He wasn’t giving me much. “Huh. I had one of those. A public sex fantasy.”
“How did it go?”
“It happened at Halo. At the bar. While the band was playing.”
“Oooh. Details please.”
I felt a surge of pride. I would have spilled the story then and there, but shit-fuck I spotted none other than Solange Faraday making her hurried way through the crowds towards the old military museum at the end of the square.
“Jesse,” I hissed, using my body to block Solange’s view of him. “We have to go. Now.”
I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him low, his face in front of mine.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s her. Solange.” I pointed over my shoulder. “She shouldn’t see you.”
He lowered his chin, shrinking lower. My back to her, I lifted Jesse to his feet and we sidestepped from St. Ann to Chartres, where we opened our gait and walked briskly to where the truck was parked on Royal.
“That was close,” he said, leaning against his door to catch his breath.
“Far too close.”
“So that’s her? That’s Solange? Well, well …” he said.
“You’ve never seen her on the news?”
He gave me a look that reminded me he wasn’t much for current events.
I had to admit my heart hurt at his enthusiasm. Even in just a coat and boots, she looked spectacular. Women like her were always more beautiful because of their lack of awareness of their looks. Add to that the knowledge that the man sitting next to me would have mind-blowing sex with her, if not tonight, then soon, and I felt woozy. What had I gotten myself into? If it was just sex with Jesse, why was I feeling so unsettled? And if that’s all that Jesse and I had, what was the big deal?
“Okay, baby. I gotta go. It’s showtime.”
“What’s the scenario?” I asked.
“You know the rules, Cass. There’s no fuck-and-tell in S.E.C.R.E.T. If it’s not your fantasy, it’s none of your business. At least the guys honor that. You could probably wait, if you want. I could meet you at Coop’s. This won’t take long.”
“Oh really? Poor Solange,” I said, with no small amount of snark. “I’ll just walk home. I’m not in the mood for waiting.”
“Hey,” he said, pressing me back against his truck. “You know what S.E.C.R.E.T. is, right?” He bracketed me with his arms. “You might have stuff coming up, too, that I don’t get to know about or have a say in.”
This was true—if I were actually training recruits. Right now I was just helping facilitate fantasies, but Jesse didn’t need to know that. Part of me wanted him to think my involvement was more sexual than it actually was.
I smiled, pulling myself together. “I can’t stay. I’ll call you later,” I said, handing him his keys.
He gave me one last probing look and walked away in an exaggerated Charlie Chan wobble because he knew I’d have my eyes on him until he rounded the corner and was out of sight.
If sharing him with S.E.C.R.E.T. was the price of dating him, I had to seriously consider whether I could afford to pay it.
SOLANGE
I followed the instructions on my Step Three card exactly: Only wear what’s in this box and nothing else. Head to Jackson Square just before 9 p.m. Walk in a clockwise direction around the perimeter of the fence. Then, at 9, enter the museum by the south door. It will be open.
In the box was a beautiful trench coat, a gray tweed hat with a shallow brim, black stiletto boots … and garters and stockings. Nothing else.
This is what I’m supposed to wear? In the middle of winter?
I was not really the obedient type. But this Step was all about trust, so I followed instructions. I wore the clothing as I was told, showed up at the square when I was supposed to, a little early even, walking the perimeter, fists shoved deep in the pockets. Calm down. No one can tell you’re naked underneath this coat.
Between my nerves, the drone of the idling food trucks and the smells emanating from them, my stomach began to rebel. I pulled the belt of the trench coat tighter, my senses on high alert. The French Quarter was packed, the night balmy for Boxing Day. I suspected the fantasy in store for me was going to be a real challenge. I knew when I wrote to transgress in my fantasy folder, the Committee would understand I meant doing something naughty in public—but not getting caught, I wrote, an important clarification. This Step was about going to that edge, about trusting I’d be taken care of, that I’d get away with it without any repercussions on the rest of my life.
I checked my watch. It was time. I slid through the gap in the steel gate surrounding the museum grounds. No lights were on in the old Spanish fortress, which had once been a courthouse, then a prison, and was now a military museum. I had yet to bring Gus here, despite his obsession with soldiers and history, mostly because I generally avoided the French Quarter. Too many tourists, and frankly, parking was a bitch.
I tested the first door but it was locked. So was the next one. The last one finally yielded. I stepped into the dark, expansive marble lobby. The only things I could see through the windows were shadows of the pedestrians still moving around the square outside.
“Solange.”
I leapt out of my skin.
“Jesus!”
I turned towards a very tall man standing in a dark corner, his shoulders wide, his eyes and nose shadowed by the brim of his fedora. I could see the firm line of his full mouth offering a cocked smile.
“My apologies,” he said, a little too loudly for my liking. “But before you come any closer, tell me, do you accept the Step?”
Holy hell. A British accent. Plus he sounded altogether too relaxed. I looked around the dim lobby nervously. What if we’re caught in here?
Trust. Doitdoitdoit.
“Are we alone?” I whispered, my heart sounding louder to me than my own voice.
“I think so,” he said, his tone bemused. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped out of the shadows towards me, confirming that he was, indeed, a very fine black man, one from across the pond.
“You think so? You don’t sound very convinced.”
“Do you accept the Step, my darling?” he asked again, with not an iota of concern. And that accent.
I looked around the lobby again. Even if someone saw, what could they say? That Solange Faraday entered the museum in the French Quarter after hours? So what? That a handsome man encircled my small wrist with his expansive grip? Who cares? He could easily be my boyfriend. Maybe he worked here and had forgotten something in his office?
But once inside, there were no witnesses. No one could see him pull me towards an old-fashion elevator, coaxing me in and smashing the cage shut behind him. They couldn’t hear my heart pounding as he turned to face me, taking off his fedora and throwing it to the floor to reveal his sculpted face, his amused eyes, black and intense, his closely shaved, rather magnificent head.
“Solange, one last time, do you accept the Step?”
“Yes!” It came out fast and loud. This man was so devastatingly attractive, there was no way I could turn him down, despite my fears about the privacy of our encounter. I wanted him to talk more in that liquid velvet accent.
I swallowed as he came closer and loomed over me, his deep voice now a rasp. He grabbed the wall of the elevator cage behind me.
“Well, my dear, how shall we play?”
Except for two guys in college and a brief setup last year, I’d dated mostly black men, including the one I married. Not that I wasn’t attracted to other races—clearly I was—but this man standing before me summed up everything right about how God made a man. Without waiting for my reply, he hit a button and the old-fashioned elevator shuddered to life, lifting us perilously above the ground. He took off my hat and threw it to the floor too.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Here for me. Is that right, my love?”
I could feel the cage vibrate against my back as I watched the marble floor of the museum’s lobb
y shrink away from us. His hands reached for the knot of my coat belt.
“Yes,” I said, averting my eyes. I did not want to come across as a breathless schoolgirl, but I was utterly speechless.
I watched as he easily undid the knot. He hit the button again and the elevator stopped with a jerk, suspending us in the cage over the lobby. We could see everything below, including the parade of pedestrians out for a night on the brightly lit square, but no one outside could see us.
Or so I assumed. Hoped. Prayed.
“We’re high up,” I said, swallowing.
“I like heights,” he said. “Do you?”
“Not really.” Truth be told, I was feeling a little faint.
“You’re in good hands. I fly planes.” And I was in good hands. Firm, experienced, pilot hands.
He slid one of those good hands into the slit of my coat opening. When his palm hit the skin on my stomach, I quivered. I actually quivered. When was the last time I had done that? Had I ever quivered with Julius? With his other hand, he clutched my chin and tilted my head up, the light of the elevator casting his chiseled face in shadows.
“Now, there’s a rule. We have to be very, very quiet, darling. Can you do that for me?” he asked, slipping my coat off my shoulders, revealing my bare torso.
I forgot I was naked under the coat! He looked down at my breasts, his hands tracing my curves, his expression one of deep concentration, as though I were a valuable piece of art no one was allowed to touch. There was a plan hatching in this man’s brain, I could see that, and before I could open my mouth to speak, he opened my arms and lifted them over my head, instructing me in the barest of whispers, “Hold on to the cage behind you and don’t let go.”
I did so. “What if someone down there sees us? What if we’re caught? I’d lose my job, my credibility—”
“I want you to listen to me.” His voice was as warm and reassuring as a cashmere throw. “Remain silent no matter what I do to you, and all will be well. Relax. I’ve got you.”
Now his mouth was on me, kissing my neck and my breasts, caressing me into a state of arousal. I moaned quietly and let my head fall back against the mesh, felt the cool air on my skin where he kissed and bit his way down to my stomach, making my legs shake. To steady myself, I put my hands on his head. Not that he needed guiding. This man knew what he was doing. This man knew where he was going. His palms flattened against the soft brush of my hair, prying me open like a treasure. Impatient, he slung one of my thighs over his shelf of a shoulder and pressed me back against the cold, metal rail lining the elevator car. At first, all I felt was his warm breath against my clit, his arms wrapped under me. I let out an involuntary whimper, a plea really, as his broad shoulders leaned in, spreading me farther open to him.
“Want me to make you come right here, right now, love?” he crooned.
“I do,” I said. “Yes.”
“Say please, Solange.”
“Please.”
The ache was becoming unbearable. I had to watch, I needed to see this. Our eyes met, his looking up at me with wicked mischief. Then the tip of his tongue met my clit, and in my head I said yes—until I heard something …
Clack.
What?
Then more.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Faraway footsteps! I let out a gasp, and my man reached up and covered my mouth with his hand. The footsteps drew closer and closer, until the intruder came to rest directly under our elevator cage. My stranger released his hand and, oh god, went back to licking me, with even greater urgency! Quiet. We have to be quiet!
The air in my lungs thickened. Shit, shit. I froze, my hand on his head. I stared down in horror, but he seemed calm, focused, his mouth continuing its delicious task, his licks becoming more insistent. Soon they were joined by his fingers thrusting into me. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to still his beautiful mouth on me, to stop him—momentarily—until the intruder left. But we were the intruders! And the risk of getting caught seemed only to inflame him more. He continued teasing me, his cheeks hollow, two fingers insistent, hungry, driving into me. He was enjoying my silent agony, and at one point took his finger from my dripping wetness and placed it against his shiny lips.
Shh, he mimed.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the arc of a flashlight appear. I pressed my hips forward into my man’s face, taking on the full assault of his licks, grabbing the cage to brace myself.
“Who’s there?” came the intruder’s voice from below.
Fuck. No! Terror coiled around my arousal as I squeezed my eyes shut. My mistake was looking down; this man was delirious in his need to pleasure me, his head moving back and forth. Silent, white-hot pleasure crashed over my body. I threw my head back, barely missing the cage, as the rush of blood flooded my ears, drowning out everything else, even, very briefly, my fear of getting caught.
I was coming hard, despite myself, because of him.
And I was coming harder than I ever have, completely against my own will, a thing that had never happened before and likely never would again. He was making me come. And so I tried both to shake it out of my body and to savor it, while the footsteps moved farther from us, down a different hall. This man kept his mouth on me even as I subsided.
After waiting a few more safe beats, I rested my hand on his beautiful head.
“Holy shit, that was close!” I whispered, barely able to catch my breath. “You could have gotten me in big trouble.”
He pulled away and delicately wiped his mouth with two fingers.
“Trust, Solange,” he said.
I could feel the energy leaving my limbs. He rose, eclipsing the light in the elevator. My arms went limp around his shoulders and he lifted me like I weighed nothing, perching me on the wooden rail lining the box.
God. We’re not done?
“I would never put you in jeopardy,” he said, smoothing my hair off my face with his big hands. “Unless that is what you wanted.”
He suddenly released his belt and undid his pants, letting them fall down. It took him a masterful second to secure a condom, and then, pausing for a moment to listen for any more sounds from below, he rubbed the firm head of his exquisite cock into my wet cleft, then eased into me. This man fucked me with a punishing desire, his muscled arms laced beneath my thighs, pinioning me just so. With every thrust, the outside world of mute pedestrians, dumb tourists and oblivious security guards drifted farther from my thoughts. He fucked me so hard, yet so silently, against that elevator wall that I sensed parts of my body I hadn’t felt before. And no matter how hard I tried to delay the tide of bliss, the pure joy of being fucked like this, here and now, before I knew it I was coming hard again. My lungs filled with dense air and his hands clutched my body as he thrust into me, over and over again.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes on me. Seconds later, he came, his mouth encircling my ear, his tongue making me dizzy, his words, “Yes, yes, oh yeah,” following us down, down, down, as he pressed a button for the elevator to carry us back to earth.
I felt warm heading towards the waterfront parking lot to my car clutching my Step Three charm in my palm. Maybe because my skin was still overheated. But I knew the full effect of this public sex act wouldn’t hit me until I was safe at home, chin-deep in a tub of hot water.
“Solange!”
What the fuck! I jumped and dropped my charm on the pavement, where it bounced with a plink, plink, plink. It wasn’t the beautiful stranger from the elevator but my ex-husband, Julius, standing right in front of me, a triumphant look on his face.
With his shoe, he had stopped my charm from rolling under a nearby food truck. What the hell was he doing here? On Boxing Day? And where was Gus? My hands automatically went to my waist to tie my trench coat tighter. He can’t tell I’m naked. He can’t possibly know where I came from or what I was just doing. Calm. Down.
He bent to pick up the charm. “You dropped this,” he said, handing Trust to me without so much as a g
lance.
Ohgodohgodogod!
“Thanks! Hi! Julius! Wow!” I slid the charm into my pocket.
He looked at me curiously. We hadn’t stood this close to each other in a while. Waving from cars and after-school handoffs had become the norm as Gus got older. I almost didn’t recognize him. He looked … good. Happy.
“What are you doing down here?”
Quick. Think. “Well … I should ask you the same thing. Where’s Gus?”
“He’s still at Janet’s. I just came out here for an hour to see how my new business was doing on a holiday.”
Janet was his younger sister. We still kept in touch because Gus and her sons were close in age. I glanced over his shoulder at the idling food truck behind him. It didn’t look like the other food trucks. It was painted glossy black, JULIUS’S BAYOU BITES scrolled on the side in red cursive letters. It had a wraparound standup bar that looked to be collapsible and made of cedar planking.
“This yours?”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
“How come you never told me?”
“I don’t know. Just got the permit a week ago. I didn’t want to say anything until we launched. It’s been crazy, the reception—really great so far.”
Through the truck window, a young employee handed a customer what looked like a small, brown burrito in a nest of waxed paper, surrounded by hush puppies. I shivered, feeling a winter breeze up my coat, and clenched my thighs.
“That looks good,” I said.
“It’s like a roti, but creole-style. You remember my mom’s sauce? I use that as a simmering base—reduce it, put in some chicken, shrimp or pork, or just veggies, and cheese to hold it together. Bake it in a pocket. Done. It’s all organic, meat’s farm-raised, not fried. Try one?”
“Sure!”
Julius disappeared into the truck. Seconds later, he brought out a warm pocket of food and handed it to me. The crowd of artists and buskers lining up against the wrought-iron fence, waiting their turn, all gave me the evil eye for being served before them. I took a ravenous bite.
“Iss ’ood,” I said, mouth full. Damn I was hungry, and this was delicious.
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