by Justin Bradford
(03/24/04)

Jen checked her watch as she stepped onto the redwood-shaded path between buildings. Eleven twenty-eight. She'd said she'd be out at eleven thirty. She followed the path through the arboretum until she caught a glimpse of the black Mercedes waiting at the curb on the side street. She saw no sign of life as she approached the car.

The window slid down, revealing Zachary at the wheel; he watched her in that intense way he had, wordless. Even though this particular spot was invisible from any of the company buildings, she glanced around before she got into the car.

He started the car. She wondered what his plan was. Once he'd entered the flow of traffic, he reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a cardkey with the words Buena Vista on it. A local hotel -- a pretty nice one.

"Good place for lunch?" he asked with a casual glance at her.

"You reserved a quiet table?" Jen asked, deadpan.

"You can have a look," he said. You'd think he was talking to his wife about a restaurant they might try.

He seemed completely relaxed, but she gave his demeanor a little test. "I'll do that," she said, with a hint of tough-bitch undertone. Little good it did: he gave her another of his looks. The twinkle amplified his modest good looks into something entirely different, something like Incorrigible Rascal Aboard. She didn't see that look at the office.

"Great," he said, then, about the cardkey: "Why don't you hold onto that?"

Still calm as a thief, making occasional small talk, he drove the remaining blocks to the hotel. He parked in the maze-like garage, helped her out, then took her up to the fourth floor.

In the elevator, she saw an ad for the hotel's "late check-out program" and realized with a jolt that he had taken the room the night before. Prior to suggesting lunch.

"Is this the first time you've used that key?" She kept her tone bantering.

"Nope." he said.

Bastard.

"The first time was an hour ago when I came up and ordered lunch from room service. You like Cobb Salad, right?"

God, he was sure of himself. He'd taken the room the night before on the chance that she wouldn't hand back the key.

She liked it.

The first time he'd looked her in the eye and smiled like that, eighteen months ago, she'd lost her train of thought and couldn't finish her sentence. It wasn't that he was gorgeous -- he was OK -- it was something else. He glowed sometimes. He had something in his eyes that she couldn't put her finger on, but it was there, for sure. She thought of Mike Myers as Austin Powers, exploding fembots with his mojo. Hang it up, Mike, she thought, keeping her face carefully arranged, someone has the real thing.

When they reached room 431, Zachary waved her to the door with a cheerful bow. It struck her that he was leaving all the decisions to her, when in fact he'd made them already. No wonder his sales numbers were so high.

Clever, Mr. Powers. There was no way she could say any of this to Zachary now. Maybe later, depending on how lunch went. Maybe, if the mojo was really working. Maybe then.

Right now she was too nervous for banter. She'd never done this before, not even during her first marriage to that rat bastard, Jake. But Bill, her second husband, was a sweetheart, not a sociopath. She loved Bill. She couldn't believe she was here, couldn't connect it with the rest of her life.

What was the effect Zachary had on her? If he leaned toward her in a meeting to speak quietly into her ear, his voice made her knees weak. The week before, he'd walked her from one building to another, a hundred yards away. Their breath steamed as they talked about the upcoming teleconference with the Hamburg office. He'd loved the crisp autumn air and had slung his jacket over his shoulder, but she'd begun to shiver. When he noticed, he draped the cashmere blazer over her shoulders. Normally she would have refused, but she was freezing and nobody else was around. For the rest of the day, any reminder of that brief contact brought chills, even when she stood under the big heater in the main lobby.

However his impact on her had come about, it was happening now, as she opened the door to room 431. Inside was a king bed, a desk with data connection, and a little conference table. The table was set for lunch -- salad, and white wine in an ice bucket. Thorough devil, wasn't he? They stepped into the room and he took her leather jacket, patient, no pressure. After hanging the jacket in a closet, he stepped behind one of the chairs at the table and started to pull it out for her.

Thinking "in for a penny," she pushed him backwards onto the bed, where he sat, bouncing just a little. She stepped forward, but he stopped her by putting his hands on her waist.

He stood and kissed her face, delicate touches on her forehead, lips, eyelids. He undid the buttons on her blouse. Item by item, he undressed her, as though she were some infinitely valuable doll, kissing her neck as the blouse slid away, brushing his lips over her shoulder as he removed her bra. Each article of clothing was treated with reverent ritual; every touch raised gooseflesh despite the warmth of the room.

When he knelt to remove her shoes -- he wouldn't let her do anything herself -- she found her voice and said hoarsely, "I guess even Cinderella's shoes had to come off eventually." It was a silly thing to say, but she couldn't seem to find her balance. Naked by stages, she quivered like a captive bird as he kissed away each article of clothing. He looked into her face and smiled. He glided up her body and slid his hands through her hair. With almost no contact, he began kissing her face again.

She had no will. She just stood, absorbing the butterfly touches. Her flesh began to twitch with each contact. Her breath came in tiny, tight puffs.

Moving away from her a little, he did something that she'd imagined but had never experienced. He picked her up and gently placed her on the bed. She reached out for him, but he intercepted her hand. He kissed her palm and then her wrist. He touched her skin with his lips, loosing a barely perceptible cushion of heated breath.

Shivers ran up her arms like a school of tropical fish scattering at the approach of a predator. Her nipples ached.

Unexpectedly, he used her arm as a lever to turn her face down. When she tried to move, insecure about this tantalizing lack of control, he immobilized her with a single finger against her spine. Next, with a kind of delicate power, he massaged her shoulders and arms, then moved down her back. She melted into the bed, every nerve ending crying for its turn, but every muscle relaxed. She lost awareness of everything except his hands.

When he reached her buttocks and inner thighs his touch was almost clinical. He studiously avoided any contact with her vagina, millimeters from his fingertips. It was torment. Every stroke set off a series of tingling shocks in her genitals. She started to turn to take him into her, but a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped the movement almost before it began. As he continued his stroking she sighed quietly with every exhalation.

Breathe in. Exhale a whispered "ohhhhh."

Breathe in. Exhale.

When even her toes had been attended to, he reached back up to her buttocks and thighs, drawing more sounds from her. He lightened his touch and began to run his hands and lips over her back, lightly, lightly, and to press tiny, superheated kisses onto her hairline and onto the edge of her single exposed ear, interspersed with minute, tentative nips.

Panting. Chills. Her vagina, beginning to spasm. She knew how wet she must be by now. God. He hadn't even stopped to remove his clothing. As this thought came, he turned her to face him, and she saw that he had undressed while massaging her, without her knowing.

His mouth continued to glide over her body. He guided her hand to his penis; it was rigid, pulsing when she touched it. She caressed it as he moved his attentions downward.

He penetrated her with a single finger, finding a place inside her that exploded at the slight pressure he exerted. It was like being lit by a powerful beacon within. As she gasped, he began to flick her pleading nerve endings with the tip of his tongue. She came instantly, bucking and shaking, her breath rasping. Just as this first orgasm receded he changed the rhythm of his tongue in concert with her uncontrollable surges. The orgasm started all over again.

He did this four times, the sensations more powerful each time. She couldn't focus her eyes. She couldn't breathe. The waves of pleasure ceased to have a single point of origin in her body. She was electrified from her toes to her scalp. Place and presence disappeared from her consciousness.

He still hadn't entered her.

Leaving a hand pressed against her clitoris, he moved his mouth back up her body, tasting, tickling. Nibbles at her breasts, where her nipples felt tight enough to explode. The pulsing in her clitoris moderated, so that awareness began to return. He seemed to know this, to take it as a cue. He slipped his hands beneath her head, cradling her, kissed her face again, angelic butterfly whispers, then kissed her mouth deeply. As his tongue sought hers, he entered her.

His entry set off a minor quake. She could see he liked the inner temblor that gripped his penis. He moved his face away a little, smiling that warm smile, watching for something in her eyes. Then, shifting his leg so he could touch the floor, he picked her up suddenly, taking her onto his lap. They never separated -- he picked her up and settled her, his legs crossed underneath them, her legs wrapped around his hips. He pulled her to him until every millimeter of skin was in contact, and then began kissing her and rocking.

This time, the orgasms were quieter, reassuring, but they never stopped, each followed by another as soon as the first diminished. She closed her eyes. Her tongue played with his as it danced in her mouth. Coming was like rocking in a boat on an ocean swell: the climb, then a slow fall, only to be caught by another rising wave. The waves were warm. They filled her with joy.

After a very long time, he whispered, "Here, come be on top," and lay back on the bed. Amazed that she could still move, she enveloped his penis and began her own rhythm. Tired, she took a while to reach her final orgasm. Just as it peaked, she saw Zachary turn rigid beneath her.

You're not in control anymore now, are you, Mr. Powers? She smiled to herself as her climax waned and his peaked. They trembled together for a minute or so, then she collapsed next to him, head on his shoulder.

Lifting her head to untangle her hair, she saw from the wall clock that it was one-fifteen. Her vagina throbbed. Every pulse in her body thudded. She had been in near-continuous orgasm for an hour, perhaps longer. Good God.

Zachary turned his head, kissed her ear. In his knee-weakening voice, he said, "I've been thinking about doing that for months."

She laughed aloud and held him closer. "Oh, God, don't. I barely survived an hour!"

After a few more minutes of languorous cuddling they showered -- he'd brought toiletries, for God's sake -- and he drove them back to the office. As she got out of the car to retrace her steps through the arboretum, he spoke.

"So, Boss, another lunch meeting next week?"

"I'll get back to you," she said, turning away. And smiled.

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