There had been a drink, she thinks. They were friends, nothing more. It wasn't that he was not attractive, but there was a "type" she thought,
her
type, more specifically, and he was not it. She liked them intense and difficult; he was kind and . . . gentle. She could not abide by gentleness, so even though he had never asked, not really, she already knew what she would have answered.
He was safe. They had been with friends, a loose, warm group, and then she was stumbling a bit, but it was alright; they were friends; she was safe. She remembered a car and the streets flashing by them in an unfocused blur. It was early fall, too early to be beautiful (and anyway, you couldn't see the jewel-colored leaves of trees at 1:30, 2am), but cool enough that she needed the warm breath of air blowing out of his dashboard, caressing her knee.
She thinks it was the air, the heat.
The radio was on, something low, and he was talking to her sometimes too, lower, and they were both laughing. She remembered that he hadn't drunk at all, had volunteered to be the sober one for the group - devoid of alcohol and poor judgment, like the rest of them.
His arm was around her lower back, not too tightly around her coat, and they were in an elevator. It was cooler, the metal against her cheek, and their own reflection was disconcerting to her in burnished silver. The small, rumpled girl with the too bright, flushed cheeks, and the tall man looming behind her. Looming? But it was just her friend.
There was a hallway, their footsteps silent in the thick carpeting, and then his arm round her waist again, and the jingle of keys. The door opened like a sigh, and they were in. In the low light of a lamp, she realized they were in her apartment. Home, she read somewhere, was the one place where it smelled like nothing. Everywhere else smelled like
something
, but home is where it smelled like
you
.
He was setting her keys down, not in the usual little blue glass plate where she did, but next to it, and then his hands were shrugging her thick coat off. She shivered a little, clad only in a thin black dress - sleeveless, with a fluttery skirt that kissed her knees. It was more suitable for summer than right now, but she loved this dress and the way it hugged her body, the way it made her feel.
Cold, he asked? He was helping her, or she was finding her own way to the couch; either way, she sank into it gratefully. A plump pillow was in her hands, her eyes were closing again. She thinks she said thank you, for helping to get her home, for being the cool, watchful one, but perhaps not before there was a glass brushing her lip, and she half opened her eyes even as she opened her lips, like a child.
The vodka was a shock to her slightly numb lips, and she licked the salt from them as she swallowed, automatically, her mind thinking, oh another one; we're not yet done. It was fire in her belly, and she giggled at nothing, and she heard him laugh, too.
More, he said, his tone just a little bit serious, like the doctor when he tells you good advice. Make sure you finish it.
She took the glass from him and swallowed it bravely, with a toss of her long hair, one long swallow in her slender throat. All done, she murmured to herself, and he whispered, Good girl.
It was blurry after that, as blurry as they had been in the elevator, or the buildings had been from the car. It had been her neighborhood, seen hundreds of times, but rendered unrecognizable tonight.
She was lying in her bed, against the soft white sheets. One of the bedside lamps was on, and she turned her head from the too bright yellow pool, hiding her face against the pillow. Her heels were being removed, delayed for a moment at the tricky straps that circled her ankles, then tugged off to click quietly on the foor.
The dress was up around her waist, and fingers brushed her hips, found the waist of her stockings and pulled them down. Not just the stockings; her lacy panties were entangled and removed with them. Her thighs were pale and exposed and cool, and she was uncomfortable, shifting without quite stirring or opening her eyes.
The dress wrapped across her chest, and this was opened, pulled down. Her bra was lace too, but not matching, not meant to be seen. It felt almost good when this was tugged down too, her nipples scratched by the lace and then freed, stiffening in the cool night air.
This seems . . . strange to her, and she tries to turn her head from the pillow, but then a hand is on her cheek, firmly, keeping it there. No, he says.
It is the sound, the voice of her friend and this reassures her. Nice, he is nice. He is gentle. She thinks this even as a finger, longer and much thicker than her own, so stiff it hurts, presses between her legs and finds her most secret spot - the hidden the place where all the fire from the drinks has gone - and suddenly pushes into her.
She cries out a little, a wordless plea, but her face is still hidden in the pillows. This is not right . . . her own hand, so slow and heavy, limply moves to her thighs. She is shocked that she is naked there, no panties and no stockings, just her soft, bare mound, but her hand is brushed easily away, pressed firmly down on the bed.
The finger doesn't enter all the way at first; it has to try again, pushing deeper, until his palm is cupping her. The finger is still for a moment, buried all the way inside her, as if it has always been there.
His voice is thick when he says, I knew you'd be tight, and then it starts moving, in and out. In and out, and it gets easier for him. She sighs. Her hair has fallen across her face, a long dark veil, but her eyes flutter open just a bit and she sees him leaning over her, a dark, looming shape. One of her knees is held up towards her waist, and he is looking down intently between her legs.
The finger is moving in and out still, and then she thinks no, no.
