Clandestine Meetings

I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart. This is it. After 15 years of emails, instant messages, phone calls, arguments, shut-outs, reintroductions, and professions of undying love, we are finally going to meet in person.

As friends. For coffee. In a public place. That's how you keep it safe, right?

My slim fingers are shaking as I perform search after search online, looking for just the right location. Somewhere partway between the city he moved to here in the US (finally!) and my house. Somewhere with a coffee shop and something to do afterwards -- a mall maybe? Somewhere equally public. Somewhere we can't get into any trouble.

Right up until a month ago, he'd always said we couldn't be "just friends." We have too much chemistry. It's what I need, though. Having him in my life at all is dangerous, intoxicating, and everyone who knows me well knows that. I couldn't tell anyone; he can't fit seamlessly into my life like anyone else I date. We have too much history, and he is bad for me. He's the type who can raise you to the stars in one breath and bury you six feet under in the next. My friends practically had to scrape me off the floor with a spatula after some of the verbal beatdowns he'd given me.

And yet, I can't stay away. His attention, though inconsistent, is completely addictive. His dark hazel eyes, his cheeky smile... and the way I always feel like I'm begging for his attention like a girl desperate to please. When I had it, it was ecstasy. When I didn't, I'd do anything to get it. Almost anything.

Finally settling on a location, what I hope will be a decent compromise, I email him the name and address of the place, a nice coffee shop across the street from a highly-rated shopping mall.

"Here?" I wait, my heart in my throat.

"Perfect."

Conflicted feelings rush through me at the use of that word. I'm overjoyed that he likes my choice, but that word has a tumultuous history with us. He'd used it to describe me in the past, and my anxiety spiked over being held to such an impossible standard, placed atop a pedestal on which I was too unbalanced to stand. Inevitably, I'd fallen off of it, and he'd watched me fall, insulting me the whole way down. He'd called me every name you could think of and wrenched my heart from my chest.

"I made a mistake," he'd said, "I believed you were different."

Afterward, we hadn't spoken for months, and I'd sworn that was the last time.

This is different, though. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one that my past 15-year-old self had only dared dream of. We're going to meet. As friends. He'd finally conceded to being friends, to keep me in his life. He'd implied the conversation was worth it, even without the chemistry. Of course it's still there, but we dart around it semi-gracefully. I don't say the L word to him; not anymore. We can do this, I tell myself. After all, we're all adults, right?

***

I've been counting down the days, and finally, it's here. It has only been three weeks of waiting, but it felt to me like a lifetime. I rise early, apply my makeup, straighten my long, black hair, dress in the outfit I chose weeks ago, and check myself in the mirror. I see a girl -- pretty, slim -- in a black sundress with white flowers, sheer stockings and combat boots. I smile nervously at myself as I insert my stud earrings, black roses. My sideswept bangs fall over my right eye as I tilt my head to reach my earlobe. I grab my shiny black headband on the way out the door. With my GPS and my tunes, I'm ready to go.

***

With both hands wrapped gingerly around my to-go cup, I tap my right index and middle fingers on the cardboard sleeve. If the past three weeks had gone by slowly, these last few minutes waiting in the coffee shop are molasses.

"That's a nice dress, but it'd look better on the floor."

My heart skips a beat as I turn. His posh accent is smooth as silk, and there's that cheeky grin. Uh-oh. Right then, I know I'm in trouble. I smile shyly and bite my lip.

"Hi," I finally manage weakly.

He scowls at the drink in my hand. "I was going to buy that for you."

"Too late," I smirk. Buying my own drink is my way of asserting independence, and I'm glad I beat him here, just as I'd planned. I can do this, I tell myself. Myself is unsure whether she believes me, but the internal whirring of my anxiety settles slightly.

We speak casually, catching up about our friends, families, our careers, our weekends... everything innocuous under the sun. He asks if I'd like to cross to the mall and I accept, my guard coming down as I reassure myself that he's finally accepted I'm unavailable to him, that I made the right call asserting that anything more would be toxic for both of us.

As we cross the road toward the mall, a car fails to yield, coming at us much too fast. He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the road, catching me against his hard chest and wrapping his steady arms around me as I trip over the curb.

He leans to whisper in my ear, "You're okay, I've got you," and a shiver runs down my spine, setting all my nerves on edge, my breath hitching in my throat. His deep voice and warm breath against that sensitive spot behind my ear has done something to me, and my heart races for reasons that have little to do with the close call with the car. I swallow hard and nod, and he releases me but stays close as we walk through the parking lot and enter the mall.

We talk and joke as we wander through stores, and he guides me through the crowd with his hands on my shoulders, my arms, the small of my back. Each touch is electric, and the butterflies are alive and active. He flirts with me as I model outfits for him in one of the stores, sometimes showing approval and sometimes negging me in a way that makes me wonder if he intends to be so mean, to make me doubt how I look and the shape and size of my body. It triggers me, to be honest, and I'm grateful we didn't plan to eat together. After some of what he says, I don't mind the thought of missing lunch and the bloating that comes from eating mall food. His comments make me insecure, and I try to shake them off and stay playful and lighthearted, reminding my anxious mind not to take anything he says too seriously, because that's always how we end up back in a toxic cycle. It's the afternoon now, and I'm feeling a little dizzy from having nothing but caffeine, but I don't bring it up.

I'm reminding myself to stay fun and easygoing when he grabs my hand and spins us back toward a dimly-lit hallway we just passed; one that has a door to a family bathroom. I'm tripping over my feet and trying to get reoriented, about to ask where we're going, when suddenly my back is against the wall and his face is inches from mine, his palms pressed into the wall on either side of my head, his strong arms caging me in.

"You're such a tease, you know that?" He growls in my ear as he leans in closer. I can feel the heat of his body against mine, and suddenly the embers deep within me come alive again.

"What- I... I didn't do anything," I sputter breathlessly.

"Really, you didn't? You've been flirting with me all day. And this sundress..." his left hand pushes off the wall and lands on my thigh, then quickly begins creeping up higher. I gasp and shove it away with my own, and he catches my wrist and pins it against the wall at my side. "You know how much I love a sundress," he whispers against my neck, and my heart drops into my stomach. Yes, of course I remember, but I just wanted to look cute. I wasn't trying to entice him... was I?

"Then you're trying on all these clothes for me, showing me more and more skin, flashing me through the curtains..." his lips are brushing against my neck now, moving down toward my shoulder, hovering over my collarbone. My head is spinning. Was I doing that? I didn't think I was, and the mall's changing room curtains kept getting stuck... was I showing him more than I should on purpose, or was it just a coincidence? The heat between us is making it hard for me to think, and I'm speechless, my breaths coming in short gasps as the embers burst into flame, into desire, as my stomach drops with dread.

He presses his lean, lithe body against mine, and I feel his arousal against my thigh. "Feel what you do to me, princess?" he growls in my ear, and I whimper softly as my body responds to his, blooming and becoming slick beneath my clothes. He presses himself more firmly against me and mutters, "you're going to take care of that for me."

Fear suddenly jolts down my spine and my body arches against his out of desperation to get away. I try to push against him, and for a moment I think I have, but as I turn to face the crowded, brightly-lit walkway we came from, I feel both my arms tugged backwards toward the family bathroom. Soon I'm falling again, tripping over my boots, being dragged backwards by my wrists until we're alone behind the door, which he locks in one smooth movement before pinning me again with my back against the door.

He swears at me, looking at me with fire in his eyes, half anger, half arousal, all dangerous, as he holds my wrists against the wood behind me. I'm looking back at him with an expression of fear, and it only seems to turn him on more.

"Don't play coy, sweetheart," he says to me, lifting my wrists above my head and trapping them with his left hand as he uses his right to probe under my dress, between my legs, feeling the warmth and wetness through my panties. "You know better than to act like you don't want this."

Suddenly I'm pissed, and I set my jaw and stare back into his dark hazel eyes. "I don't," I say plainly, my voice trembling in fear and anger. "I told you it's a bad idea, and I meant it."

But his rage rises to meet mine and he yanks me forward, turning me toward the sink and pinning my hips against the counter with his so I can see myself in the mirror, as well as his dark form behind me. I hate that I'm attracted to him, that my body responds the way he knows it will as he touches me, running his hands roughly up my thighs and tearing my stockings down to my ankles, my panties going with them. He's pressing his hand against my back now, between my shoulder blades, and I struggle against him, trying to stay upright.

He growls in my ear, "Bend. Over." As he applies more pressure and my knees start to shake, I have no choice but to comply. I'm too weak to do much more than wiggle against him, and that only eggs him on as he feels my skin against himself through his pants. As I bend over the counter under his firm hand, I feel the other one lift the skirt of my sundress just before it comes down hard on my ass, causing me to gasp.

"No, please," I beg, knowing he knows me too well not to have done this on purpose. He knows how to get my body going, whether my mind is in accordance with it or not. He slaps me again on my sit spot, the extra-sensitive place between my ass and my thigh on the right side, and I know my sex is throbbing, becoming more sensitive and wetter as he continues. A few more slaps and I'm whimpering again, begging him to stop, knowing now that he won't until he's finished with me. With one hand still holding me down over the counter, I hear him take down his zipper, his trousers quickly discarded. Then his fingers are back on me, probing my sex, feeling how wet his advances have made me despite my protests.

"Oh, you weren't flirting with me?" he chuckles, pressing his thumb into my body, entering me easily thanks to my slickness. I gasp and bite my lip, ashamed at the pleasure that races through me as he curls his thumb toward my front while reaching for my clit with his forefinger. I gasp again as he finds it, stroking it from the inside and the outside at once, and a moan I can't contain slips out of my throat, betraying me.

"Tell me you want this," he orders, stroking me harder, but I shake my head even as the pleasure rolls over me. I meet his gaze in the mirror.

"I don't," I say hoarsely, angry and confused, dismayed that my body sends a different message. His eyes darken with fury as he withdraws from me, slapping me again harshly on the left side.

"Stop lying to me," he growls, slapping me again. "You've been craving this for years." Then his sex is there on me, hot and hard, pressing against my core, which is soaked and opened in preparation, the traitor. He grabs my hips and pulls me back so that I can feel the tip of him entering. His eyes flash again as he looks into mine in the mirror.

"Say it," he orders again, and I can see the myriad of emotions on my own face: fear, despair, shame, humiliation, anger, and somewhere, buried deep beneath, a desire I refuse to admit. I banish even the thought of it and turn to pleading instead, knowing I'm not strong enough to fight him off, instead hoping to appeal to the side of him that cares about me, the side that wants to keep me in his life, the side that knows this is wrong.

"Please... don't," I whisper.

But instead of relenting, he growls, smashing into me with force, spearing me hard against the counter, and I cry out in surprise and pain and pleasure all at once. He grabs my hips roughly, thrusting into me fast and hard, the tip of him touching my favorite spot over and over, making me moan and writhe against him involuntarily. Just as I approach an unwelcome climax, he pumps deep within me, lurching under the power of a climax of his own, groaning with pleasure and release. He drapes himself over my folded form for one moment, two, then withdraws from me.

I'm crying over the sink as I hear him put his trousers back on and leave the room, abandoning me in the bathroom of this shopping mall with bruises on my hipbones, torn stockings, and no dignity.

The shame intensifies as I reach for myself, finding my aching clit. Breathing hard and biting my lip, I press my fingers over it, rubbing fast and hard until I find the release he refused me. One soft moan escapes me as I come, hating myself as pleasure rolls over me in waves, jolting my body against the countertop.

I wash my hands, splash my face with water, fix my makeup as well as I can, straighten my clothes, and leave the room. I look around the hallway, seeing the shopping bags I dropped when he first spun me and pinned me against the wall. My eyes drift to the end of the hallway opposite the walkway we came from, and I spot a side exit. I grab the bags quickly and jog for the door, but as a cold gust of wind hits me, the emptiness in my stomach confirms my suspicions: he's gone.