Come Up Ch. 03

It was me, the one who called first, but not right away. Right away would have been so wrong. Too desperate, so intense that it might burn out and then what?

For the rest of the week we had seen each other at work almost hourly. I had said nothing, neither had he. There were no meaningful looks, no signals, nothing.

But every night as I went out the office door onto Bloor Street I was imagining how it would be. A scenario played in my head over and over. In my bed. Urgent, yes, and freer, fierce like before, but not dangerous like the first time in the car. I couldn't stop envisioning it in my mind, when I tried to fall asleep and again when I first awoke. It was growing into an obsession that scared me and excited me at the same time.

Then, on Friday, we happened to walk out into the fresh air together. He held the door open for me. I wished he hadn't done it. It was too polite, too nice, too close. We shared a taxi to go home.

"See ya," he said as he got off the elevator.

"'Kay, bye," I said, but what did he mean?

I lasted through that night, through Saturday and into the early evening on Sunday. I couldn't wait any longer.

"Lindy," was all he said when he picked up the phone.

"You said there can be more," I said. I was on edge, feeling tense.

"Yes." Suddenly serious and without pause, as if it were front of mind for him. He said it just like the first time in the studio, as if it were only a fact, nothing more. He just waited.

"Come up," I said, throwing down the gauntlet. He simply hung up. Feeling butterflies even before I called, an adrenalin thrill went through me like a jolt of ice water in my veins.

But how do you set the scene for something like this, I wondered. This wasn't a normal situation. There were some things it couldn't be. It couldn't be romantic. We had agreed. That meant that there couldn't be any mood, no music, no soft lighting. It couldn't be seductive because neither of us needed persuasion. It couldn't even be friendly because we weren't friends. What were we, I wondered. Professionals. Colleagues. Associates. Not even a one night stand, at least I didn't think so. There wasn't a category I could think of.

Waiting for him in the kitchen, the movie reel in my head rolled. We'd get right down to it. He'd come in the door and we'd start right away, both of us hungry for it, maybe on the couch, maybe in the kitchen, maybe even on the floor.

But that seemed wrong somehow, too extreme, too abrupt. And yet I couldn't imagine us lingering either, sitting in my living room talking about safe things, neutral things, and then having awkward silences, waiting for the other one to signal, somehow, that it was on.

Something in between the two, I thought, neither immediate nor holding off.

I took two wine glasses down, and just then his knock came at the door.

"It's open," I called out and he came in. He looked good, very good. He might have started as a model back in the day, but he was not smooth, not done up. He was all natural, wearing who he was, a man who had lived, a man who had survived the bad and revelled in the good, and all that radiated from him, charisma. He wore a corduroy sport coat, a neat, crisp shirt, worn blue jeans and cowboy boots. My pulse quickened.

I watched as he turned away to close the door. Tall and lean, broad shoulders, narrow hips and, tonight, something in his carriage, something athletic, a swagger maybe. That didn't bother me like it would in other men. He owns that, I thought, has earned it.

"Glass of wine?" I asked.

"Red, if you've got it. Thanks."

He came to the kitchen island and stood across from me while I opened the bottle and poured two glasses. I couldn't think of anything to say. He didn't say anything either and just stood there watching me. I tried to conceal the tremour in my hands.

I leaned forward and slid the glass over to him and he reached out to take it. His eyes darted into my blouse, indulging himself in my body. It aroused me to know that.

We took our first sips, wordlessly. He stared at me. The intensity was almost unbearable. Unless one of us spoke, or unless I made a move toward the living room, we would stay here. He put down his glass and leaned forward on the countertop with both arms. It looked like he was waiting, fucking with me.

The first time, in the car, it had just happened. The smallest flirt, the slightest reference and that was it. It was as if an unseen hand guided his cock into my mouth, as if a switch had been flipped in each of us simultaneously. It had been so fast, fucking french fries still in my mouth even as his cock sprang out, no time to think or second guess, no time to stop.

On this night it was different, not unexpected, not spontaneous. In my mind thoughts were going off like fireworks. I had called him. He had agreed. What did it mean? What if he had called me? Would that change this? There were no answers.

I took another sip, staring fiercely at him over the rim of my glass. Something came to me. I knew what to do and instinctively I knew it was right, knew that immersed in this storming ocean of sexual power we would both get what we wanted with no winner and no loser. I lowered the glass but didn't set it down. He wouldn't do something to make me spill it, would he? Slowly, I started to walk around the island toward him. The wine glass was between us as I approached him. I stopped, just inside his personal space and looked up into his eyes. It was as if we both were electrified. Still my move.

"Undress me...slowly," I said. My voice had quavered, but I hoped he hadn't noticed. The world was swirling and closing in on me but I knew I had done right, that I had set the perfect balance. It might have looked like submission, yes, but it was willful submission, and that changed everything. I would choose to submit. Now, if he simply took me, it would be his power answering mine because I had made it my choice, not his.

I could see that it rocked him, discovering that my submission would dominate him. I felt his swagger disappear, felt that arrogant persona of his melt away leaving him with only base, animalist desire, now, the very same as me.

He did undress me, just like I wanted. I stood there exposed in the bright light of the kitchen. He was still fully dressed and yet I felt powerful. I knew my naked body overpowered him and that now his lust would take over.

I grabbed his face and pulled his lips to mine in total capitulation. He threw off his jacket while I moaned in his mouth and frantically worked at the buttons of his shirt. Struggling, he awkwardly kicked off his boots, too slow for both of us, and I was at the buckle and fly of his jeans, tugging, tearing them down. He kicked them off and his cock sprung out with that beautiful arc and power.

We ran to the bed and I started to lay back but he caught me by the hips and roughly turned me around. I reached back to help him find my pussy and he came into me, driving, driving. I was on my hands and knees but his strength was too much for me. I tried to push back with my hands on the headboard but even that couldn't stop him.

His hand went to the back of my neck and forced my face hard down into the pillow and then he really started to pound. Better, better, harder, deeper than before, so deep, and I could feel his balls brush against my clit with each thrust. So good, so good...

After, I ran into the bathroom for a towel and got back into bed with him. We cleaned up and then I climbed on top and wrapped my arms and legs around him to clasp to me. But I needed to feel his weight so I pulled us over until he was on top. He kissed me hard.

It was good, better than the time in the car, like he had said, it was more.

Later, when I heard the door close behind him, I rolled over and fell into a deep sleep. He was in my mind again, when I woke.

~

Maybe they learn it, what they think are good manners afterward. Maybe it comes from some deep-seated, anachronistic guilt, like they think we haven't given it up willingly, as if they've wrested something precious from us that now we regret. Maybe they think it's an investment, like advancing a payment for future services, something to guarantee a return engagement.

These days it can be a lousy text, and if that's it, he's a chicken shit. Sometimes it's flowers and that's a bit much. Usually it's a phone call. Sometimes it's face to face.

He pulled me aside into the boardroom.

"We gotta talk," he said. At least it wasn't flowers.

"Bad time, Greg...I'm on deadline," I said. All that did was make him grab my arm and hurry up. He fixed me with his eyes.

"Last night...you okay?"

I wasn't sure what he meant. Was he asking after me, my well-being, expressing his concern for me? I hoped not. Maybe he was fishing for compliments. Maybe that ego of his was just covering up some insecurity and he needed me to boost him up. Such fucking bullshit.

I calmed myself down, thinking. Maybe he was questioning our deal, giving me a way out if I wanted it. If that was it, then no harm done. At least we'd both be clear.

Of course I was okay. It was just fucking, earth-moving fucking to be sure, but in the end, nothing more. It was not feelings, not a relationship. It was just fucking amazing sex, that's all. Was I okay? He was waiting for an answer.

"I can't do this right now...but, yeah, It's still good," I said, broke his grip on my arm and walked away. On the way out I wondered if I'd have to prove it by calling him again.

~

How many times in the next month? I'd lost count. Six? Seven? Sometimes he called. Sometimes I did. He always came up to me. I prefer it. My turf.

He came into my office.

"Wanted to tell you myself," he said. Something bad.

"I'm leaving." The station? Toronto? My mind filled with the scenarios, rolled them out into their many futures. I saw him disappearing, going away. No more fucking. Anger and disappointment. Despair? I saw myself flying to Vancouver on weekends, just to fuck. Better. Still not great. My pulse started to pound.

"Where you going?" I asked, trying not to show.

First the job title. A promotion. Director of News. Then the network. Then where. Still Toronto.

I couldn't disguise it. My body relaxed. Moments passed.

"So? What do you think?" he asked, exasperated by my silence.

"I'm already over it," I said, laughing, mocking him. I shouldn't have done it. But I was so locked up against having feelings for him. Fucking, not feelings, I reminded myself. But that was rude and insensitive, I thought, maybe hurtful. Wait, did I care if it was hurtful? I surprised myself. Yes, but a rationalization came to my mind instantly. It's never good to be hurtful. Not to anybody. Not to him.

I smiled and came around from behind the desk.

"We should celebrate!" I said. They'd hear that in the outer office. A handshake, then a hug and I whispered in his ear.

"Oh baby, I'm gonna fuck you so good tonight. Come up."