The Kiss

2.

The rebellious mood that had gripped her and spurred her on this folly now thoroughly dissipated, like cheap perfume. She wasn't at all sure whether she desired or dreaded to meet the others as they climbed the stairs to the rooms—to desire an intervention, a break from her madness, from this spell she was in, or to avoid the shame of getting caught. The latter overwhelming her, she disengaged from the gigolo's gentlemanly arm. But the floor was deserted of anyone but themselves and no one saw her enter the room with him.

206 was a suite, impersonal as a hotel room, with a large vanity and plush chaises. The bed, centralized in such a way that all eyes were drawn to it, was a four-poster resting heavy on a dais, with translucent curtains and a canopy of mythological figures interwoven.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back." And he squeezed the fleshy part of her waist briefly, which shocked her like a bucket of ice water, departing to an adjacent room she supposed was the water closet.

When he returns, she thought to herself, settling on the bed, discarding her shawl and purse, rubbing the side of her numb arms, I'll say, forget about it, cancel the transaction, even if I have to forfeit the money, half my allowance gone. This was the height of pure folly. It wasn't worth it.

But he returned promptly, unchanged and unsurprised by her clothed state. Up close he was even more beautiful, sleek and well-proportioned, fair-haired and fair-skinned, if a little sun-kissed. Her heart swelled painfully, as if to escape her chest. Longing stopped her speech, bidding her only to speak of love.

"Do you want to talk a little or get right to it? There's some wine here if you like."

"Ah, no, thank you, I—that is to say—" She took a breath, and spoke slower. "I'd like to get on with it."

"All right," he said neutrally, as if he had no preference on the matter, and began to disrobe.

He worked at the buttons of his jacket, cast it off easily, and then at the smaller, more delicate ones of his chemise sleeves, long deft hands easing them out of their confines.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

She wordlessly shook her head. She didn't realize until later that he meant solicitation, not the act itself.

"All right. House rules first. No sadomasochism. no threesomes, unless the third party is female. I don't perform with men." He paused. "And lastly, no kisses."

She stared. "What, at all?"

"On the lips," he clarified. "Personal rule. I find it—unnecessary. I'm not too fond of kisses in general, but I can compromise." He checked his pocket watch. "Right. The hour begins now."

His vest and chemise discarded, revealing his lean form, creamy skin taut over smooth golden muscles, and jutting hip bones unveiled themselves before her eyes, doubled, in fact, by the large vanity mirror behind him, so that all the delectable angles and luscious curves of him could be seen. Her longing, as if taking sympathetic life, pooled itself at his feet along with his clothes.

"So what'll be? Penetration, oral, anal?" He paused, frowning. "Are you cold?"

It was too onerous to explain her nervous tic. "No, no." She forced her hands on her lap, as if to keep down the uncomfortable heat spreading. Ramrod straight, like a grammar school student facing the rector, she stared straight at his likeness in the glass as it approached her.

"Or would you prefer I take the lead? Play by ear?"

She finally looked at him, at the strong, sharp cheekbones and long eyelashes that had so enraptured her across the hall, fighting the temptation to look away. Gazing at him was like staring at a second sun. "I..."