised her with his body, too. Because Jane had grown from a tomboy into a very attractive woman.
He’d barely been able to keep his hands off her. His first instinct when he’d seen her had been to sweep her into his arms and plant an enormous kiss on those doll-like lips. It was attraction, it was affection, and it was also a primitive urge to grab this woman and mark her as his, because he’d always wanted her to be.
But there had been her fiancé to consider, and Thom, and the charade he’d asked her to play.
And now …
This was a real date. Just the two of them. Two grownups, both of them single.
And she was asking him what he would like to happen. He replied carefully.
What do you mean?
I mean everything. What should I wear, for example?
Jonny closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
She’d been wearing a suit at lunch this afternoon, and it had been pretty modest, nondescript in colour, conservative in cut. It was probably designed to minimise her femininity, but Jonny wasn’t fooled by it. He’d looked closely enough to see the slender curve of her waist under her jacket, the wave of her hips under her skirt, the slight bounce of her breasts under her silky top.
And the graceful line of her neck, and the delicacy of her wrists, slim and throbbing with warmth under his palm when he’d touched her.
And her shoes. Her suit had been nondescript, but her shoes had been fine leather, high-heeled, and had made her legs go on for ever. He typed:
You have good shoes. You should wear heels. They’re very sexy.
I should definitely wear good shoes. What else?
A dress. Something that doesn’t hide your body.
High heels and a clingy dress. Got it. Should I wear fancy underwear? Forget it, don’t answer that, of course I should.
Jonny nearly fell off his chair.
‘What colour?’ he asked aloud, his voice hoarse, but didn’t type it. Instead, he pictured it. White lace on that porcelain skin. Black satin hugging the curves of her buttocks. Pink silk pushing up her sweet breasts, barely covering her nipples.
He didn’t care what colour, actually. His blood had rushed to his crotch and he was sporting a hard-on of epic proportions.
If he spent the entire date knowing Jane was wearing fancy underwear just for him, he was going to have difficulty standing up and walking without attracting attention.
Okay, so how should I behave?
The ding of Jane’s message broke him out of his reverie, though it couldn’t distract him completely.
Just be yourself, Jane. No man could ask for more.
You’re very sweet, Jonny, but I need more information. Should I be flirtatious? Seductive? How do I do it?
The thoughts about Jane’s underwear didn’t go away, but he also remembered her at lunch today. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Jane had tried to act normally, talking with Thom, pretending to study the menu and appreciate her food—but he’d caught her attention wandering back to him, again and again. She’d looked in his eyes just a little too long when they’d spoken to each other; she’d cast quick, fluttering glances at his body.
Since he’d started modelling he’d become used to glances like that from women, but Jane was different. Every glance from her had heated his skin with desire—and, more than that, her eyes on him had made him feel like laughing out loud with happiness.
The mutual attraction between them was the best thing that had happened to him for a very long time. He typed:
I mean it. Just be yourself. You’re seductive without any help.
And you’re not BEING any help, Jonny. I need to know how to be sexy. What would you think if a woman did something like leaning forward on the table to mistakenly/deliberately show you her cleavage? Or is that too tacky?
Jonny swallowed. Jane Miller, the girl of his dreams, deliberately leaning forward in her clingy dress, showing him her cleavage in her ‘fancy underwear’ …
That would work.
What else? I’m bad at this, remember. Tell me what you like.
Oh, dear Lord. Jonny took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and typed without looking at the laptop, because his inner vision behind his eyelids was showing Jane, doing every little thing she could do to turn him on.
Cross your legs, let your skirt ride up a little, laugh, lean back in your chair. Wear your hair loose and twist a strand of it around your finger. Reach out, with small touches, a stroke on my arm or hand. Throw back your head in that adventurous way that you have. Get close, let us breathe the same air. Let your eyes show how you feel.
He opened his eyes only to press ‘send’, and he watched his words appear in the dialogue box.
In black-and-white, the words looked different than they had in his head. Starker. More like orders, rather than fantasy.
His heart rate sped up, partly with anxiety, but mostly with excitement. His blood pounded through his body and heated his limbs and made his erection pulse in his trousers.
His adventurous Jane, the fearless girl who climbed trees and jumped into pools of water without looking first. Was she playing with him, teasing him? Was she really as uncertain as she said?
She’d made the first move by asking him out, and now she was taking it further before they even met again, and either motivation appealed to him. He could play with her or he could reassure her. Or he could do both. He could tell her what he wanted from her, as he’d never done with any other woman before, because what he wanted most from her was that she be herself.
Unless, of course, she didn’t like what he’d written.
The seconds stretched into minutes. Jonny shifted in his seat, adjusting the fit of his trousers. The hotel-room chair wasn’t all that comfortable, especially for a desperately turned on man glued to his laptop. He pictured Jane sitting in her flat, reading the words he’d written, picturing the two of them together, maybe her brow furrowed a little, thinking about what she would do.
He raised his hands to the keyboard to ask if she was still there, but then saw that she was typing, and her answer appeared.
Okay. I can do that. But I have another question. What do you think about kissing?
A sound escaped Jonny’s throat, half a laugh, half a gasp of surprise.
I like it a lot.
His mouth was in a wide smile as he typed, his head shaking in disbelief that he was having this conversation online.
But what about a first kiss? What should it be like? Should it be all chaste and sweet, or should there be tongues involved? Do you just promise something, or do you really get into it and get all passionate? What do you think?
I rather think it might depend on the circumstances.
Jonny was actually breathless as he typed, he noticed with the part of his brain that was still rational. He continued:
He hit ‘send’, and then couldn’t help typing:
Personally I like passion. What do you want out of a first kiss, Jane?
The answer came back in seconds.
I want it all.
He had to stand up and walk around the room, because those four words on his screen made him feel as if he wanted to explode, as if he didn’t want to wait for eight o’clock and seeing Jane in the restaurant, but instead get a cab straight to her address and when she answered the door grab her and give her a kiss that had all the passion she could ever want.
When he typed, his hands were shaking slightly.
You can have it all, Jane.
And do you think we should have sex with each other?
He could barely respond.
Do you want to?
You know, I think I do.
Jonny didn’t move or breathe. He was normally a visual person, but the fantasy that filled his mind wasn’t just a picture. It was a full-body imagining of what it would feel like to have Jane’s smooth, bare skin against his. How her breasts and hips would feel under his hands, the gasp she would make as he touched her. The weight of her leg twined around his as they lay together. A soft giggle in his ear. Her mouth, soft as petals, her little hands stroking up his back. And the wet, tight heat inside her.
He groaned aloud.
Tell me one more thing, Jonny, just for information, and then I’ll leave you in peace for now. What’s your wildest fantasy?
He was being driven insane by desire and he typed furiously, without slowing down to let his brain think about what he was communicating.
We can’t wait for dinner to be over. We get up and leave together and when we’re outside, in the cool spring air, we immediately touch each other. We slide our hands inside each other’s clothing and we touch whatever skin we can, kissing and exploring and not caring about the other people walking past us in the evening. Our clothes are in the way but that’s exciting, too, because every touch promises even more.