Incoming

She was, as always, almost late, and so she ignored the buzzing as she bustled to her seat. Only as everyone was settling did she fish out the little plastic rectangle, to thumb the little studs that made it say what needed said.

The text said simply "Check your mail", and she had told her phone some time before to refer to the man who sent it just as "Him".

The complexion of her day changed sharply at that moment, and she could feel sudden excitement rushing through her, changing the complexion of her skin to match. What could he be wanting now? She smiled just slightly then, as her body reminded her of exactly what it was he always did want.

Just then, the voice from the front of the room began, just as scheduled, and she felt the room begin to pay attention. She hesitated, being only a few quick motions away from reading what he had to say on that phone, but she knew that it would be noticed. Particularly so, if she started remembering, if she read something that made her mind wander...

... hands roaming up and down her sides, pressing her against the wall, his mouth exploring hers ... a low growl escaping him as his hands moved to cup her breasts through her dress ... gasping as he shifted his thigh, and she felt his erection pressing against her ...

She blinked, and looked quickly around the room. She was the only one there who was missing what was being said; thankfully, no one else seemed to be looking at her, seemed to be aware of where her mind had been. Quickly she thrust her phone back into her bag, and tried to rejoin the room in what it was doing.

Damn his timing anyway, she thought as she clicked her pen, opened her note book. He had to know what she'd be doing, who she'd be with - why bother her now? Irritated, she focused in on the speaker, began to catch up to the discussion. Dutifully, she scratched some words to remind her later of the details.

Minutes went by, and the challenge of catching up from her late start faded into dullness. As the speaker continued, it began to seem as if the air in the room had ceased to move completely. She breathed deeply, tossed her hair, and wished for just a little breeze...

... from the open window right within their arms' reach, that troubled him not at all ... caresses, fast - rough - ceaseless, finding every damned spot she dared expose to him, thrilling her with every touch ... God, he was relentless ... at the end, breathless, feeling the sensations building, head lolling to the side as she yielded, participated, cheered what was happening, her field of vision going to that window ... realizing how open she was to the world beyond that window ... and suddenly exulting in the feeling ...

She reached to the floor and picked up her pen, cursing him again, taking a quick glance around. A few pairs of curious eyes passing across her as she bent, and straightened, and shifted in her seat. Dammit, what was she wearing? Was she soaking through it? Did they know?

Had they seen? That night, had someone here seen? It wasn't that far away from here, that place where he'd taken her...

Suddenly, her heart pounded, the moment that thought came to her. That one, over there - is that why he always seemed to be smiling when she passed? Is that why she, over there, always seemed to focus on her body at the spot where she had found finger-shaped bruises the next day? Had someone here, some one of these casual acquaintances, seen what had happened, what she had done, how she had behaved?

She felt her body flushing again at the thought of it, and realized her eyes were alight as she scanned the room again. No one checking her, no one making a scene at all... which was so sad, she thought suddenly, because she rather thought the place would improve with a scene. She wanted to make a scene. Damn him for making her think of it here: she wanted to be a scene, there and then, an amazingly sexual scene. She itched to do something fantastic, just to find out what that man over there would think of her, to learn what that woman over there might be daydreaming about. She wondered how exciting they might really be, underneath...

She realized her notes had trailed off into triangular doodles at about the time she realized the gathering was breaking up. Suddenly shy again, she quickly packed her note book away and moved toward the door. She was almost painfully aware of the nearness of bodies as the group bunched up there, and knew exactly how close each person who had looked at her was standing, how close they were to the betraying flush on her skin, the betraying wetness between her thighs.

She stepped to the side quickly when the line let her through the door, and made her way alone toward the stairwell. No one else seemed to be interested in getting their exercise that day, and she stepped alone through the fire door onto the concrete landing with some relief.

She didn't really decide to do it, so much as she found herself doing it: her phone was out, and email was connecting, just a couple of steps away from that door. She left her bag at her feet, and braced her shoulder blades against the wall, telling herself the email that bastard had sent was probably just a joke about someone's cat.

Her eyes widened and her hips shifted as she read the subject, and the first few lines. Nope, the message was about every fucking thing she'd just been remembering, and daydreaming of, and craving, and she had absolutely no business reading it where she was.

She scrolled through it as fast as her eye and her phone could take her. She didn't realize that she'd gasped aloud at one of the phrases until the echoes from the vacant stairwell came back to her. Looking around briefly, in the glass-block light of the antiseptic stairwell, she decided it didn't matter, she was alone, and she would read this and be damned to the consequences.

The first footfall from the landing above changed her mind in an instant, and her heart pounded madly as she tried to recover her bag, and her composure, and start to walk downstairs herself. She thought that she'd move quickly, so that the way she had to look would be explained by the exertion of the stairway.

"I thought we might meet here today," echoed a familiar voice down the stairwell, as his measured steps continued down toward her. It was the voice she'd been remembering, the one that she'd heard over the wind from that window, the one she'd suspected of telling cat jokes just a few moments before.

She stopped, and turned to face him, with no idea what she would say.