The Green Ray

She wants him. Has wanted him for a couple of months. She hasn’t exactly chased him. That would be beneath her. She wouldn’t do that for ANY guy. And yet, how else could you describe it?

She’s flirted with him, but to no avail. It isn’t that he’s playing hard to get. More like, he IS hard to get. He doesn’t flirt. That’s one of the things she likes about him, in a perverse sort of way. There’s no front to him. What you see is what you get. He doesn’t do playing games. There’s an honesty, an integrity to that, which separates him from the herd.

She sees him around, says hi, chats. He’s not unfriendly. He seems as if he isn’t worldly-wise, almost an innocent in this ferocious corporate jungle. But she suspects that isn’t true. She thinks there’s a steely inner core to him, a fundamental strength. Something about – an odd, old-fashioned thing to think, but she feels it anyway – something about the way he holds himself, conducts himself. There’s a dignity, a generosity about him, that the rest of the office lacks. And yet, surviving a frenetic business like this, he must be alive to the politics, the backstabbing, the false bonhomie, the pretence at teamwork. He must know. And yet, at least in her mind, he rises above that, rises above the mundane and the predictable. Christ, to know what’s in his mind!

The truth is, she’s right about almost everything. He does have that happy knack of retaining his core beliefs, his core decency, in a business where it’s a surplus virtue. He survives the dog-eat-dog mentality, simply because he’s very intelligent. Because his unswerving belief in the right way to treat people, has given him a consistency the others lack. His competitors. Both in business, and for her attention. He didn’t set out to be just the kind of man to intrigue her. But he is.

The one thing she’s got wrong is this: he HAS noticed her. Noticed her every time, in fact. What man wouldn’t? Beneath her apparently cool exterior, it’s clear there’s a brooding passion. Like the hidden power of a horse’s muscles, beneath the sleek flanks. But his noticing goes beyond the obvious. He sees the little touches, the way her mouth moves, the slender elegance of her fingers. He thinks this is his downfall, this depth of appreciation. He thinks it makes him seem too cautious, too lacking in confidence to get her interest. He’s wrong.

They go to the same gym, and he’s there this evening. If he didn’t come here, he’d succumb to the siren calls of trashy food, to go along with solitary nights reading, or watching TV. It’s part of the reason why he thinks she’s out of his league. He imagines her being wined and dined each evening, by a succession of pretty, brash, confident young men. The kind of men most women would fall for, but she can take her pick. So he works out four times a week, to stave off some of the self-doubt that seeps into every image of her.

She’s there tonight. He can’t help but notice. She’s done her stretches, and now she’s donning the gloves, to kick box the living shit out of the suspended punch bag in one corner. He’s seen her do this once before. It makes it hard to concentrate. It’s like watching a sculptor apply the finishing touches. She’s a work of art already, but that extra little bit of toning just completes her, makes her just so. The perfect tone of the muscles, the definition of them, the intrinsic strength that ripples beneath the surface. The smooth firmness of her stomach muscles when she kicks. He can see the results, and can see how they’re achieved. Like standing behind a great painter as he works.

She’s hitting the bag hard, concentrating on her breathing. And on him. She likes the meaty clout of glove on bag. She can hear when she’s doing it right. But all the time, part of her mind is swaying away from balance, from shape, from focus. It’s on him, and how to grab his attention. How to open the floodgates of the desire, the passion, she’s sure is within him. She can feel the sweat begin to transform her golden skin, giving it a delicate shine that even she finds erotic. It gives her a momentary super-confidence, a slight rip in her reticence about going all-out to attract him. Without losing form on each kick, she snatches a couple of quick glances at him. He’s watching her. Even as he curls the weight upwards and tightens his arm muscles, she can feel his eyes on her.

She’s had enough. Now’s the moment. She can probably handle the rejection if this goes wrong. She almost did it the last time he was here. And cursed herself for not going through with it. It just seemed too much, too daring, too risky. But now, with the adrenaline from the workout pumping around her, she feels supercharged enough to try it.

She steps back from the punch bag, the sweat running in small rivulets down her body. She shimmers, she glistens. Other eyes are on her, but she doesn’t notice. She walks slowly towards him, as he sits on a bench, between reps of 10. She’s got an easy, athletic glide to her .She floats across the surface. He’s sweating too, and fuck, he has no idea how delicious he looks. No idea at all. Which is part of the appeal, isn’t it? A small part of her just wants to straddle his lap, and kiss him inside out, grind their sweat-slicked bodies together until he submits, grabs her ass, and bodily carries her out of the gym without their tongues breaking contact. But she has a better idea.

He sees her approach. He assumes she’s here to speak to someone else. He smiles a non-committal, “hiya” smile. Better that way. Better not to look too keen, because the rejection when she walks straight past isn’t so hard to take. She smiles back. There’s something different about this smile – or is it wishful thinking on his part? Probably. Maybe just a hint of something more than friendly recognition. Maybe. But then she kneels down in front of him.

She’s sitting there, in the most subservient position she can manage. Quietly, feet tucked under her, gloved hands in her lap, like a Geisha. Head up, but eyes lowered to the floor. She’s not facing him. She wants him to move, so she’s just to one side, facing the mirrored wall to his left. She can feel the heat radiating off his body, senses his strong, manly scent. This close up, she can see the hairs on his arms, feel the slight shallowness to his breathing. Mmmmmm.

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s not used to flirting. Other guys would have a zillion smooth, just-right lines to say at this point. He’s just tongue-tied. He can’t even bring himself to look at her. She’s too achingly hot. Strange as it seems, he feels an emptiness in his groin, like butterflies in his stomach, only lower. Something tells him she’ll make the next move. If he just has the nerve to wait. Time stretches.

She moves her head slowly, and looks at the water bottle next to his foot. Praying he gets the idea. Praying he gets her. Because it isn’t about the fucking water. It’s about making the exact - the right - connection. It’s about being on the same wavelength, and knowing it. It’s about the potential for passion – true passion – and not just lust. She’s had guys lust after her before. This one could deliver mutual passion, the kind that rips out of your body. The kind that makes you scream. She’s sure of it.

He gets it. Suddenly, his instinct takes over. The confidence flows through him like liquid fire. He becomes the man he’d locked inside, and the man she wants. He lifts the water bottle and moves it towards her lips. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back as the bottle draws near. The smooth, glistening arc of her throat as she reaches for the water with her mouth. The perfect stillness of the rest of her body. He tilts the bottle and pours pure, fresh water into her waiting mouth. It slides into her mouth and straight down her throat. She barely feels it, barely senses it, barely tastes it. She’s floating in her mind.

He’s holding his breath without realising it. She’s perfect. So, so perfect. Flawless. That swallowing motion. This one moment of intimacy, set in the crowded, noisy gym, has crystallised both their feelings, and sent them crashing, hurtling, through every barrier they might have used to hold themselves back. Her muscles are still twitching from her kickboxing, her latent strength is still apparent in the smooth shapes of her limbs, and yet this was such a compliant moment. So submissive, yet never lacking in power. He bathes in the decadence of the dichotomy. Ohhh, what he could do to this girl.

He withdraws the bottle slowly, gently. A drop of water escapes and holds to her bottom lip, until her tongue slides delicately out and scoops it up. Everything she does is electric, fascinating beyond all reason. Every inch of her pulsates with a need, a need for him. Part of him can’t get over it. Part of him knows it’s so totally right, a certainty he just can’t explain. She smiles as she leans back on her haunches.

“Follow me.”

A delicate whisper, meant only for him. Everything she does is meant only for him. Time and movement seem to have stopped. Everyone else is tuned out, irrelevant, just human static. She straightens up and walks slowly up the stairs to the lockers. She knows he’s following. Not in a pathetic, drippy, puppy-dog way. No. That inner strength is there, just like she thought. That dignity and class is there, just like she knew. He’s following his destiny when he follows her.

When he gets to the door of the gym, she’s already outside. Leaning against a lamppost, with her arms above her head. Stretching that fantastic body. It’s still dripping with sweat. She looks like she’s already basking in the afterglow. Her body has that inner radiance about it, as if it’s just received everything it could ever want. She stays that way as he moves closer to her, a confidence he never knew existed surges through him. He feels omnipotent, powerful, so gloriously together, each time she looks at him.

When they kiss she doesn’t move her body. Her hands don’t reach around behind his neck, he doesn’t feel her fingers through his hair, or her stomach slide against his. And his hands don’t wander around her body. He doesn’t press his fingertips against her flanks, not at first. The whole thing is too pure for any of that shit. This is a defining moment. This is a delicate moment, made of strands of glass, and they both know that it requires finesse and a quiet, soft touch. Then his fingers reach, and barely touch her flanks. His lips touch hers, move away, and return to slide across her mouth. She lets him in, and their tongues touch, tip to tip. Nothing needy, or grabbing, or urgent about this kiss. Oh no, they’re way beyond that. The urgency, the passion, is a given. This is about sensitivity, an unspoken setting of the rules that will govern their exploration of each other…..

Ten minutes later, they stand on the headland overlooking the sea. They didn’t speak on the journey in his car. They didn’t need to. They held hands as he drove. Occasionally, he would take his fingers from their entwinement, and draw slow patterns along her palm until she smiled. Oh yeah, this guy knew how to send her. No doubts. And, for both of them, no limits.

She has her back to the sea now, which is glassy-smooth, as if frozen. The wind has died, and the warm air cloaks itself around them, creating their own little world where only they exist. This kiss is closer, not as soft but just as intimate. She feels his hand in her hair, first caressing, then holding a handful of her hair, then a gentle but firm tug. She starts a little, but presses her body closer to him, letting him know that it was just fine, thank you. Besides, she gets a closer feel of his body that way.

They break, and she turns around to face the sunset. It’s made for them and them alone. No-one else on earth can see this the way they see it. The red orb is shimmering and shaking as it falls to the horizon.

“Do you know why sunsets are orange?”

She shakes her head, as his hand slides up her legs, and gently massages her ass through her skirt. He kisses her hair, sending a bolt up her spine. She can feel how into her he is, how totally wrapped up in her pleasure he’s become. He slides his hands around so that he’s cupping her pussy through the flimsy material of her cycling shorts. Fuck, she’s so wet already and he hasn’t even touched her yet. She can feel his hard-on pressing against her ass. Christ, it feels good, and as needy as she feels.

“It’s because the earth is round. As the sun sets, the light from it arrives at an angle. It gets refracted by the atmosphere.”

She isn’t listening to a word he’s saying – or so she thinks. She’s too wrapped up in what his hands are doing. His fingers are inside her clothes. Impossibly, wonderfully, he’s located her clit. He’s pressing against it, pushing it back into her body, and oh God, the sparks are flying as a result. Her legs weaken momentarily, and her breath gets a little shorter. She’s getting close, soooo close. His other hand is sliding softly – maddeningly softly – across her pussy lips. She wants to really grind against his hands and bring herself off, but this exquisite torture is too fucking good to do anything but endure, and enjoy. His voice is like honey, sliding into her head and oozing around her brain, imparting sweetness wherever it goes. She surrenders herself to it totally. This quiet, considerate man is going to make her cum like nothing on earth. She knows it in her heart.

“The lower the sun gets, the more the colours change. And sometimes….”

His finger swirls onto, around and against her clit. She can feel the spasms of mini-orgasm and can’t stop it….doesn’t want to stop it…..wants it faster…..wants it slower…..just wants it….

“….once in a lifetime……just when the sun has its last second before it dies…..”

She wants more…..and more…..wants it now…..wants it forever…..wants to be impaled on this moment for eternity…..

“The light turns one last time…….and you see……a ray of green….”

That does it…..the final moment is too much….too good….too sweet…..too perfect….she closes her eyes…..and somewhere…. maybe across the sea, maybe inside her head…. she sees that green ray. And she knows…they both know….that this is that perfect moment of a lifetime.