Special of the Day

by Elaine Fox

She followed him into the room and he closed the door behind them. They fumbled for each other in the dark, clasped hands and drew close.

  Steve’s hands took her shirt and pulled it up over her head. Her fingers went for his shirt buttons, but got tangled as he ducked to kiss the mound of one breast. He moved the lace of her bra downward and captured her nipple.

  She made a soft sound deep in her throat and gave up on his buttons, throwing her head back as his lips pulled her nipple and his tongue played with its peak.

  Her hands held his shoulders and she pulled them both backward until he felt her lower herself on the bed. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, the light from the window illuminated the room. He could see her, a dark fluid mass on the bed, her hair spread out around her and her tender skin glowing pale in the moonlight.

  He pulled his own shirt over his head and let it drop behind him. Then he leaned over and kissed her again, his hands plunging onto the mattress to snake behind her. He undid her bra with a practiced snap and pulled the straps down her arms.

  Dropping the bra behind him onto the floor, he felt her hand find his crotch and cup him. Her thumb stroked his erection and he groaned. Her other hand unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down.

  He slid down the length of her body until he crouched at the side of the bed, his lips and hands trailing from her breasts to her belly to her thighs. He pushed his jeans off with one hand and rose again, kissing her belly button as he undid the top of her jeans.

  She raised her hips and he drew her jeans down her legs and off. Beneath them, she wore a thong.

  “Oh sweet Jesus.” Steve’s voice was hoarse, a guttural plea for control.

  In the dim light of the room he could see Roxanne Rayeaux’s incredible figure, naked but for the dark strings of a lacy thong. From bountiful breasts, over a taut belly to the luscious curve of her hips. He wanted those long, long legs around him now.

  He rose up above her and pushed his erection against the thong’s slip of fabric. His lips found her breast, first one, then the other, and she arched into him, her hands holding his head. Then he rose and took her mouth again.

  She opened to him hungrily, her legs loosely circling his hips. His hardened penis in her hands, she stroked it so that he thought he’d lose his mind. Her touch was perfect, magic. He dropped his hand to the thong and slipped a finger easily around it to find the center of her heat.

  She was more than ready for him. He plunged two fingers inside her and she pushed her hips up with a soft, high-pitched sound of pleasure. She was slick and soft as silk. His thumb found the spot and moved a slow circle around it.

  “Oh,” she said on a hot, heavy breath. “Ah.” She slid her hand to the top of his penis and moved it in short rhythmic strokes.

  He exhaled hard, throbbing in her hands and nearly desperate for relief. He circled his thumb faster. She writhed beneath him.

  “Steve,” she breathed. “I—I…ahhh. In the drawer…”

  He paused.

  “A…you know…for protection,” she added in a near whisper.

  “Of course.” He rose, looked blankly around. “Where?”

  She turned over onto her hands and knees. Steve’s body tensed and throbbed at the sight of her. She leaned across the bed and opened a drawer to a small night stand. Then she sat back and handed him a condom.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, when she started to turn around.

  Slipping the condom on, he took her hips in his hands and turned her onto her stomach, nearly coming undone again as he saw the perfect rounds of her buttocks, neatly defined by the strip of thong.

  She rose onto her hands and knees and he pulled the piece of fabric away from her center, moving himself toward it.

  He touched the head to her and strangled a moan. She pushed her hips back but he pulled away, teasing. She groaned. He pushed the head against her again, up and back, along her slickest spot, tormenting her silken heat as she moved her hips again. He leaned over her, bit softly at her shoulder and ran one arm around her stomach. With his other hand he kept the thong aside and positioned himself. Then, body trembling with need, he thrust deeply inside her.

  She inhaled sharply and he pushed again. She arched back into him and cried, “Yes.”

  He thrust again, holding the string of the thong as if barely restraining a wild horse.

  The sensation was exquisite. She was tight and hot and wet. He slid effortlessly, deeply, pleasure cascading up his spine as his eyes drank in the lithe form of her back, her tangled hair. Her tight round buttocks moved smoothly, soft and firm, toward him and away, his penis disappeared again and again into her core.

  Curving around her once more, he moved his arm across her belly and his fingers again found her spot, this time swollen and primed for his touch. She made a soft sound as he touched her, his hips still thrusting against her. Then she grabbed him, her body did, down deep, and she uttered an ecstatic cry as she shuddered in his arms.

  Steve exploded inside her, pulsing as if every ounce of his soul was being pumped into her body. He gasped, then moaned and, as she lay her body slowly onto the mattress, he came down on top of her, their bodies still joined.

  Roxanne opened her eyes. She was in bed, facing the windows, and the clock on the bedside table read 6:57. Her body was molten relaxation on the mattress, and she’d slept as soundly as if she’d run a marathon the day before.

  Lying perfectly still, she listened for the sound of Steve’s breathing. Was he still here? Did she want him to still be here?

  If he was, how did she act now? What did she say? She guessed it was too late to talk about what a mistake the kiss had been.

  He stirred, the mattress dipped slightly, and she exhaled in surprising but undiluted relief. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t snuck out like a forbidden suitor who had gotten everything, the only thing, he’d wanted.

  She closed her eyes again.

  She had to talk to P.B. That was her first problem. She couldn’t do this balancing act of having one guy she allowed herself to go out with and another she couldn’t stop herself from touching.

  Nerves tingled across her body as she remembered last night, the way Steve had touched her, the rough desperate need each of them had had for the other. Then the complete and utter fulfillment of that need.

  She was quenched to her core. If it weren’t for the obvious lack of wisdom in her choice of bedmate, she would be completely, blissfully satisfied.

  Steve stirred again and she turned slowly onto her back. He was pushing himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. His back was long and tapered to a trim waist, one hand rubbed the back of his neck. As she moved, he looked over his shoulder at her.

  His hair was a tousled mess and his cheeks bore the swath of overnight stubble. His eyes were piercing gray in the daylight, and they were smiling.

  He was, quite literally, as handsome as sin.

  Her lips curved cautiously as their eyes met. Heat suffused her.

  “Menu run-through today, right?” His voice was warm and low. Intimate.

  She liked that he’d said something mundane about their day, as if this were not a colossal mistake that needed a dramatic conversation to conclude it.

  “Yes.” She pushed herself up against the pillows, holding the sheets to her chest, and ran a hand through her hair to push it off her face. “Monsieur Girmond will be cooking for the staff at noon. He’s probably already in the kitchen. Four apps, six entrees, four sides. I’ll have three desserts.”

  They’d go over how each was made, the ingredients, the flavors, the sauces, the portions, so the waitstaff would be familiar with what the customers were ordering. They would also go over wine accompaniments and pronunciation of each dish—something she hoped Rita could master, as it would go a long way toward making her the best server they had. Right now she was still saying blanquette de veau as “blanket of view.” Confusing, to say the least. And hardly appetizing.

  “I’ll come hungry.”
<
br />   For some reason Steve’s words made her blush as he reached down to pick up his clothes.

  “Not too hungry,” she said. “We’ll all be sharing.”

  She tucked the covers in tighter around her, wondering what to do. She watched Steve’s back as he rose, admiring his body in the cold light of day. He was sinewy and strong, defined muscles covered that lanky frame and his legs were lean and powerful, runner’s legs.

  She wondered if in fact he was a runner. She wondered what he did with all his time when he wasn’t working. She wondered who on earth he was, this man she’d just uninhibitedly made love with.

  At the same time she felt as if a wall was constructed inside her chest. A wall that would not let her through to ask these questions, nor to get any more intimate than they’d been physically.

  He was different from anyone she’d ever been with. More intense, less predictable. He challenged her, and though it made her feel stupid to admit it, she didn’t want to be challenged. She had too much challenging stuff on her plate already.

  What she needed was somebody simple and undemanding. Somebody to support her when she needed it and disappear when she didn’t. Selfish, sure, but that was all she felt she could handle right now.

  Steve donned his pants and picked up his shirt, now even more wrinkled than when he’d arrived last night. He put it on without noticing and didn’t tuck it in. She loved the way it looked, white against the tawny skin of his throat and chest, loose across the expanse of his shoulders and over his flat belly.

  He turned to look at her, his eyes raking her from head to blanket-covered toe as he stood next to the bed.

  “Damn,” he said softly, with a short shake of his head. “It’s hard to leave you looking like that.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She pressed her lips together, a small smile, and looked at the covers. She should get up, too, but she didn’t feel comfortable enough to be naked in front of him in the morning light. Which, considering what they’d done last night, was ridiculous.

  “I’ll see you at noon.” She kept her voice even. She didn’t know what tone to take, how to be, who to be. She glanced back up at him.

  “You bet.” His grin was cocky and before she knew it he’d knelt on the bed and planted a solid kiss on her lips.

  Without thinking, her mouth opened under his and her body ignited like a gas burner to a match.

  One of Steve’s hands cupped her cheek, but as their tongues found each other and mated as easily as if they’d been doing it for years, it slid down her neck and over her shoulder to her breast. His fingers found the nipple under the covers and she inhaled, her body instantly turning to liquid for him.

  Steve groaned and pulled back, his face intent, his eyes hot. “You are…” he said with a devouring look, but he didn’t finish. He just smiled one last time and concluded, “See you at noon.” He strode out of the room.

  Roxanne’s head dropped back onto the pillows as he left and she exhaled a huge, pent-up breath. Her body hummed as if she were a guitar string he’d just plucked. One note of desire singing through her, reverberating to infinity like a soprano in a cathedral.

  She’d never felt so on fire with a man. She didn’t know what it was he did to her, but whatever it was, it should be classified and controlled by the FDA. He was damned dangerous. And, she feared, addictive.

  The fervor, she thought again, closing her eyes. The vehemence of their lovemaking had been astonishing.

  She pushed the covers aside and got out of bed. Her clothes were scattered about the room, fabric shrapnel testifying to the explosion of desire that had taken place.

  This was the strangest thing about modern relationships, she thought, in an effort to be objective. Not that she’d call what she and Steve had a relationship. But you could sleep with someone, share the most personal parts of your body, open yourself in the most physically vulnerable way to a man, and not have the foggiest idea what to say to him the next day.

  It was sick, really. And sad. This kind of passion was supposed to come with love.

  Wasn’t it?

  She snapped her jeans off the floor. If only she had fallen head over heels in love with someone when she was twenty-two. Then she could have avoided all these years of false starts and missteps, failed relationships and disappointing mistakes.

  If only Martin had been all that he’d seemed. Cultured, clever, sentimental and romantic. He had made a life of passion and friendship seem possible.

  Too bad he had been a liar. And too bad the lies had colored all that was good a dirty hue.

  She tried to picture his face and couldn’t do it. She’d spent so long blocking out his image, she could no longer make him real. All that lingered was a melancholy impression of a sandy-haired man in a tuxedo, his elegant fingers holding a wineglass.

  And yet she had felt so close to him, once upon a time.

  She wondered what Steve would look like in a tuxedo, and the mental picture made her stop and take a deep breath.

  After a second she picked up her shirt and bra, and walked into the bathroom, dumping the clothes into the hamper. Then she turned on the water in the shower.

  She had éclairs to bake, sauces to make and custards to prep. She couldn’t sit around thinking about her latest male mistake. Or, okay, not mistake. At this point he was a compulsion. A physical obsession. A dangerously beguiling substance, like chocolate.

  The worst part, though, was that she knew he was just a Band-Aid, a temporary substitute to sate her hunger for the real thing. Steve Serrano was a gift from the gods in bed, there was no doubt about that, but ultimately he wasn’t right for her. Nor was she right for him. What she needed was someone she could fall in love with. Someone easy and uncomplicated. The guy from Father Knows Best, she thought. Or Leave It to Beaver. One of those kindly TV husbands who went through life just trying to do the right thing.

  Someone fictional, she told herself with a laugh. Someone—and this was important—who didn’t need her to be June Cleaver to his Ward.

  Just before she stepped into the shower, wondering if maybe it should be a cold one after Steve’s scorching good-bye kiss, she pictured Steve’s eyes. The sharp, intense look he sometimes gave her, the one that made her think he was seeing right through her. And her stomach did a little flip.

  A flip, she thought vaguely, that had nothing to do with sex.

  Steve’s shower was cold, and long. He stood under it, letting the water beat down on his upturned face, until he could stand it no longer and he shut the whole thing off.

  He was possessed. That was it. He’d been possessed by the devil. The devil in the dark eyes of Roxanne Rayeaux.

  He couldn’t stop himself last night. Could barely stop himself this morning, then wondered why he had. She had certainly been willing, he could see it in her eyes. In her devil eyes.

  He dried himself roughly and got dressed. This was ridiculous. He could control himself. He wasn’t going to lose it over a pretty face; he never had before.

  But it was more than her face, more than her beauty, that drew him. There was something downright electric about her, something sultry and fierce and uncompromising. She had let go of her inhibitions as if she’d never had any. For weeks now he’d thought of her as the queen of control, restraint personified, but last night she had broken those bonds as if they’d been web-thin silk. At the same time she’d drawn him in as inextricably as a spider does a moth.

  And God help him, he did not trust himself to resist her again.

  Would he have to? he wondered. Would he have to at least pretend to try?

  What did this mean?

  Steve dressed, packed up his books and went to the library until eleven thirty, but it was no use. His research could not compete with the buzzing of his skin as he grappled with uncontrollable memories of the night before.

  It wasn’t until he remembered P.B. that he could get his physical reactions under control again. Like a bucket of cold water, Steve knew he had
to tell his buddy that Roxanne was…what? Not available? He had no illusions that last night meant they were in some kind of relationship. They barely knew each other, for one thing. Ironically.

  But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let P.B. think he had some kind of chance with Roxanne while she was sleeping, or had slept, with him. Maybe it was altruistic—he truly didn’t want his friend’s heart broken, or even bruised—but mostly he knew it was selfish. He couldn’t stand the thought of P.B. even trying to hold her hand when he, Steve, wanted to see and touch and hold so much more.

  Steve packed up his notebooks and papers at quarter to twelve and headed for the restaurant. He’d be late, but he doubted everyone would get there on time anyway. And he didn’t want Roxanne thinking he was too eager to see her again, a panting puppy who didn’t know when to stop begging for play.

  But when he arrived, the dining room had nearly the full complement of servers and cooks the restaurant now employed. George was the only one later than he was, but he was routinely late. When the restaurant was Charters, they would tell George his shift started half an hour before it really did, and he had never caught on.

  The cooks, he’d never seen before—certainly not the tall rotund man with the moustache and round glasses. He assumed that this was the Monsieur Girmond Roxanne had talked so rhapsodically about.

  Assisting him were two men wearing chefs’ whites and black-and-white checkered pants. The three of them wore black clogs on their feet.

  Sir Nigel was there as well, in his trademark three-piece suit with French cuffs and watch chain. His hair was slicked back over his balding English pate and he looked over the crew with a haughty eye. Most particularly, his gaze seemed caught on Rita.

  In white shirt, black pants and long white apron, she was dressed like the other three waiters, but her spiky red hair made its trademark impertinent statement.

  As Steve entered the room not wearing his white shirt and black pants all eyes turned to him.

  Sir Nigel’s colorless gaze swept him and his lips twitched just enough to convey displeasure.

  “Sorry.” Steve shrugged with a grin, his peripheral vision searching for Roxanne. “I didn’t know this was a dress rehearsal.”