Just One Night, Part 1: The Stranger Page 2

  And there it is again, that devious grin, that careful balance between urgency and patience.

  He gets up and I close my eyes and try to find some balance. I hear the freezer open and close, then the clink of ice cubes falling into an empty glass. I don’t move. I can’t move. I was worried about something only moments ago; there was something I needed to think through. . . . What was it? I can’t focus.

  When I open my eyes, he’s before me, a single drink in his hand, which he extends toward me.

  “You’re not joining me?” I ask. I’m whispering now. I’m afraid of breaking the moment . . . afraid of pulling myself out of this twilight reality. This is only a dream after all and if I keep it to myself, it will feel more like a dream with each day that passes. But right now I’m not ready to wake up.

  Mr. Dade’s smile widens as he places the glass in my hand. “Oh, I’ll be joining you.”

  I sip the scotch and then sip again. It’s beautiful. Just like this room, with its warm gold hues and notes of luxury.

  He takes back the glass. “My turn.”

  He extracts an ice cube, uses it to trace a path along the neckline of my dress. As the cool, wet surface touches my breasts, I feel my nipples harden as they reach out to him, begging him to go further. He responds by tasting the hints of scotch on my skin—light kisses filled with heat, his hands now on my hips. I’m breathing again but each breath is shallow as I struggle to stay still.

  He lifts the scotch glass again and brings it to my lips, tipping it back just slightly so that the smoky taste only trickles over my tongue. And then his fingers slip into the glass again and this time the melting ice is moved up my thighs. My body and my mind are no longer connected. I feel my legs part, only slightly at first but as he pushes my dress higher and higher, I encourage him with increased access.

  Again he lowers his mouth to the chilled scotch trail on my skin and I watch as he follows it up my legs. With a sudden and decisive movement he pulls my dress up to my waist, which he now holds firmly in his hands as his mouth moves higher and higher. That flimsy little thong is the only thing that stands in his way. He removes one hand from my waist and strokes the silky fabric.

  Through lowered lids I see him smile again. I know what he’s thinking. The fabric is wet. It’s another invitation that I have no control over.

  But it’s not enough for him.

  “Ask,” he says; his finger hooks around the waistband of my panties.

  I feel my cheeks heat up once more. A voiced request means that I won’t be able to say that I was just taken or that I wasn’t thinking. I’m ready to expose my body to him but now he’s asking me to share in this in a way that is so complete, it terrifies me.

  “Ask,” he says again.

  “Please,” I murmur.

  “Not good enough.” His voice is still soft but I can hear the edge of authority in his tone. “Ask.”

  “Take them off.”

  He raises himself up now so that he is leaning over me, his finger still hooked around the thin strap of my thong. “What exactly would you like me to take off?” The slight smile on his face doesn’t do anything to lessen his intensity.

  “Please?” I speak so quietly, I have to struggle to hear myself. “Please take off my panties.”

  “Louder, please.”

  Hesitantly, I raise my eyes to his. I can see the spark of mischief dancing there and it makes me smile. A surge of unexpected courage bursts through my soul and I reach forward and grab his T-shirt, bunching up the cheap cotton in my fist. “Please,” I say, pulling him closer, disturbing his balance. “Please take off my panties, Mr. Dade.”

  And now his smile matches my own. The thong is ripped from my body and before I fully know what’s going on, I feel the slight sting of scotch against my clit immediately followed by the shocking warmth of a kiss there, a kiss delivered to my very core. His mouth tickles and teases. I moan and grasp at the seat beneath me. I feel his finger gently touch me as he continues to lick and taste, first softly, then there’s a firmer pressure, a faster speed. His tongue dances over every nerve ending, his solicitations unrelenting. I whimper and throw back my head as the orgasm comes hard and fast.

  But I have no time to get my bearings. He yanks me to my feet. He doesn’t need to search for the hidden zipper on this dress; he just intuitively knows where it is. In an instant I’m wearing nothing.

  Ah, the stares of those men in the casino were nothing, not even pale imitations of the look that Mr. Dade is giving me now. His eyes don’t just move over me, they consume me. I stand there, wanting, throbbing as he slowly circles me like a wolf planning his attack, like a tiger stalking a mate. . . .

  Like a lover, ready to worship.

  I don’t reach for him; his eyes hold me as still as any rope ever could. Once the circle is complete, he takes off his own shirt. His torso matches his arms, hard muscles under soft, vulnerable flesh. He pulls me to him and I can feel what I’ve done to him. His erection presses against my stomach.

  I gasp as I feel fingers push inside of me. First one, then two. He plays with me, stroking and probing as I shiver against him. I try to unbutton his jeans but my hands are shaking. I’m going to come again, right here, standing up, pressed against him.

  And then he has me against the wall as he continues to caress. I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingernails in as I cry out. I explode and contract around his fingers. I breathe in and realize that traces of that woodsy cologne are now on my skin, too. Nothing separates us.

  I feel courageous and vulnerable, one more delicious contradiction. I finally manage to unfasten his jeans. And as I strip him of his remaining clothes, it’s my turn to stare.

  He’s beautiful and perfect and . . . impressive.

  We might not make it to the bedroom.

  With the tips of my fingers I explore every ridge of his cock until I make it up to the tip.

  Cock: it’s not a word I use but my head is spinning and euphemisms suddenly hold no interest for me. I don’t want to see what’s happening through a soft-focus lens. That’s not my fantasy.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he breathes. And then I’m being lifted into the air. My legs wrap around his waist, my back still pressed against that hard wall, and again I cry out as he pushes inside of me, again and again.

  I feel myself opening up for him. I feel myself getting wetter, a primal reaction to this welcome intrusion. I feel everything.

  He’s filling me with a hard, pulsing, and unyielding energy. He’s crashing through the doors behind which I’ve locked away all my secret desires, and those desires are bursting through me with the savage force you would expect from any jailbreak. As he continues to hold me up, I bend my head and softly bite his shoulder; I suck on his neck. I want to devour him even as he consumes me.

  And now we’re on the floor. My hips never leave his. I’m still embracing him with my legs, pulling him to me. Every inch of him holds its place inside my walls as he lowers me onto my back. The thin carpet beneath me adds a touch of gentleness as I scratch up his skin. His hands are on my breasts, pinching my nipples before moving to the small of my back. We’re moving to our own rhythm, one that is as rousing and radiant as anything ever heard within a Beethoven symphony. Each thrust brings me to a new level of ecstasy.

  I didn’t know it could be like this.

  It’s a cliché. A line every ingénue in every bad romantic comedy is forced to utter. The words are always spoken delicately as if our heroine has reached a new level of innocence.

  This doesn’t feel innocent. This feels fucking amazing. It feels like I’m coming alive.

  I didn’t know it could be like this.

  It’s the last intelligible thought I have before he brings me to the brink again. I feel his shoulders tense under my grasp and then he pins my arms over my head, physically constraining me when my ecstasy can’t be held back at all. The combination makes me wild and I thrash my head from side to
side and buck my hips forward, forcing him even deeper inside of me. He groans and pushes faster and harder, as our crescendo moves us closer to a dizzying climax.

  I cry out one more time as we come together, right there on the floor of a suite at the Venetian.

  I didn’t know it could be like this.

  CHAPTER 3

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN an afterlife. I’ve always thought that when someone’s gone, they’re gone. Maybe that’s how it is with moments, too. I have the memory of being with Mr. Dade, only two nights ago now, but with nothing tangible to connect me to that memory, that moment has simply . . . stopped breathing.

  He held me afterward and stroked my hair. The tenderness had been out of place. I wasn’t prepared for it. So I simply got dressed and walked away. He didn’t try to stop me but there had been something in his expression as he watched me leave that made my pulse quicken. He wasn’t looking at me the way a stranger would. He was looking at me like he knew me . . . maybe better than he had the right to.

  Simone was back in our room when I got there. She pressed me for details but I gave her little. I placated her with stories of flirting with a mysterious man in a bar with glass walls while he plied me with spirits that cost a little too much and tasted like seduction.

  She was disappointed. “You’re a lost cause,” she complained as I traded the Herve Leger for the innocuous white robe provided by the hotel. She zipped up the dress in a garment bag. As I watched it get swallowed into the black plastic, I was reminded of a coffin. It wasn’t just the moment that was lost to me; I was also burying a version of myself . . . burying it inside a garment bag that wasn’t even mine.

  But as I sit in my Los Angeles office, with its light yellow walls and neatly organized files, I realize that’s how it’s supposed to be. It was a dream, that’s all, and like all dreams it has virtually no consequences. The lessons it teaches can be studied or dismissed. It was just a few hours of time during which my subconscious was able to take over and a little hidden part of me was allowed to dictate a story in vivid colors. A story marked by its passion and excitement, two things that can never be maintained for long in real life.

  Just a dream.

  I pull out a client file. My job is to tell other people how to do theirs. Invest your time and money in this, not in that, and so on. I came to think of corporations as people long before the Supreme Court weighed in on the subject. They’re multifaceted entities, just like us. And, like people, the successful corporations know which parts of themselves are worth developing and which parts must be suppressed, hidden from the public eye. They know when to cut their losses.

  To me, the only part of the personhood of corporations that people have gotten fundamentally wrong is the idea that money is a company’s form of speech. In truth, money is a corporation’s very soul.

  And that makes me a spiritual advisor.

  I smile at that idea as I review my file in anticipation of passing the collection plate.

  “Kasie Fitzgerald, we’ve struck gold!”

  I look up to see my boss, Tom Love, standing in my doorway. My assistant, Barbara, stands behind him, smiling apologetically. Tom never gives anyone a chance to announce him before barging in. His last name seems like an unfortunate joke since I have never seen him give or inspire anything that resembles love.

  “We have a new account!” Tom says as he steps inside and closes the door behind him, apparently unaware that he has essentially slammed the door in Barbara’s face.

  I close the file in my hands. I am not the person Tom runs to when a new account comes his way. I’m still working my way up here and my climb is made all the steeper by the fact that I used Dave’s family connections to get my foot in the door. An Ivy League education should have been enough . . . but then nothing is ever enough these days. You have to graduate at the head of your class, have internships under the direct supervision of the captains of industry. You have to have a solid golf game.

  I have a job that many magna cum laude Rhode Scholars would kill for. I got it because I’m smart, capable, and have an Ivy League education . . . and because my boyfriend’s godfather is one of the cofounders of the company.

  I have something to prove.

  “I take it I’ll be part of the team handling this account?” I ask as I watch Tom claim the chair opposite me and idly look through my appointment calendar on my desk. I’ve learned to record my personal appointments exclusively on my phone and to keep my phone out of Tom’s reach.

  “No,” he says as he thumbs through the weeks and months of my professional life. “You’re leading the team.”

  There’s a shift in the room’s atmosphere. His eyes are still on the calendar but I can see he’s not reading it. He’s waiting for my reaction. I’ve wanted to lead a team since I got here but have long since accepted that I have a few more years to wait before the honor’s granted. And yet here is Tom, handing me this gift . . . why?

  “It’s a small account?” I ask, trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

  “No. It’s Maned Wolf Security Systems.”

  Now the atmosphere isn’t so much shifting as it is deconstructing into a swirl of confusion. Maned Wolf Security Systems. It provides security for the biggest corporations on the globe, produces the highest tech surveillance systems, firewall protections, and even has an armed guard division that operates in some of the more volatile parts of the world. It has government contracts and politicians who vie for their support.

  I have no right to lead this team. There shouldn’t even be a team. Maned Wolf is as insular as it is powerful. A billion-dollar operation that has yet to go public. It’s Apple meets Blackwater meets Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Secrets are kept; outsiders, unwelcome.

  I haven’t earned the right to break them out of their shell.

  But I really want to.

  “Why me?”

  Tom raises his eyes from my calendar. “He asked for you.”

  And now the atmosphere has weight. I feel its pressure on my shoulders and against my chest. Tom looks at me with an expression laced with curiosity and suspicion.

  “Who’s He?” I ask.

  “The CEO.”

  I should know his name, but I don’t. I know their contracts, their marketing, their strength. Their people have never been of much interest to me.

  And yet, as I wait for Tom to say more, I sense that the focus of my interest is about to be irrevocably altered.

  “His name is Robert . . . Robert Dade. He says he met with you in Vegas.”

  People say there is nothing more wonderful than having your dreams come true. But some dreams were meant to stay dreams. Sometimes when our dream life sneaks into our waking world, it causes a chemical reaction.

  And when that happens, everything explodes.

  * * *

  I’M GIVEN ONLY a few days to prepare for the meeting. I put together a team, but, per Mr. Dade’s request, the first meeting will be private. Just the two of us.

  When Tom had told me that, I once again saw the suspicion in his eyes. It was easy to attack Tom’s mannerisms, even his management style, but not his intelligence. I made up a story as to how I had met Mr. Dade. How I had told him what I did for a living and boasted of professional successes as we stood in a painfully long airport security line. I said I had given Mr. Dade my card but been separated from him before getting the name of his company.

  Even as I utter my explanations and excuses, I can see their transparency. But I so want Tom to suspend disbelief. I want him to accept the ridiculous idea that I inadvertently and unknowingly gave a powerful CEO the pitch of a lifetime. I want him to put away that curious smile he’s been sharing with me these days. I want him to stop looking at me like he suddenly realizes that I might be hiding something under my boxy blazers and wide-legged pantsuits. I want him to stop treating me like I’m as unscrupulously ambitious as he is.

  Tom now stops to talk to me on a daily basis.

  But right now I’m
not in the office. It’s Friday morning. I take extra care with my appearance. I pull my hair back into a severe twist. My navy blazer falls in a straight line to my hips without so much as a hint of femininity. I pair it with a matching straight skirt. There is no invitation whispered within the folds of this fabric. There’s nothing here to entice.

  As I stare at my reflection in my pale blue bathroom, I debate the problem of make-up. Without it I look softer, younger, more vulnerable.

  I always wear make-up.

  I drag a moist sponge across my skin, spreading foundation over my little imperfections; a small pimple along my hairline, the few freckles I earned while bicycling through those childhood days of summer . . . covering up all the tiny details that make me human. I darken my cheeks with bronzer and press a gray pencil against the tender flesh beneath my lower lashes.

  This is the version of me that I’m allowed to show the world. This is not the woman Mr. Dade met in Vegas.

  I buried that woman in a garment bag.

  * * *

  BECAUSE I ARRIVE at the offices of Maned Wolf Security Systems fifteen minutes early, I can pause to admire the building that houses them. It should have been cold with its darkly mirrored exterior but here, in Santa Monica, it reflects the sun and the palm trees that surround it, adding warmth to its power.

  And he had been warm when I had touched him. The kisses against my neck had been gentle even as he had pinned me up against the wall. Then there had been his fingers . . . when he had stroked me with them, pushed them inside me, playing me just so as if he was a master pianist bringing forth the aching notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata . . . warm, powerful. . . .

  My purse vibrates as my phone jerks me back to reality.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Fitzgerald? I’m Sonya, Mr. Dade’s executive assistant. There’s been a slight change of plans. Mr. Dade would like you to meet him at the bar Le Fête. It’s located one block south of our office building.”