One is a Promise

by Pam Godwin

  Except he doesn’t leave.

  Brushing my fingers away, he swiftly releases the row of hook and eye closures.

  My heart races, and my hand flies to my chest, holding the cups in place. “Trace.”

  “Danni.” He shifts closer, closer, until his necktie brushes my spine, his palms cup my bare shoulders, and his forehead rests against the back of my head. “Come upstairs with me.”

  That sounds like an invitation for more than a movie. Then again, I tend to have an overactive imagination, and it shoots straight out of my mouth.

  “I’m hungry, Trace.”

  “I’ll feed you.”

  “Will you feed me what we both want?”

  His hands clench on my shoulders, and his breaths quicken. He’s thinking it, wanting it, even if he won’t admit it out loud.

  In a moment of insanity, I loosen my grip on the bra and let it fall to the floor. My nipples harden against the cool air, and my breaths catch the tempo of his, growing louder, shorter, ragged with desire.

  Standing behind me, he can’t see my breasts, but if he lowers his hands just a few inches, he could hold them, play with them. God help me, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched there I have to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from begging.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.

  If he’s trying to convince himself, it doesn’t work because his hands are already moving over my body. One sweeps across my upper chest, and the other caresses a path around my hip to flatten against my abs.

  My breasts feel heavy, tingling for attention, but he ignores them. With his arms folded around me, he holds my back to his chest as his mouth lowers, feathers along my neck, pressing harder, growing rougher, until he’s kissing, sucking, and greedily biting my skin.

  Every lick and scrape of teeth shoots a current of pleasure between my legs. I let my head fall to the side, giving him better access. The hand on my stomach splays wider, dipping, sinking beneath crystals and satin to stroke the trimmed hair on my mound.

  Oh, Jesus. Please don’t stop.

  I melt against his chest, my hands falling back to the hard bricks of his ass and digging into the fabric of his slacks. We’re both panting, shaking, grinding together as he reaches deeper between my legs, sliding over the wet waxed flesh of my folds.

  His engorged cock prods my backside, and my knees weaken. Stars blot my vision, and the pound of my heart roars in my ears. If his long confident fingers plunge inside me, I’m done for. I’ll come instantly, and the whole casino will hear me. But I don’t care. I need this. I need him.

  He rolls his hips against my ass aggressively, frantically, simulating sex. I bask in the claiming, in the heat of his harsh exhales on my neck, the fingers tracing my slit, and the massive body curled around mine. Teeth graze my shoulder, and his panting strengthens into a deep groan.

  Until he bumps against the ring on my labium.

  His breaths cut off, and his entire body goes still.

  “What’s wrong?” Dread knots in my stomach, suffocating the flames of my arousal.

  His hands leave my body, and he steps back, taking all the air with him. The same reaction he had when he touched the ring on my finger three months ago.

  “It’s just a piercing.” I’m frozen with hope. Hope that he’ll snap out of it and finish what he started.

  Oppressive silence pushes against my back. I cross an arm over my nude chest and fight to keep my shoulders from hunching. Then I shift to face him.

  With a hand on the wall supporting his slumped posture, he holds his other hand beneath his nose, as if smelling me on his fingers.

  “What just happened?” My voice is low, hoarse.

  His gaze lifts, locking on mine as his hand balls into a fist and drops to his side.

  “A lapse in judgment. Forgive me.” He stands taller, blanking his expression. “I made a mistake.”

  My airway constricts, and chills crash through me. I feel injured, insulted, but the pain is minuscule. I’ve endured worse. Survived worse. Nothing compares to burying my heart in a grave of ashes, and my body seems to recognize this. My limbs go numb. My chest lifts, and the tingling pressure behind my eyes evaporates.

  “Good night, Trace,” I say softly and swivel toward the shower to adjust the faucet.

  The door clicks shut behind me, plunging me into the cold familiarity of loneliness.

  I don’t come out until I’ve washed away the sweat, makeup, and glitter…and the resentment.

  Maybe I’m too forgiving, but in my mind, there’s nothing to absolve. For a standoffish, reserved man, he’s been straight-up with me. He’s attracted to my body, but he doesn’t want the messy relationship. Yes, he had a weak moment. So did I. And he shut it down before it went too far. Before he hurt me. Deep down, I admire his restraint.

  Adding to my clemency is my conversation with Father Rick at the homeless shelter earlier this week. I donate most of my income and while dropping off a check, Rick mentioned The Regal Arch Casino has been matching my gifts to a ratio of 3:1. For every dollar I donate, Trace has been giving three dollars on the sly. Maybe he saw an opportunistic tax write-off. But after all his huffing and puffing about giving my money away, he jumps on the bandwagon? What is he up to?

  When I emerge from the bathroom, the dressing room is empty and quiet. But he left something behind. An envelope, propped against a can of hairspray on the dressing table.

  I pull on a casual strapless dress, slide on some flip-flops, and open the envelope. Inside is a concert ticket, and as I read the print, my heart slams against my ribs.

  Presenting Beyoncé at America’s Center & The Dome

  It’s a single ticket for tomorrow night in a luxury suite. I’ve seen my favorite artist live once, and it’d been from the nose-bleed section. But to watch her from a premium seat? In a private suite? Holy fucking shit, I’m going to explode.

  I bound out of the dressing room in a frenzy of excitement, taking the long way through the gaming area to look for Trace. He might’ve left me feeling unsteady and frustrated, but it doesn’t overshadow how grateful I am for the ticket. The need to say thank you in-person has me scanning all his usual spots—the restaurant, gaming tables, two of the three bars, the lobby.

  Then I spot him twenty feet away, tucked in the corner of the third bar with a pretty brunette on his lap. He’s staring right at me.

  My strides careen to a stop, and the concert ticket crumples in my hand.

  I wish I was one of those people who can shield their emotions. I want to give him a smile, maybe even a small wave, and continue on like there isn’t an invisible band around my ribs, crushing my chest.

  Be cool, Danni. Don’t overreact.

  The muscles in my face ignore my demands. They contort, bunch, and turn cold, expressing everything I don’t want him to see.

  Humiliation.

  Hurt.

  Regret.

  Had I accepted his invitation tonight, that woman wouldn’t be running her hands through his hair, rubbing her double-D tits against him, or whispering in his ear. He wouldn’t be across the room, staring at me with dispassion deadening his eyes.

  Rejecting his offer to go upstairs meant I’d be alone tonight. But the same isn’t true for him. And that’s the sucker punch that blurs my vision and turns my feet toward the elevator.

  It’s a long walk across a short distance as I fight back the damnable tears in my eyes. Holding my chin up and gait casual, I feel like everyone’s staring. But they’re not. No one glances away from the beeping, flashing slot machines. No one cares.

  That’s good. I’m just the resident dancer, tired and anxious to get home after a long night of entertaining.

  If I’m honest, my reaction isn’t rational. For the past three months, I’ve watched women hang all over Trace. Watched his hand rest on their lower backs. Watched his eyes glimmer when he talks with them, drinks with them at the bar. He’s a player. We’re not together, not exclusive, not anything.
Even though it felt like something only fifteen minutes ago.

  I guess that’s the dig. Feeling the full brunt of his arousal in the bathroom, knowing he left worked up and fully aroused, and seeing the woman who will be enjoying the release of his sexual tension.

  The woman he’ll be taking to his bed tonight. Instead of me.

  For a moment, I consider stopping by a bar on my way home and picking a man for the night. It would so easy. I did it too many times to count before I met Cole.

  Except one-night-stands lost their appeal after I discovered what it feels like to be adored, worshiped, and loved by a man who holds my heart.

  I won’t ever go back to grunting and groping in the dark with a passive man.

  Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe that’s exactly what my future holds. But not tonight. I haven’t reached that level of desperation.

  By the time I arrive at my car, my eyes are dry and my hands are no longer trembling. I stare at the crumpled concert ticket, warring between ripping it up and straightening out the creases.

  My excitement about going is squashed, but do I really want to be a petty brat about it? He gave me a gift, not a promise to be my boyfriend.

  Before I lose my nerve, I type out a quick text.

  Me: Thank you for the concert ticket.

  Seconds later, a text buzzes my phone.

  Trace: I’ll pick you up at 7PM.

  He’s going with me? I should’ve guessed as much. Maybe he’ll bring the brunette who’s currently on his lap. Make it a threesome.

  A whimper escapes my throat, and I drop my forehead against the steering wheel. Why in the fresh hell do I care?

  Because I’m stupid.

  And lonely.

  And I might be falling for him.

  Startled by the direction of my thoughts, I lift my head and press a hand against my racing heart as a violent mix of emotions roils in my gut.

  I’m falling for Trace.

  Time’s run out, and it’s an incendiary feeling, leaching the strength from my body and burning the air in my lungs.

  A taxi cab idles in the driveway, glinting in the dim glow of dawn, waiting to take Cole away from me.

  For an entire year.

  Before the sun rose, in the early hours between dreams and reality, I woke with him moving inside me, with a promise on his breath. Through every long drugging stroke of his cock, he stared into my eyes and vowed that he’ll return. That he’ll marry me. That he’ll always love me.

  His promise for forever.

  It was goodbye in the rawest, most pleasurable, most harrowing sense of the word.

  Now we stand on the front porch, tightly wrapped in each other—our arms, our thoughts, our hearts refusing to let go. Every part of us tangles and melds together. One soul. One future. Distance be damned.

  He cups my face and kisses me, his tongue rubbing against mine, our breaths fusing tenderly, passionately. But the heartache is overpowering, striking against my breastbone and shooting pain to the deepest reaches of my being.

  Staring into his eyes, I seek, interlock, and connect with him on a soulful level. Like it’s the first time I’m seeing him.

  Or the last.

  I feel like I’m losing him. We’ve only known each other ten months, and he’s going to be gone a year. Will our newborn love withstand this separation? What if he finds someone else? An exotic beauty to pass his lonely nights with?

  “Let me transfer my income into your account,” he says at my ear.

  “No.”

  We’ve been over this. He wants to pay my living expenses and cover the wedding deposits while he’s gone. I want to put all our money together when he returns. When we’re married. My way makes more sense.

  “So fucking stubborn.” He kisses me tenderly. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive a year without you.” His lips whisper against mine. “I won’t do this again.”

  “Again?” My pulse jolts. I’ve been so focused on getting through the next year, I hadn’t considered there would be more deployments after this one.

  “No.” His hands flex against my jaw. “This is my last job. I’m quitting when I get back.”

  “Quit now.” Hope rushes through me. “Don’t go. You can find a new job and—”

  “Shh, baby.” He rests his lips against my hair, holding my cheek against his pounding chest. “I’m under contract for the rest of the year. But when I return, I won’t renew.”

  My shoulders sink, and the cab driver lays on the horn. We both tense.

  I hug him harder, my sinuses flaring against the assault of tears. But I refuse to cry. Not yet. This is hard enough for him. I won’t make him leave a sobbing, miserable wreck of a woman.

  “Call me when you arrive at the al-Bashrah oil terminal.”

  “I’ll try, Danni, but we went over this.”

  My fingers sink against his back as my worry for his safety courses and spikes anew.

  Americans live in converted cargo containers at one end of the oil platform. Their meals are delivered from the main ship. Access to a satellite phone is limited, and Internet is spotty. It could be months before I hear from him.

  At least I don’t have to share air time with his family. His mother left when he was a child, and he hasn’t spoken to his drunk of a father in years. I’m his only phone call, as well as his next-of-kin in case of an emergency.

  The taxi driver honks again, smacking the horn in rapid succession.

  “By the grace of God, give them a minute,” Virginia shouts from her open window next door.

  Cole smiles down at me, popping those dimples, and I commit every detail of him to memory. The soft scruff on his jaw, the deep chocolate of his eyes, the snake tattoo that coils around his strong neck, and his proud posture clad in black leather and denim.

  “Say it again.” I kiss his full lips.

  “I promise to return to you.”

  “In one year, Cole.” I wrap my arms around his shoulders, blinking back the burning ache in my eyes. “I’ll be waiting at the altar.”

  “My beautiful bride. My Mrs. Hartman. It’s all I’ll think about.” He untangles himself from my hug and steps back. “Keep the doors locked.”

  “Yeah.” I glance back at the deadbolt he installed. “Okay.”

  “I love you,” he whispers softly, achingly.

  “I love you.” I fade into his adoring gaze, barely holding myself together.

  The moment he turns away, the tears spill over. I swipe at them, but there’s too many coming too fast. By the time he’s in the cab, my face is drenched and my vision is blurred.

  As the car shrinks and disappears in the distance, I force myself to stand taller, stronger.

  He’ll be home in a year.

  I have a year to plan a wedding.

  Most girls dream about the cake, the flowers, the dress. This girl dreams about choreographing the first dance, and it’s going to be the biggest production in the history of wedding dances.

  My heart feels like a trampled, miserable pile of shit at my feet, but I have a sure way to channel the pain. For the next twelve months, Beyoncé will help me through it.

  The lyrics to XO swirl through my head, and I see a crowded reception hall with Cole and me at the center. Him, holding me in his arms, rocking his sexy ass to the beat. Me, sliding through Lambada Zouk steps with flowing body waves, hair flicks, and sensual footwork. Together, we’re smiling, twirling, lost in the intimacy of our eye contact.

  No one’s going to out-dance us at our own wedding.

  The roar of thousands of concert-goers echoes through the dome. The lights, the music, the energy of Beyoncé’s dancers pulls me into the moment, gripping my hips like a lover’s hands and leading me through the rhythm.

  I harbored doubts on my way here, sitting beside Trace in the back of his fancy sedan and squirming in the uncomfortable silence.

  Spending time with him, being casual with him, pretending like he didn’t spend the prior evening with another woman�
��all of it twists me up and turns me inside out. But now that I’m here, I intend to enjoy the experience to its fullest.

  We have the suite to ourselves, and Trace keeps his distance. Reclined in the back row of the balcony seats, he rests an ankle on a knee, a hand against his jaw, and watches me in that way he does. Intently. Unnervingly. Compulsively.

  I haven’t asked about the brunette, and he’s made no attempt to explain his actions. Why would he? We’re not a couple. Are we even friends?

  Standing in the front row of the closest balcony to the stage, I hold onto the railing and shake my ass to the thumping beats. Over the years, I’ve created dance routines to all of Beyoncé’s songs, and while I don’t have a lot of space to work with, I make use of every square inch.

  But every time I glance back at my audience of one, it takes a few moments to catch my breath. That isn’t the look a man gives a woman he doesn’t want. His gaze trails over me like a blistering fire that melts through my skin and sizzles in my blood. It’s the kind of look that brings two bodies into complete union, a wild uncontrollable fusion of kissing, licking, and fucking.

  If he were to step behind me and lift my dress, would I try to escape? Would I fight him? Withhold my desire? Or would I let him use me until we were both exhausted, limp, and satiated? Then could I let him go, to return to his women and un-messy lifestyle?

  I must be falling for him, because I couldn’t live with being one of his flings in a rotation of bed partners.

  So as the concert continues, I block out the heat of his gaze and dance for myself, possessed by the vocals, controlled by the rhythm, completely immersed in my element.

  Until the one song I hoped Beyoncé wouldn’t sing echoes through the dome.

  The song I passionately, painstakingly choreographed for a year.

  For a first dance that never happened.

  Her beautiful voice belts the lyrics, knocking the wind from my lungs. I teeter in the heels and recover quickly, locking my knees, grounding myself in the here and now.