" ... nine, ten."
And she was awake. Really awake. She yawned and stretched and looked around her. It was dark outside. The table had been cleared of all papers, and it had been set for dinner, two tall candles in crystal holders which hadn't yet been lighted, Waterford wine glasses at each place setting. The steamy smell of garlic and onions mingled with stewing beef. A pan of water was boiling on the stovetop.
"I've run a bath for you," he exclaimed brightly. "Dinner will be served promptly in twenty-five minutes."
"Richard, what were you doing when I last woke up?" she queried.
"Doing?"
"All the yellow paper," she said, looking around for some sign of it all. "All the writing you were doing."
"You were dreaming, Gail."
She stared at him accusingly, but he wouldn't look at her, and there was plenty to keep him occupied with his cooking. Occasionally, he paused to sip a martini. With a sigh, she padded down the hall toward the bathroom, but after a second glance behind her, she ducked into the only room she hadn't yet entered. This was obviously his bedroom. She wouldn't pry, she told herself, but she wanted to do something to surprise him. She tiptoed to his closet and found a freshly laundered, long-sleeved dress shirt, then carried it back with her into the bathroom.
The water was too hot, and she had to add a modicum of cold before it was palatable. Still, its steamy warmth was luxuriously elegant. She closed her eyes and relaxed, then looked down at herself. Her nipples, long and hard, poked above the surface like two islands on a large, flat sea. She grinned. He likes my nipples, she thought. What would it be like, tomorrow? Would he tweak them? Pet them? Suck on them? She shivered. She had no choice, now. She was at his mercy. The contract said so. The contract left her no recourse. She had no say at all in the matter of sex. She was surprised to find that thought very comforting.
The shirt was too big, of course, and she experimented for awhile with the terry belt from the bathrobe, wrapping it around her waist twice before knotting it, then rolling up the sleeves. She had the top three buttons undone, and her nipples poked savagely at the thin, cotton fabric, so that each little movement reminded her of them, made her even more cognizant of her vulnerability, her sexuality. Bunched up around the waist like this, the shirt rode up, and the long shirttail was much closer to the bottom of her ass cheeks than she had hoped it would be. She tried vainly to pull it down, but resolutely decided that she was going to wear this, even if he COULD see her ass. She brushed her hair with long, quick, strong strokes, and primped in front of the mirror for him. Oh, she wished she had just a little makeup from her purse.
There was a knock at the door. "Hey! Time's up! Get out of there!"
She dropped the brush and jerked the door open, stepping forward as she did so, and she stood just inches from him. He had to retreat a half-step to survey her properly, raking his eyes up and down her body. She stood as a soldier at inspection, repressing the same shudder that always seemed to rack her body when men looked at her this way. Men were always doing this; always looking at her; always wanting her. But this time it was so very different. This time she knew, knew completely and unequivocally, that THIS man was going to have her. THIS man was going to take her, and it would be soon now. Only hours away now. Soon, he would be holding her, kissing her, petting her, poking and prodding her, pinching those nipples that he seemed to like so much. The contract guaranteed it. Soon he would be grasping, thrusting ...."
"Wow. You look great, Gail." She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?), and looked up into his tender, smiling face. "But dinner awaits!" he announced. "Come along, my dear."
He offered her his arm. She took it gently, without flinching at all (which surprised her), and let him lead her back to the table, let him hold her chair. She sat and tugged at the bottom of the shirt, but stopped abruptly when her efforts caused one of her breasts to pop free up top. Frantically, she turned her attention to this new indignity, poking herself back into the confines to the thin shirt. Blushing crimson, she looked up to find him staring, goggle-eyed. But then he shifted his gaze resolutely away, waited only a second, and took another peek. His lips twitched a few times, jerked upward at the ends, twitched a little more, and then he burst into guffawing laughter. She couldn't suppress doing the same, though Lord knows she tried. And from that moment forward, the evening became absolutely magical.
He served the Beef Stroganov, then dimmed the lights and took the seat next to her, only a corner of the table separating them, the candles transforming their whole world into this one small place in the universe. She'd never been so near a man for so long a period of time, and yet, she barely even thought about that. They talked. And talked and talked. He related a story about how his uncle had taken him camping up in Wisconsin when he was a teenager; hung on his every word about a trip to a graveyard at night and the possible sighting of a ghost; was terrified by his tale of falling through ice on a frozen river. SHE spoke emphatically about her work, amazed again by his questions, his knowledge of medical research procedures. She laughed again. And again. Oh, when was the last time that she'd done that? Had she ever, really been happy? Had she, ever, in her whole life, felt like THIS? She found herself actually touching him ... laying her hand on his to make a point, letting him do the same.
And then somehow, without switching gears in the conversation at all, he was talking about HER. It was so subtle, at first, that neither one of them realized that she had become a part of the evening. Had he ever done such-and-such, she had asked; and he had responded naturally, matter-of-factly that Oh yes, Jasmine had insisted that they go there, do that. And then it was: Jasmine and he had seen this play, or vacationed on that beach. The wine wasn't helping, of course. She had consumed two glasses, and he'd had at least three ... on top of the martinis. And finally, inevitably, he told her how they had met at some fundraiser, how she had worked long hours to put him through grad school, how she had volunteered for this or that cause, how she was always volunteering HIS time on the weekends for functions, how he had always resisted, how those moments had become some of the best of his life.
And then, of course, he came to THAT day. She, a certified social worker, had gone to a small home in a bad neighborhood in North St. Louis, even though HE had told her not to go to places like that unescorted. He had TOLD her! And she WAS with another social worker, of course. She HAD taken precautions. But no one knew that a kid in that house had gone through a gang initiation the day before against a rival group. No one knew that this would be a "payback" day. No one foresaw the two cars driving by the front, spraying the house with machinegun fire. No one could foresee something like THAT!
He'd gotten up by this point, pacing, gesturing, and for the very first time, she had seen hate in his eyes. He declared that they needed more wine, and he rummaged through a cupboard before realizing that there was none left in the house, and so he paced the kitchen for a few minutes while he described the funeral, attended by more than a thousand, even though they had been a relatively private couple. But evidently, she had touched that many lives, he said, shrugging, and he sat back down heavily in his chair.
She couldn't stop herself. She had never been able to bear being near a man before; never been able to touch a man before. But now, she found herself standing, found herself stepping around the corner of the table to him, found herself turning and settling herself on his lap, holding his huge head in her arms, against her breasts, holding him, just holding him. She didn't even flinch when he raised his head and bellowed in rage and impotent frustration and sadness, and she just held on ... held on for dear life.
It took a long two minutes to cry tears that needed to be shed. Then, he stood up, holding her in his strong arms as if her weight was nothing at all, but only for a moment, and he deposited her back on her feet in front of him.
