She rolled over with the determination that she wouldn’t think about it anymore. But she had told herself this many times, and almost as soon as she laid her head on the pillow, Jon Fitzgerald, Dad’s lifelong friend and business associate, once more blazed into her mind. Not tonight, she told herself. Not tonight. I’m going to see him tomorrow. It would be too awkward.
But it wasn’t awkward enough to stop the growing lust, the persistence of the images. She turned onto her back and moved her hand down, over her belly, to her pussy, and began to rub. It wasn’t hard to reach orgasm with Jon in her mind. She simply imagined how it would feel to bite those pectoral muscles, to squeeze his arm muscles, to move her hands down his powerful back whilst being fucked. She came hard and then rolled onto her side again.
Finally, sleep came.
*****
She remembered when her dad’s law firm had been Dad and Jon working out of the apartment. This was when she was very young, when she hadn’t even known Dad’s friend’s name, or why there was books and paper everywhere. Since then, they’d acquired enough high-end clientele to move into a big building in the center of the city, to hire fifty workers, and to walk around in suits. It wasn’t a surprise to Samantha then when she received a text from Dad telling her that there would be a private car outside her building in an hour.
She had already packed, and so all that remained was to get dressed. This sounded simpler than it was, she realized, as she opened her wardrobe. She wasn’t usually a hugely fussy person when it came to clothes – give her a flowing dress and some comfortable sneakers and she was okay – but for some reason (and she knew the reason, knew it well, even if she couldn’t admit it) today she wanted to look hot.
For somebody who rarely consciously tried to look hot, this was a challenge. She rooted through the clothes she had not packed until she came to a knee-length summer dress. She looked for anything else, but this seemed to be her best choice. Standing in front of the mirror in her underwear, she modeled the dress on herself. She was thin with pale skin from spending so much time hunched over her computer at work – away from the sunlight – and dotted all over with pale freckles. Her face was small, with a slightly upturned nose and small ears, hardly big enough for an earring. She wasn’t completely happy with her appearance, but she had yet to meet a woman who was.
Two years, she thought as she dressed. Two years, and I’m trying to make myself pretty for him. Two years, and I stand here thinking about if he’ll be attracted to me or not.It was madness. She was twenty-one; he was forty-five. If she cloned herself, both she and her clone combined would not reach his age. It was a sobering thought, and yet it did not deter her. There was something attractive in his experience that she had never felt toward an older man before—that she had never felt toward any man before.
Time was against her. She had just thrown on her clothes and applied her makeup when her apartment buzzer sounded.
Malta here we come, she thought, as she heaved her suitcase. I wonder if it will be interesting.
It was a stupid thing to wonder. Of course, it would.
*****
She had been surprised when her dad told her that Jon was coming. Firstly, because he had never, in all the years they’d known each other, accompanied Dad on a holiday. Secondly, because Dad never worked on holidays, but that was the reason Jon was here. They could have the afternoons and evenings to themselves, but the morning was given over to work.
They stayed in a hotel near Rinella Bay. Across the Bay they could see Valetta, the capital, sometimes dim in the hazy sunlight, sometimes bright and stark in the clear, pure sunlight. It was always sunlight here in July, though; not once during the entire trip did it rain or grow dim. The sun blared from dawn to dusk, and then disappeared for a few hours before flaring up once again. Samantha had to apply factor-one-thousand suntan lotion – thick lotion that coated her skin – because she was so pale. If she had gone without, she would’ve been an over-charcoaled turkey by the end of it.
Each of them had their own hotel room. Samantha’s was at the end of a long hallway on the fourth floor. Dad’s was directly across from hers, and Jon’s was directly next to hers. She had gasped when she first learned this, because there was a door between all the rooms – locked, of course – if guests wanted adjoining rooms. She had looked at that door like it was an old enemy, an old friend. Through there, she thought, he’s just through there. Right there!
She sat on the end of her bed, looking at the door, thinking about the flight. Jon had given no indication at all that he even remembered the chance meeting in the gym locker room, let alone that it had had anything near a similar effect on him as it had had on her. He was friendly, courteous, but that was all. There was no winking, no cocky smiling. She’d told herself she wouldn’t gawp at him, and then she’d seen that he was wearing shorts and a tank top. Usually, this would look absurd on a forty-five-year-old man. But on Jon it didn’t look absurd at all. He had the muscles for it.
She rubbed her eyes with her thumbs, exhausted from the flight, and then her belly grumbled. As if hearing the grumbling of her belly, Dad knocked on her door and then called: “We’re going for something to eat, Sammy. Do you want to come?”
“Yeah, coming,” she said, looking once more at the door before leaving the room.
Dad, Jon, and Samantha gathered in the hallway. It was clear that Dad had not been told about that chance meeting, two years ago. He didn’t have any resentment in his expression when he looked at his old friend. He simply smiled, in his calm way. Though she had seen them together many times, Samantha was still jarred by the fact that they were the same age. Dad looked at least a decade and a half older than Jon. His hair was grayer, and his body was flabbier. But that was what most men his age looked like; Jon was the exception, not the rule.
Together the three of them walked down the hallway, to the elevator, and then rode it down to the restaurant at the back of the hotel. Jon and Dad talked about work. There was law terminology that Samantha with her freelance-writer’s mind didn’t know or care about. And then she was jolted back into the conversation (as the four of them were led to the table, seated, and began pouring over their menus), by Jon’s voice. Jon was originally from Texas, but he had moved to New York when he was in his teens. His accent was an odd mixture of these two accents. It should have been ugly to listen to, but somehow it was mellifluous and captivating. Maybe it was the speaker’s bearded lips that made the words pleasing to the ear. Samantha knew this could be the case. It didn’t make them any less attractive.
“How is your room?” Jon asked, looking at Samantha over the top of his menu. “Okay, I hope.”
“It’s great,” she answered, all the while wondering: Does he remember? Does he remember? He must remember? Surely he remembers!
“Good, I’m glad.” It was an innocent, even boring, thing to say. And yet when he said it Samantha looked for hidden meanings. Was the way he gazed over the top of the menu completely innocuous? Or was there something lying under the surface of those white-blue eyes?
When Samantha looked back on that evening, the first part passed in a blur. It moved forward through her mind like a footnote, before coming to the main passage. They had finished their food and Dad rose from the table, yawning. “I’m heading in,” he said. “Are you guys staying down here for a while?” He said it so innocently, so naively, that Samantha almost felt bad for him. But that feeling was overridden by the prospect of being alone with Jon.
“I think I’ll have one more drink before I go up,” Jon said, with a quick look at Samantha.
She thought she read his meaning: Stay awhile longer.
“Me, too,” Samantha said. “Yeah, one more drink.”
“Okie-dokey,” Dad said.
He said nothing more as he moved away from the table, leaving Samantha and Jon alone in the waning sunlight. Samantha ordered a vodka and coke, and Jon ordered a beer. Samantha tried to gauge the nature of the situation by looked at
Jon over the rim over her glass as she took a sip, but his face was unreadable. One moment he smiled; the next his smile died as he took a sip from his beer. He was behaving like nothing more than her dad’s friend. Samantha was ready to conclude that he either did not want to remember the chance meeting or truly did not. Perhaps, for him, it was just a fun little encounter that was forgotten the moment it happened.
Then, when they had ordered their second drinks, he leaned across the table. Samantha’s head was slightly fuzzy and warm, but not overly drunk. Her heart beat fast in her chest, pounding her rib cage, but it had done that every time she looked at Jon this evening. Her foot tapped under the table, and twice after Dad left she found herself absentmindedly tearing apart the paper coasters on the table, before forcing herself to stop.
He leaned across the table, and that smile returned: the smile he had given her in the locker room. Samantha didn’t let herself gasp, though a gasp threatened to burst from her lips. Instead, she looked at him as calmly as she was able. There was something different in this smile then there had been in the rest of his smiles this evening. There was something knowing in it. She sipped her drink slowly – afraid she might spill it with her trembling hand – and waited for him to speak.
He leaned forward so far his hands almost brushed hers. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, his eyes locked on hers.
“Haven’t forgotten about what?” Samantha asked, surprised by the calm in her voice.
“You know what,” Jon said, smiling that magnetic smile again. “The meeting in the locker room, when you accidently walked in. What were the chances of that happening? What were the chances of us being at that gym, at that time, on the day that you walked into the wrong locker room? I mean, Jesus, it almost makes me superstitious.”
Samantha watched him calmly, deciding not to say anything until he went on. It seemed that he hadn’t divined how she felt; he didn’t have any special knowledge about her secret lust for him. Of course, he doesn’t!she thought. But during these two years she had suspected that he might—that something in her expression that day had given away the attraction. In the moment he had known. That was why he winked. But it seemed he didn’t know about the countless nights she had touched herself whilst thinking of his marble-carved body, about how often she had wished she’d jumped him that day, moved her hands over him.
“Oh, that,” Samantha said, her voice light, sound like the most casual woman in the world. “That was nothing,” she went on, taking a long sip of her drink. The vodka slid down her throat, burning, and then spread fire-hot in her belly. “It was just an accident.”
“I know it was an accident,” Jon said, and leaned even further across the table. The back of his hand brushed Samantha’s. She could’ve moved it away, could’ve made it clear right then and there that this was inappropriate. Dad was upstairs. What if he came down? But the lust that grew within her wouldn’t allow her to do that. Her pussy ached when he touched her hand. Her pussy ached! At something as simple and innocent as him touching her hand! She had never experienced that before. “I know it was an accident,” he continued, moving his hand intentionally, grabbing her hand. Samantha took a quick intake of breath. “But that doesn’t mean it was nothing. Are you telling me you haven’t thought of that day since?”
Haven’t thought of it! I’ve thought about it almost every goddam night since it happened! That one-minute meeting has given me more orgasms that I’ve ever had!“Perhaps once or twice,” she said, moving her hand as to better hold his. They held hands across the table, and even as Samantha knew it was wrong she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was right. It certainly felt right. How could it be wrong?
“Once or twice,” Jon laughed, moving his thumb over her palm. She was sweating – the heat, the nerves, him – but he didn’t care. His hand was twice the size of hers, and she felt small opposite him. But she didn’t feel diminished. If anything she felt heightened by this sense of feeling small. It was a contradiction, she knew that, and yet it didn’t lessen the feeling. Her feelings these past two years, right now, right here, were being returned. She was not alone. He had thought of it, too. “That makes you far less impressed than me,” he went on, casually stroking her hand. “I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve thought about it. Do you have any idea how sexy you looked in your gym shorts, Samantha? Fuck . . . It drives me crazy just thinking about it.”
She had had no clue that he’d also found her sexy. She’d simply assumed it was one-sided, that she’d wanted him, and he hadn’t wanted her. This admission added a new dimension to her attraction to him that day. She couldn’t stop the blush rising in her cheeks. “You winked at me,” she said quietly. “You winked at me, you must’ve known . . .”
“It was obvious in the way you looked at me.” He shrugged. “I was feeling cocky and proud. Here’s this smoking hot young woman, and she looks at me like that. I couldn’t help but feel cocky.” He moved his hand from her hand, to her wrist, and then to her forearm. His hand was strong on her skin; she felt as though he could hold her in place for as long as he wanted. This man could trap her. Why doesn’t that frighten me?she thought. Do I want to be trapped by him?
He leaned up in his chair, and made to lean across the table. Samantha knew what was coming, and didn’t care that they were in public, that Dad was upstairs. Yes, if he kissed her, she would return the kiss. She knew that for certain when he leaned across. He was halfway out of his seat, about to kiss her – about to make thousands of nighttime fantasies come true – when he suddenly let go of her hand and slumped back into her seat.
For a split-second she thought that she’d done something to offend him. Maybe she stank! The heat here definitely wasn’t flattering to a woman’s scent. But then she saw that Jon looked over her shoulder. He quickly evaluated the seating arrangement. She sat with her back to the elevator. Jon, sitting opposite her, could see the lobby from where he sat. And then she heard the footsteps—and then Dad was there, looking down at them.
She was afraid to look up at him for a moment, terrified that his fists could be clenched, his face red, acidic words on his lips. But when she finally looked up, she saw that his expression was unchanged. “Do you have the case notes for the McGill hearing, Jon?” he asked, no indication whatsoever that he’d seen anything.
“Yeah,” Jon answered, rising to his feet. “I’ll get them for you now.”
“Alright, thanks.” He turned to Samantha. “You okay?”
“Fine, Dad,” Samantha said.
Except that I almost just kissed the man of my dreams and you ruined it! But, yeah, apart from that I’m fantastic! Couldn’t be better!
Jon signaled a waitress and scribbled something on the bill, and then the three of them walked back to the elevator. Dad must’ve been eager for the case notes. He paced ahead of them with purpose, with his arms at his sides in gesture Samantha knew so well as hunger to complete a task. Jon and Samantha walked slightly slower, and so were able to look at each other behind his back.
Jon raised his eyebrows in questions, and somehow Samantha knew exactly what he meant. It was the way she had seen longtime lovers – married people in particular – communicate. They could simply look at each other and whole worlds of words passed between them. Is this over?his raised eyebrows said. Has this spooked you too much? Is this the end?
Samantha shook her head, and a nervous smile rose on her lips. If you’re lucky, this is just getting started.
Jon nodded to himself, and the three of them climbed into the elevator. The ride up in the elevator was awkward to say the least. One half of her was thrilled by the closeness of Jon, wanted to turn to him right there, to finish what they had almost started downstairs.
The other half was painfully aware of Dad, and knew that her feelings were taboo in the extreme.
*****
How many times had she wished, late at night, just after touching herself, that the door that led into her lounge was really a door to Jon? She coul
dn’t put a specific number on it. All she knew was that it had been many, many times. She had looked at her bedroom room and wished that Jon would walk through (preferably naked) and fall atop her, his hands roaming her naked body. And not it was really true. Right through that door Jon slept, or maybe he couldn’t sleep. Maybe, like her, he was sitting up and staring at the door, possibilities swimming around his mind.
But now that the dream had become a reality, Samantha felt a stab of anxiety in her gut. It was the stab of anxiety she felt every time one of her friends mentioned sex, or when somebody asked her when her first time was. She had never had a first time, ever. She was still a virgin. And all those fantasies of Jon taking her virginity, of falling into him, of giving herself to him—now they were real.
She would be lying if she said it didn’t excite her. She had imagined his cock more times than she could even think about. She had imagined how big it was, how hard it would be, in her hand. She had even imagined falling to her knees and taking it in her mouth, feeling the girth of it stretch her lips. She had imagined moving her tongue around it, getting it as wet as her pussy, and then sliding it inside of her. She had imagined all of this, but imagination and reality were two different things. Now that it could really happen, she felt her heart beat so loudly she was sure it echoed around her hotel room.
She hated her nervous she was, but hating it didn’t go away. It was even more unfair because the reason she was still a virgin (and she had to admit this now, had to, after two years of denying it) was because of Jon. At the age of nineteen, she had basically decided to lose her virginity one night at a part with her friends. The night didn’t matter; she was just tired of carrying it around, of being judged. It shocked her to remember that she had once thought like that, but she had.
The night had come, two weeks after her meeting with Jon, and she had found herself alone in a bedroom with a young man. There was nothing wrong with him, as far as she could tell. He was perfectly fine. He kissed her, touched her, and then he made to take it further. As his hand worried at her bra (with clumsy, boyish hands) she had recoiled from him. An image of Jon, with expert movements, undoing her bra shot into her mind.
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