Playing Out Ch 03

Intermezzo

The morning has finally arrived, cooler than yesterday. The breeze is still there but all the wind on earth can not blow away the memories of last night. I am sitting on my balcony, my soft winter robe around me. The newspaper is anchored beneath a carafe of coffee. This is the best place to be on a Sunday morning.

I have a section of the paper on my lap but I am not reading. My mind can not let go of the past few hours... or most of the rest of the past for that matter. I have showered the smells of last night off of me but I can not remove the sensations.

I take a sip of the hot coffee and close my eyes. This only brings things back more quickly, Mark against me, in me, my eyes held closed by his tie, the site of those shoes when the blindfold slid down. I feel my heart stop again and my breath leaves my lungs and runs off with the breeze.

My eyes snap open. It is too late; I feel the shudder pass through my body like déjà vu. Only this was very real.

The phone rings and I am brought back to my balcony and today. I stand and walk inside to answer. As I pass my desk I see the note, the strong bold strokes; three lines on a scrap of paper lying on top of the red silk tie, the material things that kept me up all night. What had he seen? Would he really be there on the date he wrote at the bottom of the sheet?

I pick up the phone with a distant "Hello".

"You're drinking coffee, aren't you," it's Mark. His voice has that scratchy just rolled out of bed quality. He uses it to his advantage, always.

"Yeah," I refuse to offer more.

There is a pause, "It was good to ... see you last night." He is not used to working at this sort of thing.

"Yeah," I feel this is a gross understatement.

"You left in a hurry."

"Nothing I haven't done before. As I recall the last time I left your company you were making a date over the phone while I was in your shower." I feel a grin in spite of myself. There has been enough time and experience to make this a little humorous. Mark can be fun to aggravate.

"Oh....yeah..." he sounds a little humble. "Last night was all you though," and there is that smirking tone back in his voice.

"Did you call for a reason or just to ruin my coffee?" I know he can hear the smile in my voice. We have done this many times.

You would think we would learn.

"I was hoping to meet you for an early dinner. I could be at Ibrik at 5pm"

I agree to the time, old habits being hard to break, and as I hang up the phone I again see the note lying on my desk. It is signed "Alex" in heavy bold print. I pick it up and study it closely. There is something about a man's handwriting that I find exciting. Alex writes in confident bold strokes, not unlike his hands on me. As I recall, Mark writes in a more fluid hand, unexpected, like last night.

I return to my balcony and refresh my coffee. The mug is warm in my hands. I sit down and breathe in the fall air. It is brisk and faintly smoky. It is reminiscent of change. I take a slow drink of the coffee. I feel the heat rise up and permeate my nostrils bringing with it the smoky, earthy aroma of the beans. The scent is deepened as the warm liquid runs down my throat. I close my eyes. Memories of Mark run through my head as warm and liquid as the caffeine I am sipping.

It was a warm spring day when I first met Mark. There was a spectacular fender bender in front of the gallery where I was working. Like all the other shop people I was standing in the doorway watching the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulances at the scene. But, while most of the eyes were glued to the victims in various stages of rescue I was enthralled by the movement of one of the paramedics.

Mark worked for the city Emergency Medical System at that time. He was medium height, thin in a healthy not skinny way. He sat on my curb, his back to me, filling out forms as his partner secured one of the drivers. I could see his strong shoulders underneath the uniform shirt. The dark blue cotton was snug and defining. I wanted to brush my hand against the soft brown hair that barely touched his collar.

He stood and I watched him and his dark blue uniform pants walk away. I wanted to follow. I wanted to let my hands slide down his hips and into the pockets. I wanted to call out "I need help" as he moved closer to the truck.

At the last second, as the feet of the victim slid into the ambulance on a back board he turned my way. At first his glance was distant, and then he slowly broke into a grin. He was very used to women admiring his uniform. He waved as he disappeared behind the ambulance doors. I could feel a blush rise up my neck as a warmth ran down the rest of my body. I might need medical care after all.

As the ambulance pulled away, lights revolving, a flash on the sidewalk caught my eye. A set of keys lay on the sidewalk where the paramedic had sat. I bent and picked them up as though they were a precious stone. The thought that I might see this guy again slowly formed as the lights faded away.

It was almost time to close up for the day when the door buzzed. I looked up from the review I was reading to see the paramedic peeking in. He was wearing jeans now and a white broadcloth shirt. His shoulders seemed broader and maybe a little tired. He grinned that slow grin and I felt my heart stop. Aren't these guys supposed to prevent that?

I opened the door and stood in the doorway. It was as if I couldn't let him in for fear of what would happen.

"I think I left something on your curb," he spoke in a soft, even voice that was practiced at calming a volatile situation. He had his work cut out for him.

"Ah...." I smoothly sighed. I could not take my eyes off his grinning mouth. A mouth I wanted to taste.

"My keys?" he spoke a little stronger this time. His eyes met mine briefly then looked past me to the counter.

"Oh, of course, I found them on the sidewalk. I wasn't sure who to call." Then as an afterthought, "I hope those people were alright," I moved away from the door and tried to casually walk to the counter where his keys had laid like a trophy all afternoon. My legs felt weak as I imagined his eyes watching me move.

"City EMS. You know, like it was printed in large black letters on the truck. Medic 32, that's where you can find me," His rolling eyes did nothing to hide that grin. "Oh, the victims were fine. More of a lawsuit rescue than anything else. You know – backboards, neck collars, try to prevent suing the rescuer when they find out no one has insurance..." He smirked then looked down at his shoes. He was wearing white sneakers, canvas, more than a little worn. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's been a long day." He looked up at me then and his eyes captured mine. I could feel how much he wanted to be held, touched. He needed to be taken out of the place he was in. Rescued. It made my knees weak.

It still does.

"Of course, city EMS. Here are your keys. How did you know you lost them here? I can't imagine this was your only call today." I wasn't ready to do the rescuing yet.

"Ah..." it was his turn to stammer. "I was hoping I had lost them here. My partner mentioned the cute girl in the gallery that seemed to like watching my ass work." He had rescued himself, now I was in trouble. He stood square in front of me with his hand out. I wasn't sure if he was reaching for the keys or preparing to reach out and grab me. I placed the keys it his hand. It was strong, the skin a little rough. "I want to thank you for these. Would you like to have dinner tonight?" He let the words tumble from his grinning lips as his fingers closed over the metal keys, barely brushing my fingers as he closed his fist. A tingle started in my fingers and found its way to a deeper and more intimate place. I wanted to take his hand and find just how strong that sensation would be if he actually touched me.

I agreed to dinner instead.

Mark took a seat in the gallery while I closed up and went to the back to try to fix my makeup. I bent from the waist and ran my hands through my wild hair. As I stood and flipped my head back I felt a breath on my neck. I turned quickly, expecting Mark to be behind me, but it was only the breeze from the partially open door. I shook my head and returned to the mirror. I slid a pale pink gloss over my lips.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, pale blue blouse, open three buttons down, tucked into a slightly tight navy pencil skirt that tastefully skimmed my knees. I had worn my blue pumps that day, a heel a little higher than might be considered professional but they made my legs look so good. Was this the same woman looking back? She smiled slowly and I heard her whisper in my head, "He's yours".

From the gallery I heard, "So, do people really buy this stuff?"

"Yes, some people do," and some just don't get contemporary art. I kept that last thought to myself. I reached up under my skirt to pull my shirt down and 'adjust'. "See anything you like?"

"Oh, yeah..." the words slid down my neck and I looked up again. In the mirror I could see him standing behind me, eyes studying my every move. I brought my hands into view and felt the blush begin to rise again. He must be very good for ambulance business.

A shout down the street brings me back to today and my coffee. I take another sip and sit the cup on the table. The warmth of the coffee moves deep into my body, or is it my memories. I feel a blush rise up again as I recall our dinner and as my mind wanders my hand slides into the open edge of my robe and expose my breasts.

We drove to a small Middle Eastern place near where I live now. The food was unusual, the textures creamy, spicy.

I feel my hands scoop under my breasts; feel the firmness of them, and then squeeze gently, enjoying the soft contrast. I feel my nipples harden as the cool fall air blows across them. I close my eyes and see Mark sitting across from me at the table.

We ordered a variety of dishes. Sharing bites of rice and meat.

I gasp quietly as my fingers find the tender flesh of a nipple and grasp it firmly, my hand placing a little more pressure on the fullness beneath it. A shiver begins somewhere in my abdomen. I let my hand tease as the memories continue and the shiver runs deeper.

Mark tore a piece of pita and wiped it across the oil on his salad plate. "Taste this" he whispered and I did. The oil was rich and a little bitter. It began to run down my chin and I reached up and wiped it off with a finger which slid without a thought into my mouth. It was Mark's turn to sigh.

My lips part a tiny bit at this thought as I take those fingers from my breast and slip them into my mouth. My lips suck as though the fingers are covered in oil, then I let them slide down my neck, past my breast and down my abdomen to the warm soft area between my legs. I sigh along with the memory of Mark and let my fingers go where they want.

He took those same fingers and scooped them into a dip on the table. Hummus; it felt a little gritty, cool. He moved my hand to his mouth and put my dipped fingers against his tongue. It felt soft, warm.

I can now feel softness, warmth. I let the fingers move in and around as I remember Mark's tongue as it licked the hummus from my skin, his mouth warm and wet. My fingers becoming wet and sticky as they continue to explore, I close my eyes; let them roll back in my head as deeper warmth washes over me.

We both felt the danger in the game we were playing and the suggestive flirting abated. He ordered Turkish coffee and baklava. The sweet, fragrant, hot liquid oozed into my mouth making the honey from the pastry melt. It was not the best choice to cool things down.

As I think of the honey and its stickiness, my fingers find a place just as sweet. I take a deep breath in. My fingers have memories of their own. Slowly at first they move against the tender flesh between my legs. I move my feet up onto the table and slide down into my chair. The fall air does its part to seduce me, again blowing cool over me. A spasm makes my clit tuck in and I feel my breath come quicker as my fingers move to the rhythm that my body wants. My other hand has continued to grasp and caress each breast, the fullness more pronounced the nipples hard.

We finished our dessert and walked out onto the street. We had nothing to say, we couldn't trust ourselves to speak. Mark took my hand and stopped me in my steps. I turned into him and he smiled a deliberate sticky smile. "God, I love that place..." he let the words drizzle from his lips like the honey.

At this thought I feel a deeper heat start to build. My hands work at building this fire. The flesh begins to tingle with friction, tension. I have trouble getting my breath as my fingers move around that tiny spot that can make me forget anything or remember everything. My breath is ragged, almost caught in my lungs, barely able to escape.

I am not sure who moved first, Mark or me. We were suddenly as close to each other as our bodies would allow with our clothes on and traffic just a curb away. He leaned his mouth into mine and I closed my eyes. I felt the firmness of his lips as they pressed into mine, felt him ease open my mouth with his tongue. I could taste the honey and spices from our meal. I let my brain swim as I melted into the kiss. I felt dizzy.

My brain is beginning to swim now. Dizzy. My hand moves against my flesh, spurred on by my thoughts. My fingers tease more persistently now. They will get exactly what they want. I feel a tension begin deep in my pelvis. It builds quicker and quicker as my fingers move. I feel my nipples tense and my breath catches in my lungs again. The ripple of orgasm starts slowly, sweetly like Mark's kiss. It moves through my body making my flesh so electric that my fingers stop in their movement as the ripples swell over me. Muscles from deep inside undulate as I gasp a long deep gasp and sink back into my chair, my hands fall limply in their places.

I recall that I kissed Mark back.

"Ibrik" became our favorite restaurant. It is a fairly authentic Middle Eastern place. The strong smell of garlic mixed with sesame permeates everything. The walls are a deep maroon. Soft silk scarves cover patches of wall draping gracefully between copper hangings and pictures of sultan's surrounded by dancing girls. It was the first place we went together.

Am I really going back there, again?