Ben's company, at least, booked one of the nicest rooms this particular Marriott has to offer-a smallish suite with a very nice view. Outside the big window, the night-engulfed city has blossomed with lights. An anonymous couple of them belong to my house. My home. One I'd never invite a stranger into.
As unfamiliar men go, Ben seems decent enough. I watch him hang his jacket in the closet, appreciating the care he takes, both with his clothing and with what I can see of his body beneath the loose cling of his shirt. Broad shoulders taper to a trim waist and solid hips. He works out, but not obsessively.
He goes over to the minibar. "Nightcap?"
"No, thanks. I don't want to get sloppy on you."
He laughs warmly. "I thought that was the whole point. Mind if
I have one?"
"Be my guest. Just don't forget about my requisite ratio." I slip out of my own silk jacket and lay it gently over the too-prominent office chair. "I'll be right back, okay?"
I take my purse into the bathroom with me, not because I'm worried about Ben inspecting its contents, but because it contains an emergency hygiene kit. Most of it I don't need tonight, but I prefer my breath not carry a hint of salami, so I spend a couple of quality minutes with a toothbrush and mouthwash. Then I free my hair from the confines of the chignon I was wearing, releasing gardenia perfume to fight the masculine scent of Ben's own cologne, hanging heavily in the too-small lavatory.
Lavatory. Good word. Comes right after "laboratory" in the dictionary, and let's face it, most lavatories would make interesting lab- oratories, at least if you could stomach such experiments.
By the time I've finished, Ben has made himself quite comfort- able on the sofa, shoeless and shirtless but for a tight sleeveless undershirt that showcases his beefcakeyness quite nicely. He stands as I come into the room. "Good Lord, look at you. Your hair is amazing."
Unbelievably, my cheeks flush heat. Such a small compliment, and yet it completely erases any small sense of hesitation. I move straight into his arms, tilt my chin up toward his face. "My father always said flattery deserves a just reward." That's a lie. I never met my father and have no idea where the saying came from. But all that matters now is the reward.
I open my mouth, inviting his whiskey-soaked kiss, and when it comes, it's light-years from gentle. It's tongue and teeth, on my lips, at my neck, and dipping inside the V of my blouse, which opens suddenly, as if by spell. And just as mysteriously, my bra unclasps, spilling the tips of my breasts into the depth of his moan.
Ben lifts me out of my heels, discovers I'm wearing stockings- the classic kind requiring a garter belt, a fact he uncovers when his hand explores the length of my leg, all the way to where thigh meets torso. He draws back, studies me for a second. "Real seamed silk? You are one of a kind, do you know that?"
"Actually, I do."
"I think we'd better work on that three-to-one deal right now." He drapes me across the couch, facedown, lifts my skirt, exposing satin, lace, and peeks of skin. One hand tangles into my hair, pulls it to one side, and he snarls against my nape. The other hand spreads my legs just enough to reach the narrow satin strip, which he moves to one side. "Look at you, all slick and ready."
Ben plays a masterful game. His thumb slides up inside me and tilts to find the hidden spot just behind my pubic bone, while his forefinger wedges against my clitoris. They move in rough unison, on the border of pain, the pressure exquisite. It doesn't take long to initiate my orgasm, punctuated by a whispered "Yes!"
"Oh, no. That won't do at all." Ben flips me over, brings his face very close to mine. "I don't want you to whisper. I want you to scream."
I issue the challenge. "Make me."
He unzips my skirt, lets it fall to the floor. Then he leads me into the other room, props me against the foot of the bed, reaches be- hind me, and cups my butt. Lifts. "Lie back and don't move." One by one, Ben unsnaps the garters, gentles the stockings from my legs, licking the sensitive place behind my knees. It's a challenge to stay still, and when I fail to meet it, he reaches up and pinches my nip- ples. Hard. "You ask my permission before you so much as twitch. Understand?"
Eyes watering, I manage to stutter, "I uh-uh-understand." For the two seconds it takes him to tug my panties down over my hips, a trill of fear makes me wonder if I might have miscalculated the man. But then I remember the pepper spray, stashed in my purse, which isn't far away. Besides, that shimmer of trepidation is rather an aphrodisiac.
And now the persistent tide of his tongue laps the most intimate parts of me, a low sea of pleasure. He has asked not one selfish thing of me yet, and that thought brings renewed confidence. I do my best to lie perfectly still, but that becomes impossible as I build to- ward a second climax. "Please. May I twitch? I don't think I can come without moving."
"You'd better scream."
I do. And I don't have to fake it at all.
Ben straightens, unzips his trousers. It's time for the big reveal,
always an interesting turn in a tale of sex with a stranger. Jockey shorts do nothing to hide what's behind them, alert and at the ready. I am mildly disappointed. I was hoping for at least an eight on the one-to-ten scale. Ben is a six. No less, but definitely no more.
He is, however, skilled, and compensates with enthusiasm what he might lack in size. He manages to bring me off twice before finally succumbing to my well-rehearsed cock play with an extended shudder. "Jesus, woman, you've drained me dry."
Three cheers for condoms.
Ben is peeling his off when his cell phone rings a definitive tone-Rhapsody in Blue. Unbelievably, he answers. "Hello? No, no. It's not too late. I was up anyway. Working." He winks at me, then mouths silently, My wife.
His wife! No. He told me . . .
"My flight gets in around eight tomorrow night," he continues.
I bolt out of bed, locate my panties, and tug them on, wrestling with a low creep of temper. Oh, why bother to fight it? The bastard deserves it. "Hey, baby, come back to bed," I say, loud enough for his wife to hear. "I need you to make love to me."
Ben starts to stutter. "I-I-I . . . No, it was the TV. Adult program- ming. Sorry. It's just, I'm so . . ."
He can't get away with this that easily. This time I yell, "Ben! Please! I'm wet and waiting."
I grab my clothes and run into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. He's going to be pissed. Still, I take a quick minute to wash before getting dressed. I don't want to smell him. When I emerge, he's standing, quite naked, between the way out and me. "What the fuck did you do that for?"
"You told me you weren't married."
"No, I didn't."
"But you said-"
"I said no one would be wondering what I was up to tonight, and she wouldn't have."
"Well, I hope she's doing more than wondering now, you no-good prick."
Rage ignites in his eyes. "What the hell did I do?"
"It's called adultery." Just in case, I reach into my purse. "I enjoy
a one-night stand from time to time, but not with a married man. Maggots like you don't deserve someone special, waiting for them to come home. Marriage is more than a promise. It's a contract. It isn't sleeping around on business trips. You're disgusting."
He starts toward me, fists clenching, and I display the pepper spray in my hand. "Go for it. Please, please, give me the excuse to blister your face. How would you explain that to your wife?"
"You wouldn't dare."
"Don't bet on it. Now get out of my way." I start toward the door, but he doesn't move, so I lift the small canister, flip back the lid, and aim the nozzle toward his face. "Did you know you can't wash this stuff off? You just have to wait for it to quit burning."
I walk purposely forward. "You have exactly two seconds to move. One . . ."
He reads the commitment in my voice correctly and steps to one side. "You are a crazy fucking bitch."
"No, Ben. As Emilie Autumn says, 'I'm stark, raving sane.'"
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