The Perfect Storm 7

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was blatantly inspired by Kate Chopin's "The Storm," a classic work of erotica and a great Earth Day story before its time.

This is being submitted to the Earth Day contest, so votes are greatly appreciated.

Many thanks to LadyVer for her early feedback, and to dream_operator for his editing and comments. You guys rock!

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"Karen, I need you."

Karen Martin heard her boss's voice, quiet and soft and sexy, come across the intercom, and grabbed her phone, a pen and notepad and headed into his office. She walked across thick carpets in high black pumps, past the expensive glass and chrome fixtures of a luxury office building, and opened his door. His vast office was entirely surrounded with windows, high up on the 75th floor overlooking the glittering, twinkling skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan, and she stood for a minute loving the view.

"Yes?"

Patrick O'Connor turned around in his chair, looked up at her over his glasses, file in hand, with that split second hesitation she had come to know—lingering for just a second longer than he should, flicking his eyes from her face to her breasts and back before opening his mouth to speak.

"So is everything set for tomorrow?"

"Yes. The flight leaves at 10:00. I'll be at your place with the car at 8:00 sharp."

"Ok, now, here's what I need . . . "

He gave her a long list of things to do, files to download, calls to make, appointments to set up. She was used to it; they had to travel together often, and she had the routine down pat.

Patrick was 45 and single, with classic American good looks, dark brown hair and intense blue eyes. He was a rather famous lawyer specializing in environmental issues, and Karen his . . . "personal assistant." She did PR, secretarial work, and anything else he needed. She'd handled all the details of his schedule, media presence, and personal life for the past two years, and they were constantly together.

She'd started out working for him as a paralegal, doing mundane filing and research. All that had changed, however, when the Big Case came along and made Patrick O'Connor a household name. It was an infamous scandal, something involving government oil drilling contracts—Karen had never been able to get all the details straight. It had turned Patrick into the go-to national expert on global warming law and he was in constant demand for television interviews.

He was gorgeous, charismatic and telegenic, so before long she was fielding calls from magazines wanting to profile the hot young lawyer and wanting to know everything about his personal life. He was even featured in some magazine's "Most Eligible Bachelors" issue, which Karen thought hilarious, saying to herself "If they only knew."

She said, in a business-like tone, "Don't forget, you have Anderson Cooper tonight at 9:00."

Patrick leaned back in his chair, threw off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck!"

She laughed. She knew how much he hated this part of his job, but his celebrity was major business for his firm, and he had to do it.

He sighed, "Jesus . . . I'd much rather stay here with you."

"Well it's not going to be much fun. It's going to take me hours to get these files in order."

He stared at her, with the strange, intense look she'd seen before, as if he wanted to say more, but he never did.

"Are you sure you don't mind? Are you sure you don't have . . . somewhere to be?" he said, looking over her tight black dress and spiked black heels.

"No, not at all. We have to get this done tonight."

"All right . . . God, Karen, what would I do without you?"

+++

Karen was attracted to Patrick—who wouldn't be? But she tried to keep their relationship strictly professional, for several reasons.

He was a bachelor, yes. But "eligible," no. The man was a machine, and a workaholic to end all workaholics. He was at the office every day at 6:00, and left late at night to go straight to the gym. He was brilliant, passionate, devoted, ruthless, and single-minded. The law was literally his religion. As far as she knew he cared about two things: the environment, and taking down big business. His one and only vice, which contradicted both of these things, was his smoking. He tried to hide it, but she knew when he got stressed he would sneak outside for a puff, then work out extra hard for the next day or two.

He had an ex-wife, someone he was married to briefly when he was younger, but she wasn't around and Karen knew very little about that. In fact despite handling his "personal life," she knew very little about it. He was not the open and chatty type.

In all the time she'd known him, Karen could think of maybe ten times he'd come in late, looking a bit disheveled, or wearing the same clothes from the night before, and she knew he'd been with a woman. She knew because a few days later she'd get a call from a teary, desperate sounding voice, asking to speak to him. These poor women, she would think, he doesn't have time for a relationship.

She had absolutely no intention of becoming one of those women on the phone, so she kept her attraction well in hand.

Furthermore, she was not ready for any kind of relationship. She was still licking her wounds from a horrible, painful breakup of a few years back. Brian, her ex, looked remarkably like her current boss, and that had not made the transition any easier.

"Ok then, well, call me if you need me. I better get going. And I'll . . . see you tomorrow."

"Ok, good night."

+++

The next day, on the plane headed out of New York to Miami, Karen had a strange feeling about this trip. She'd traveled with Patrick many many times before, but mostly on short little flights to Philadelphia, D.C., occasionally Chicago. This trip was to Florida, and much longer, and as the plane took them away from the city and their routine, everyday world, she was more aware than ever that they were alone together, and would be in a warm, sensual environment. She had summer clothes packed, a bikini and sunscreen, and two days to unwind by the beach, near him. She was aware of it. She was not an idiot. But she was also trying to keep her cool.

After that late night, she felt very tired, so she leaned her head against the window and watched the sky as it turned from pale blue to lavender and then a menacing gray. Soon she fell fast asleep.

At the same time, Patrick was taking this moment to watch her, and think about her.

He was much more attracted to her than she knew, and he could not stop himself from gazing at her face and her body while he had the chance. He, too, was feeling something strange on this trip, and was finding it difficult to muster his usually perfect powers of concentration.

He stayed away from her because he was her boss, of course, because he did not want the headache or the distraction, because he had no time for a relationship, but also because, like her, he had a past. His ex-wife. He'd gotten married when he was quite young, and deeply in love. Linda had been very different from him—a writer, a dreamer, and completely impractical. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place.

But when he finished law school and the demands of real work just slammed into him, those enchanting differences had quickly become impossible obstacles. She objected to how much time he spent working; accused him of neglecting her, of being too driven and obsessed with his job. Then one day, he had come home to find her gone.

He had never gotten over it. He had sworn he would never go through that again. And so far, he had been quite successful, arranging his life with the least possible entanglements, avoiding that kind of emotion—at least, he told himself, until his career was where he wanted.

Things had worked out well, from his perspective, until Karen came into his life, this absolute dead ringer for his ex.

She was a constant temptation, one he had to fight against every time he saw her.

And now here they were, together, right when he needed to concentrate, because these depositions were going to be real bitch. So he counted on the distraction of work, the distance of separate hotel rooms, and his own obsessive nature to keep it under control.

+++

Karen was awoken a few hours later from a deep sleep by the impossibly cheery voice of the captain saying:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look over to the right side of the airplane you will see Atlanta, where it is now a beautiful and balmy 80 degrees . . . "

"Atlanta." Wonderful. She hadn't wanted to hear that.

That's where he was, right down there, right at that moment. Brian, the love of her life. He had moved back to Georgia after their awful breakup and the last she knew, that's where he intended to stay.

They'd met in school, when they were 21, and had lived together for four years. He was both the love of her life, and the best sex she'd ever had, and she was still haunted by it. She'd had a few lovers since, some who were really great, but none who'd came anywhere near him.

Karen could not help going over, once again, how things had gone so wrong.

They were in love, they were perfect for each other, except for one tiny little thing. Being from the South, Brian was Irish Catholic, as strict as they come. At first, she'd thought his religious beliefs were some kind of joke. She ignored it, never took it seriously. She let him do his thing, not noticing how important it was becoming to him. Eventually, it became a problem, and then more of a problem, until they were fighting about it all the time.

Brian accused her of being close-minded and inflexible; Karen told him he was a mama's boy who just couldn't deal with a grown up relationship; yelled at him that he wasn't turning back to God, he was just running away from her.

Finally, she had told him he had to make a choice, and he chose that, over her. Simple as that. She came back to their place one day, his bags were packed, and he said that's it. I'm going home. I'm leaving you.

She still couldn't believe it. "Devastated" did not even begin to cover it. She honestly never thought he'd do it, that he could just turn his back on her, their life, that incredible sex.

Because, as she often told her friends, no one knows about lust better than a tortured Catholic boy. No one. It was a cliché for a reason. For Brian, being with her was an unmitigated sin, and she his constant temptation. He struggled against it every single time. But when he did give in, when he let himself, it was . . . phenomenal. Passionate, violent, and completely pure. It had to be, otherwise he never could have done it.

That was the sad irony of it all, Karen often thought. The very thing that had made it so good was the very thing that had driven him away.

Karen was deep in thought, immersed in these memories, when Patrick spoke in that soft, gentle voice.

"Can you hand me the Jones file?"

"Oh, yes, of course, hang on."

As he looked over the file, she began to flick through her phone.

"Oh, hey, it says there might be a storm tomorrow." She was looking at the weather report. Miami had a forecast of rain, thunderstorms and hurricane strength winds. That did not sound good.

Typically, Patrick said, "Well I hope it won't affect these depositions." He was to spend two days interviewing witnesses in the courthouse, for a lawsuit they'd brought against one of Florida's biggest polluters. And since there were government contracts involved, he was the one his firm sent.

"I don't know, it looks pretty bad." They were getting close to Miami, and she could see black clouds all lined up on the horizon.

"Hmmm? Do you have that file?"

+++

When they got to the hotel, a beautiful place right on the beach, it was a madhouse. But this was not surprising, as they had literally been on the last flight to get in to Miami. The ride had been horrible on the way down, with dark clouds, terrible turbulence, and lightning strike shaking the plane.

People were running around in the lobby and yelling as Karen made her way to the front desk.

"Hi, I'm checking in. The last name is Martin."

"Martin?" the clerk asked as he stared at the computer monitor.

"Karen Martin."

"Ah yes, here you are. Karen Martin, one deluxe room with a king sized bed."

"There should be two rooms under that name."

"No, it's only showing one room."

"Well we need to add another one."

"I'm sorry, we're fully booked."

She reached into her purse. "But I have the printout of the reservation right here. It clearly shows . . . Wait. Oh, you're right. I did only book one room. How could that have happened? What about another hotel then?"

"Because of the storm, there's nothing available. I've already tried that for other guests. We can put a cot in the room if you like."

"I'm not paying this kind of money to sleep on a cot."

"I'm sorry. That's the best that we can do."

"Fine," she said, and handed the clerk her credit card.

"Do you know what's happening with the storm? We're supposed to leave the day after tomorrow."

"The brunt of it is due to hit tomorrow night. I don't know if you'll be making that flight."

He gave her the room card-keys and she walked back over to Patrick, who was busy checking emails on his phone. She noticed, as usual, people looking at him, as though they thought they knew him. He, as usual, was oblivious.

"They screwed up the reservation," she lied. "They booked us into only one room."

He looked up at her for a split second, blinked, said "Oh, well that's inconvenient," and went right back to checking his phone.

It was a nice hotel. His firm paid for it, so Karen always tried to get the best. She knew if it had been up to him, they'd be in a Motel 6. She was looking forward to a little luxury. He'd be gone during the days and she'd have very little to do, so she planned to enjoy herself.

Inside, plush peach carpets, pink flowers, and shimmering gold lighting fixtures lined the corridors. Outside, there was the slightest hint of brilliant orange in the sky. It was very pretty, though you could tell something bad was coming. It was horridly, horribly humid, and there were occasional deep rumbles off in the distance. Unlike the bumpy ride down, things were oddly tense and still.

The room, as advertised, was beautiful. There was only one bed but it was huge, plus there was a soft comfy couch.

A big, wide balcony with delicate railings overlooked an inviting walkway right down to the beach, surrounded by palm trees. Karen was drawn to it, and immediately went outside. It smelled amazing. She inhaled the sharp, pungent southern night-blooming jasmine, which permeated the entire city with a cloud of erotic, sexy perfume. It was an unforgettable scent deeply imprinted on her memory, since it immediately evoked her years in California with Brian.

She sighed, thinking, "I am fated to be drawn back to that time of my life during this trip, I guess."

Patrick lay in the bed, with one eye checking his phone and the other watching her. This situation could not be more . . . ridiculously tempting, but he really, really had to get these things done. Billions of dollars were riding on what happened tomorrow. He saw her there against the sunset, but tried to ignore it.

Karen quietly unpacked their things and hung up their clothes. She'd been on enough trips with him to know he did not like to be bothered while he was preparing.

It was late and she was tired, already anxious to turn in.

Now came the awkward part. She absolutely had to take a shower. She detested the smell of airplanes, and it had been so hot and humid before they got in the nice air-conditioned room. She grabbed her little overnight bag and headed into the bathroom. She had assumed she would be in her own room, so she had only brought her own version of "pajamas,"—a single, soft white t-shirt and underwear. Since she'd been a teenager that was all she ever liked to sleep in.

"Well, I can't control this situation. If it makes him uncomfortable, too bad."

She stripped down, looking at her nice, toned body in the mirror. It was kind of boyish. She had firm little breasts with tiny red nipples and a taut, small ass. But these were offset by a flat, sexy stomach, wide curving hips, and fantastic legs. She kept her thick hair short, liking the androgynous aspect, but wore a lot of make-up to emphasize her beautiful brown eyes and full lips.

She got a kick out of imagining what Patrick would do if she just walked out there naked and stood in front of him. "Probably not bat an eye."

In the luxuriously, expensively tiled shower, she could not help noticing that her nipples were hard and erect through the soapy lather and were aching to be touched. The thought of Brian inevitably did that. She thought of his moans, and the look in his eyes just at the moment he took them into his mouth. She closed her eyes as the water beat down, remembering him, thinking about how she would straddle him while he sat with his arms wrapped tight around her, on the edge of the bed or a chair, so he could suck her nipples and look at her, and they could kiss and watch each other as he throbbed inside. She hadn't forgotten a single second of it.

As her mind traveled to some of their more intense sessions, when Brian would get more out of control, she suddenly found Patrick's face and Patrick's body swimming up into her fantasy, clear and sharp and defined. She pictured herself on her hands and knees in front of him while he stood behind her, and a sharp, violent ache ripped through her body. But she tried to stop this insistent stream of images, focusing instead on Brian's cock and Brian's voice, to drive those pictures out of her mind.

It was sweet and hot to think about, but she immediately reminded herself: it had all been for shit. He'd been willing to throw it all away.

She toweled off and got into her pajamas. The little white t-shirt came down just over her hips, barely covering her ass. She came back out, stood awkwardly by the bed, smelling and looking fresh and clean.

"Um, Patrick? I'd like to turn in now."

He glanced up and, well, she saw she had been quite wrong. He did bat an eye. He peered over his glasses, looking like a prosecutor, with that quick intense gaze she had seen before, though he seemed even more startled than usual. He tried to stay focused on her eyes but kept darting down to her exposed hips. He was clearly flustered, more than usual. He blushed a bit, cleared his throat, and ruffled his papers.

"Of course, I'm sorry. Let me . . . uh . . . "

"I'm sorry . . . "

"It's ok. Let me get these . . . papers . . . " he was struggling to clear a space off the bed and could not seem to get it together. She said, "I'll do it."

She was keenly aware of his gaze as she picked things up, walked around and put things in order for him. He didn't even bother to hide it. He looked like he had seen a ghost, and he just watched her intently as she moved around. She was aware she was not wearing a bra and her shirt was a bit see-through. He could see her dark little nipples poking through.

They chatted a bit about his schedule before she said, "Ok, goodnight."

"Goodnight, Karen. And thanks for your help."

It took her a while to fall asleep. There was something very soothing about the clicking of his computer and the sound of his pen writing down notes. She found his concentration comforting. Outside, she heard rumblings and saw occasional flashes of light, and felt the air thickening with the coming storm . .

Patrick couldn't sleep either, nor could he concentrate on his work. He had seen a ghost.

When he looked up and saw her, young and fresh and beautiful, with that boyish body and short hair, he could only see his ex-wife. He was plunged back in time. He saw himself at 20, lying on their bed waiting for her to get out of the shower, laughing and talking. His body had never forgotten, either, and the sight of Karen's gorgeous, feminine hips, his wife's body, made him instantly hard, instantly awash in a powerful ache to take her in his arms. He pictured his wife on her hands and knees in front of him, lifting her hips while giving him that look over her shoulder . . . the images surged into his head. Swamped with memories, he looked down at his work like it was that of a total stranger.