Holly's Big Step

Flans glowed with all the Friday night warmth--old neon, polished wood, the scent of fried cheese curds, local beer on tap. Across the bar on a high-top table Martin stood, tall and broad shouldered in a rolled sleeve oxford shirt, speaking with two people from Peosta about delivery backlogs. Holly had seen that face only in profile pictures attached to emails about overturned pallets and carton counts; now he was right here, eyes the color of wet cedar.

She walked by his group on her way through the bar to the back room where her work friends were sitting and glanced at him, almost certain it was Martin, but not a hundred percent. She decided to stop at the bar and order a drink before heading back. With her husband, Curt, at home on kid duty, it felt great to have a night out with friends.

"Inventory queen herself," he said when she took the seat around the corner of the bar. "Nice to finally meet the person who keeps scolding me about questionable QA inspection sign-offs."

He walked over to her, hand extended, and introduced himself. "Ah, the official Martin," she said with a laugh. "Someone has to keep you honest. Those Hummel figurines don't inspect themselves."

He tipped an imaginary cap. "Guilty as charged. But in my defense, three-fourths of the delay is because shipments arrive with ridiculous damage."

"And the other half is your handwriting," she teased, pointing to the scrawl on the bar napkin where he'd been doodling schematic arrows.

"Wait... half plus three-fourths... Oh, never mind. Give me fifteen minutes with an RFID scanner and I'll make your life easier."

The tone of his voice made her wonder if he meant fifteen minutes alone with her. Maybe just her imagination. She flushed. It was just banter. Curt's picking Jacob up from swim lessons; I've got nothing to feel guilty about, she thought. Still, she crossed her legs, suddenly aware of the slit in her pencil skirt.

"Drink?" Martin asked, holding up two fingers toward the bartender before she answered. "You look like a second would help soften the horror stories."

"I shouldn't," she said, glancing at her empty glass. "But... OK. Why not?"

The drink came and Holly took a careful sip and watched Martin do the same. She raised an eyebrow playfully.

"I'm safe. I got a room at the motel on the south edge of town," he said, tipping his glass. "I'm told it's famous."

"Ahhh, the Gasthaus, lucky you. What's the room situation there?" she asked, immediately regretting how it sounded. "I only asked because it seems everyone else is driving back tonight."

"Everyone except me." His tone softened. "Safe call. I've had two of these." He nudged his half empty stout. "I'm thinking a night in jail on top of a DUI isn't a great start to the weekend. I can think of a better way."

Holly caught a glance from him that made her pause for a second. Probably nothing, she thought.

They chatted about work, comparing ugly work photos from their email. Holly's crumpled carton of Enesco snow globes vs. Martin's forklift skid that shaved the corner off a pallet of Precious Moments figurines.

Martin teased her about "Inventory Tetris," asking how she kept 5,000 ceramic angels straight in a system built for 3,000. Holly countered by asking if his crew still hid broken pieces in "the mystery bin" until Monday.

Since it was Martin's first trip to Monroe, the conversation eventually segued to the town. Holly joked that Monroe's claim to fame was the Cheese Days festival and a single stoplight that loved to grind traffic to a halt. They discovered both had grown up within an hour of dairy farms and could still guess a Holstein's weight within 50 pounds.

Bits of personal life. She mentioned morning Pilates; he said he preferred "warehouse workouts," gesturing to his forearms. Holly tried not to stare.

The conversation stopped for several seconds. She traced the condensation on her glass.

"You know, only three pallets of the limited run 'Winter Waltz' angels made it through QA intact."

Holly arched a brow. "Tell me you didn't squirrel one away."

Martin grinned, leaning closer. "Maybe. Maybe I've got the last pristine pair--boxed, untouched--in my car. Thought I'd keep them safe in the motel."

Holly laughed. "Inventory theft, huh? I should report you to our crack inventory cop."

He let the laugh settle, voice dropping. "Or you could inspect them personally. Just you, me, and the most exclusive merchandise in Monroe tonight."

Holly's face went flush at his obvious flirtation. She felt the suggestion glide across her skin. "Those figurines must be very fragile."

"Exactly." His thumb brushed her wrist. "They deserve a quiet room and expert handling. Care to supervise?"

She set her glass down. "Martin, you can't be serious. They're company property--and I'm a married woman."

"I'm perfectly serious about both." His voice stayed mellow, but his eyes didn't waver. "The figurines are mine for the night--QA cleared them as damaged‐out stock. And you... well, you're free to say no."

Holly folded her arms, willing the blush from her cheeks. "It's flattering, and not that I'd judge anyone else, but that's just not me."

"You mean the kind who enjoys stolen moments?" He lifted the motel keycard, letting it spin between his fingers. "We all have a side we keep boxed up. I've seen hints of yours in those emails."

She didn't respond immediately, glancing around the room. "Harmless flirting. And borderline flirting at that."

"And this could stay harmless--if you decide that's all you want." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Stop by, unwrap a pair of angels, mock my taste in hotel décor, and walk out. Ten minutes, tops. Or..." He let the rest hang, inviting her to finish the sentence in her own head.

Holly pressed her palm to the condensation ring on the bar, more to steady herself than to wipe the water. "People would notice," she said at last. "Everyone saw you buy me that drink."

"They saw me hand you a drink. That's bar etiquette, not scandal." Martin glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of inventory managers belting karaoke. "Look--the room's five minutes away. I'll say my good nights first, head out, and disappear. You give it five, ten minutes, finish that tonic, and tell Karen you're calling it a night. No shared coat check, no side-by-side exit. Two cars, two different directions. No one links a thing."

He spoke so matter of factly that the plan sounded less like seduction and more like a simple process flow--steps A through D, risk mitigated. Holly felt the familiar tug of logistics thinking: Reduce visibility, stagger departure, minimize audit trail. It terrified her how tidy he made it.

"You've thought about this," she murmured.

"I've thought about you. Ever since the day you explained how a single unlabeled pallet throws your whole buying plan out of whack." He softened the admission with a small shrug. "Imagine a night where nothing's mislabeled--where we both know exactly what's in the box."

Her pulse hammered. "Martin--once the line is crossed, I can't uncross it."

"Don't think of it as crossing anything," he said gently. "Think of it as stepping into a moment that ends the second you want it to. The door stays unlocked; you can walk out whenever you choose."

Holly's gaze drifted to the exit sign, back to him. He wasn't leering, wasn't pleading--just waiting, confident she would decide for herself. That confidence unsettled her. Thrilled her, too.

She took a deliberate sip, bought herself three more seconds of doubt, and heard her voice betray her: "Five minutes after you leave, I'm grabbing my purse and saying good night."

Martin's smile spread slowly, but he didn't cheer or gloat. He simply touched the brim of an imaginary cap. "Room 19. Door will be ajar so you don't have to knock."

"Hey, wait," she said. "Since you've had a few, here's the way you should go to avoid the DUI police..."

Two minutes later, he slid from the stool, offered a casual wave to the group, and headed for the door. Holly watched his shoulders disappear into the night, her heart a pendulum between run after him and run the other way.

She looked down at the melting ice in her glass. Five minutes. Just long enough to decide whether she was really the type to supervise fragile collectibles in a stranger's motel room--or whether everyone had a hidden box waiting to be opened.

Holly's tires whispered over the quiet Monroe streets as the digital clock on her dashboard ticked toward 10:48 p.m. The humid July air had cleared the buzz from her second gin and tonic, but not the electricity dancing beneath her skin. She kept both hands tight on the wheel--ten and two--because the last thing she needed was to drift across a centerline and invite a cruiser's red and blue swirl in her rearview mirror.

Please, God, no cops tonight.

At each intersection she rehearsed an alibi: I'm just checking on a sick coworker... I had to ask a co-worker a work-related question... But none of them rang true, because the raw fact washed over her every few seconds--she was on her way to cheat on her husband.

Her last thought before pulling into the parking lot, when was the last time someone showed obvious interest in you like that? It pretty much came down to that. God, she felt so easy.

Holly slowed, turning onto the cracked asphalt lot, half expecting patrol lights to explode behind her. Nothing but moths flickered in the floodlamp glow. She slid into a space near the far end, out of view from the front desk, and shut off the engine.

Sudden silence pressed in. The adrenaline that had propelled her from Flans evaporated, leaving a hollow thud in her chest. Door's ajar so you don't have to knock, she reminded herself. Martin's promise felt both considerate and dangerously intimate.

She pictured Curt on the couch, remote balanced on his thigh, dozing beneath the low volume of the late night sports recap. I love you, she had mouthed earlier, leaving for Flans. Had she meant it? Yes--yet here she was, fingers trembling on the key fob, pulse thrumming with anticipation no Pilates class or anniversary dinner had stirred in years.

Holly drew a breath, tasting the metallic twinge of fear and excitement. She checked her eyes in the mirror--dilated, bright, alive--pushed open the door of her vehicle. Gravel crunched beneath her heels as she crossed the lot, counting heartbeats. A soda machine hummed somewhere beyond the stairwell; a TV murmured inside another room. Otherwise, nothing happening.

Room 19 waited at the far end, its lock unlatched just as he'd promised. Warm yellow lamplight spilled through the inch wide gap. She could smell faint cologne--woodsy, unfamiliar--and hear the soft click of a phone being set on a table.

Five more paces. Her wedding band felt suddenly heavy, and she wondered whether Martin would notice if she turned it inward. Maybe I leave it. No--too obvious.

Holly exhaled, smoothing her skirt, and curled her knuckles around the edge of the doorframe. For one suspended heartbeat she listened--to her guilt pounding, to her desire singing louder--and heartbeat racing, she nudged the door wider and stepped across the threshold.

The door eased shut behind her, soft as a whisper. Martin rose from the edge of the motel room sofa the instant he saw her, the anxious energy in his shoulders breaking into pure relief.

"Holly, hey," he breathed, crossing the carpet in two strides. Before she could speak, he framed her face in warm, calloused hands and kissed her--hungry but precise, like he'd rehearsed this hello a hundred times in his mind.

His mouth was firm, his lower lip brushing across hers once, twice, sealing the contact deeper. The faint taste of dark stout mingled with the citrus of her gin; the contrast startled her senses awake. She felt the gentle drag of his thumbs along her jawline, coaxing her lips to part. When she did, he exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of satisfaction that vibrated against her mouth.

For a breath or two the kiss was exploratory--new, careful--until sudden conviction tightened his hold. His right hand slid to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with deliberate tension, angling her where he wanted. The shift was unmistakable: Martin's earlier gentlemanly caution hardened into intent. He drew her flush to his chest, the length of his body communicating exactly what the polite smiles at Flans had left unsaid.

Holly's heart thundered. Surprise flared--he's stronger than I pictured--but so did an answering heat. His assertiveness pressed every nerve that had tingled during their emails, every inch of curiosity she'd nurtured on the drive. Yet a flicker of alarm surfaced too: Is this moving faster than I can breathe?

Martin broke the kiss only far enough to look at her, pupils wide. "Been thinking about that since your first memo about mislabeled cartons," he murmured, voice ragged with want. The admission sounded nothing like a joke now; it was a confession sharpened by months of restraint.

He reclaimed her mouth, harder. His hands traveled--one at the small of her back, urging her closer, the other splaying possessively at her waist. The daylight politeness was gone; in its place stood a man unambiguously pursuing what he desired.

For Holly, the last thin strings of hesitation snapped and fluttered. The guilt was still there--Curt's name pulsed at the edges of her awareness--but the living, breathing reality of Martin's insistence drowned it in a rush of adrenaline. Turn around, leave, her conscience whispered. But her body had already answered for her, rising on tiptoe, matching the urgency of his kiss, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders.

Besides, it's just a kiss, she thought.

He pulled back a fraction, lips grazing the corner of her mouth. "Tell me to slow down," he said, though his hold contradicted the offer.

Holly heard herself draw a shaky breath that wasn't quite yes and wasn't quite no. Truth be told, she didn't want slow; she wanted to feel something undeniable, something she couldn't analyze like inventory spreadsheets. And if she walked now, the choice would haunt her--half made, forever unfinished.

She told herself again that it was just a kiss.

"I'm here," she whispered, the words conceding far more than they said. Still, she wasn't sure that "I need to leave" might have been the better response.

That was all the permission Martin needed. His hands tightened once more before guiding her backward, his mouth reclaiming hers with a hunger that left no doubt of his intent.

She matched his energy at first--the novelty of his insistence both thrilling and dizzying--but his grip slid lower, palm splaying across her hip with unmistakable purpose. He pressed forward, grinding his crotch into her, making her feel his hardness.

Unexpected but still okay, she thought, pushing down the ripple of nerves. This is what you drove here for--feel it, don't overthink it.

Martin's mouth left hers only to skim her jaw, her neck, breath coming fast. One hand slipped to her wrist, pinning it gently but firmly beside her head as though he needed both proximity and leverage. The change was subtle yet decisive: the courteous suitor from the bar vanished, replaced by a man intent on claiming every inch of momentum.

His free hand edged beneath the hem of her blouse, fingertips grazing her lower ribs. The soft cotton rose with the motion, baring a sliver of skin to the lamplight. Gooseflesh chased over her stomach--half from the chill, half from the shock of how quickly the boundaries were moving.

A jolt of warning flickered: Too much, too fast. She twisted her captured wrist, testing the hold. Martin's grip tightened reflexively, not painful but unyielding, and his lips moved higher, tasting the corner of her mouth again. The weight of his body pinned her hips; she could feel the impatient rhythm of his pulse mirroring her own.

Up to this instant, every step had been hers to choose--a couple minutes of contemplation in the car, the quiet walk to the door, the decision to kiss back. Now the pace belonged to him, and it was accelerating in ways her thoughts couldn't outrun.

She turned her head, mouth breaking from his. "Martin--" but he kissed her again, more demandingly. He released her wrist, a fragile snap sounded; a button had slipped its thread. That tiny, tangible sign of clothing giving way was the moment clarity struck: he was going further than she'd imagined this quickly, and if she didn't slow him, she might not stop at all. Or stop him at all.

The realization felt like cold water: I'm pinned, a button's popped, we haven't spoken since the door shut. Panic grazed the edge of her excitement, tilting the scales.

"Martin, wait." Her voice came out finally, breathless but steady enough. She pushed at his chest with her free hand, not forcefully--just enough to carve an inch of space.

His eyes snapped open, pupils wide. He froze, still braced against her, chest rising and falling. For a beat the room held its breath with them, and Holly registered how quickly desire could skid toward a line she hadn't consciously agreed to cross.

Finally, he pressed up against her again, moving his mouth to hers. Before she could tell him to stop, his hands went to her chest, gripping her breasts firmly. He ground himself into her again, a low noise rumbling in his throat.

The panic that had faded now rushed back. The fingers of his right hand fumbled with the next button of her lightweight blouse.

She brought her hands up to her chest, making it clear she wanted him to stop. He pulled off the kiss and gripped her hands, pinning them above her head.

"Martin, please..." she gasped, shocked at his move.

He had both her hands pinned with his left hand, far too strong for her. It caught her completely off guard. She surveyed his face and was further taken back by the look on his face.

"You drove her of your own free will," he said, his voice a deep growl. "You knew what was going to happen. You can drop the innocent act."

His tone angered her. "I want you to stop," she said as firmly as she could muster, not sure whether he would or not.

He shook his head and smiled. "No, you don't."

He pushed his mouth to hers and she tried to pull her head away but was no match for his strength. His tongue slid into her mouth and his free hand went to her chest.

"Stop, please," she gasped.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he said.

With her hands still restrained by his one strong hand, he pulled her hair, jerking her head back and kissed her neck. A bit of panic set in.

"I... you can't..."

He pulled back and put his free hand back to her chest, groping her roughly.

"What are you going to do now? Really. Think about it. You came to the motel room of another man. You made the decision. How do you explain that away?"

She was quiet.

"That's right. You can't. So stop. You can make it easy... or not."

The implied threat took her by surprise. It took the situation to a whole new level. Her sense of the position she was in was primarily dictated by the fact that one of his hands easily held both of hers locked in place, unable to move them.

His free hand went from mauling her chest to trying to undo another button.

Holly gasped and tried again to free her hands to stop him. She was firmly pinned.

"You can take the blouse off or I can," he said. "Either way it's coming off."

Suddenly, yet another new level was reached. The look on his face told her not only that he wasn't kidding, but that her blouse was most certainly coming off.

She looked into his eyes for a moment. Neither of them said anything for several seconds. Holly tried to read his face, to gauge his intent and he never wavered. She ran the possibilities through her mind. It was becoming clear the length Martin was going to take this. She felt like she had no choice. This was not at all what I was expecting, she thought.