Renee Ch. 02

Kyle went to the library after work, hoping Renee might be there. She wasn't. He didn't want it to end like it had last night. They had made love. Afterwards, she cried. She cried for reasons he didn't understand at the time, didn't want to understand. But now, here, in the bright light of the third-floor Renaissance Lit section, where he'd met her for the first time three evenings previous, he was able to gain some clarity, some insight.

As far as he knew and could tell, he was the first person she'd ever cheated with. Though she had good reason to, and probably had for a long time, she had never strayed from her marriage. But what about him? He'd never experienced anything like last night. How could she share something like that with him, and just walk away, without a word? Without an explanation? How could she leave him hanging like this, dangling from the edge of yesterday, grasping onto the faint, receding hope of tomorrow?

But she had left him hanging, and he had no way to contact her. Hell, he didn't even know her last name, so he couldn't look her up online or in the phone book. He closed his eyes, and images of her, naked, on his lap, formed in his mind's eye. The way she closed her eyes as they made love, the way her golden hair fell away, over her shoulders, the way she moaned and purred with satisfaction he hadn't thought himself capable of giving her until he did it.

This was no good. He couldn't just sit here, daydreaming, wishing upon a star that in all probability didn't exist, or if it did, was burning on its last, feeble stores of energy, about to collapse in on itself and be snuffed out like a candle in a cosmic hurricane. He needed to get out of here, try to move on. Maybe even take Trista up on her offer to set him up with this Jennifer she spoke so highly of.

Yeah. That all sounded good. But he didn't get up. He just sat there, his head in his hands, thinking about Renee, seeing her smile right there, in front of him, close enough to touch, yet so far away. So impossibly far away. . .

♣

"So, you still gonna be the mystery man this morning?" It was Trista, standing at the mouth of his cubicle, hands on hips, 36DD breasts thrust forward in the pose she liked best. She was wearing a daring low-cut pink top this morning, exposing a healthy amount of cleavage.

He didn't want to deal with her probing, her questioning. Not today. "You know, we should set up a meeting this afternoon with Gerry," he said. "For the User's Guide. He has some schematics for his latest program I don't understand."

Trista shook her head. "Sure," she said. She stood there a moment longer, evidently considering whether or not to prod further. As usual with her, valor got the better part of discretion. "So, c'mon, Kyle. Tell me. Did you get lucky last night? The suspense is killing me. And Jennifer won't wait around forever, y'know."

How could he handle this delicately? Trista was the only other technical writer in the department. He didn't want to alienate her. And he valued her friendship, too—up to a point, anyway. But he couldn't deal with this right now.

"I'm . . . I'm just in a strange place in my life," he said. Which was definitely the truth. "I'll let you know about Jennifer soon, I promise. But right now, I just need a little more time. Okay?"

She shrugged, but didn't seem offended, and he was relieved. "Well, all right. But like I said, let me know soon. Jennifer is a real catch. If you don't act soon, someone will beat you to her. And, with all due respect, Kyle, more time is the last thing you need. You need to act on impulse once in a while. Jesus. You're twenty-five years old! What I'd give to be your age again. Don't waste it, Kyle. Live a little. Take a fucking chance."

Yeah. Take a fucking chance, like he had the other night, with Renee. But where had that got him? What good did it do?

♣

After work, he again decided to give the library another shot. He figured, if she wanted to see him again, she'd be more likely to go there rather than back to his apartment. He felt stupid, desperate, going back to the library—but he needed to see if she was there. He couldn't give up, not yet.

When he found a parking space near the library, he put eight quarters into the meter. That would give him two hours—just on the slim hope that he might need them. As he stepped out into the evening, the November air smacked him like a cold blast of water.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, bowed his head against the wind, and walked toward the front steps of the library—a brown, four story building with wide, tall columns and a collection of stone gargoyles perched on the ledge of the upper roof. Sometimes, on warmer days, when the elements weren't making him curl in on himself like a human turtle, he would glance up at those gargoyles. They reminded him of guardians, ready, if needed, to swoop down and defend their territory. They—

"Hey, watch where you're goin', buddy," a husky guy in a black coat barked, as the two bumped into each other.

"Sorry," Kyle said, feeling disoriented. Was this an omen? Maybe it was a mistake to come here. She probably wasn't inside. And even if she was . . . what would they say? What would they do? He pictured long, awkward silences, embarrassed blushes, shame-laced small talk. Did he really want to deal with that?

Still, he found himself at the entrance now. He walked in, headed for the stairs, climbed to the third floor, and proceeded to the far end of it, toward the Renaissance Lit section. As he neared it, he again told himself it was pointless. There would be nothing but the usual assortment of dusty, neglected volumes, the table, unoccupied as always, the rhythmic hum of the heat blowing through the vents. . . .

But the table wasn't unoccupied. She was there. Sitting in the same chair she'd sat in three nights ago, her nose buried in a book, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, getting in the way. She brushed her hair aside, glanced up, pushed her thick wire-frame glasses up the bridge of her nose, and froze. She was looking at him, but didn't acknowledge him.

Finally, she smiled.

His legs felt like they weighed two tons each, but he managed to work his way to the table, pull out the chair across from her, and sit down. She held eye contact for a moment, then looked down, at her book. She was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt and a gold necklace with a heart-shaped locket attached.

She glanced up at him again, then followed his eyes, to the locket she wore.

"It was a gift," she said. "My husband bought it for me on our first wedding anniversary. Seems so long ago."

His jaw stiffened at the mention of her husband. "I didn't think I'd see you here," he managed to say.

"I didn't think I'd be here," she said. Then, after a pause: "But I felt bad, leaving so suddenly the other night. I was hoping you'd come. We really need to talk, Kyle."

He was surprised by how easily she was able to talk to him. She wasn't acting like the guilt-ridden tortured soul he expected to see. Did she want to pursue a full-blown affair? Was that it? But then he told himself to cool it. That couldn't be what she wanted to talk about. Since when did such good fortune with women ever come his way?

"The other night, we . . . I . . ." She paused again, closed the book she had in front of her. The snap it made caused him to jump a little in his seat. "I just don't want you to get the wrong idea about me. I've never done anything like that before. I've always been faithful. I still can't believe I did it."

"You don't regret it, do you?" A bold question, but what did he have to lose at this point?

She shook her head. "It's not that simple, Kyle. I mean, yes, I do. I regret it very much. I cried a lot yesterday, thinking about it. When my husband called, I could barely talk to him. It almost felt like he knew, like he suspected . . . but I know that was just my imagination. But I . . . there's a part of me that doesn't regret it, either. You're such a sweet guy, and it's been so long since someone made feel special the way you did. So, is that convoluted enough for you?" She managed a half-smile.

He smiled back, and they sat there, without talking. But the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was warm; soft, even. He looked at her, and she looked at him. The desire, the longing she felt the other night was still there. He could almost smell her need. She said she had just come to talk, to set things straight. But he wondered. Again, he decided to take a chance.

"Renee, will you come back to my place with me?." As soon as the words came out, he grimaced. His approach was about as graceful as a pulled groin. Still, he wanted to be honest. He didn't want the nervousness he always felt around women to get the better of him. Not this time. Not with her.

She squirmed in her seat. "Kyle, I can't say I'm not tempted. Because I am. Very much. But we can't, we just can't. Don't you see . . .?"

Before he could respond, there was a chirp. "Oh, I thought I turned that off," she said, and reached into her pocket, pulling out her cell. She pressed a couple of keys, read the text she just received. She looked at it for a long time, as if reading it over repeatedly, then shook her head, blew on her bangs.

She frantically keyed in a response and sent it off, then she turned the phone off, put it back in her pocket.

She folded her hands on the cover of the book in front of her, sat there for a long while. Then she said, "Does your offer still stand, Kyle?"

He swallowed, unable to believe his ears. He almost asked her to repeat herself. But all he did was smile, and nod.

♣

"Do you want anything to drink?" he asked her when he took her coat and gestured for her to sit down on the couch.

She shook her head. "No thanks, I'm fine. You know, Kyle, before we talk about anything else, before we do anything, I really need to say something, okay?"

He sat down beside her.

"When I saw you tonight, I never intended to come back here," she said. "I just wanted to talk, like I said. But that text I got . . . you probably were able to guess, it was from my husband." She shook her head again, rubbed her face with her left hand. "I guess he picked a bad time to send me one of his wise-ass remarks."

"Well, depends on your point of view," Kyle said, inching closer to her. Bold, he kept telling himself. Be bold. Don't be a wimp. "Maybe he picked the perfect time." He reached out, stroked her long blonde hair, running his fingers through it.

She tilted her head to the side, allowing him a better angle. "But, Kyle . . . I just don't want you to get the wrong idea." What? That she had come here because she was hurt? That she wanted to spend the night with him, forget her asshole husband for a while? How could he get the wrong idea? "I really shouldn't even be here. It's not fair . . . to me, or to you."

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him. Through the lenses of her glasses, her eyes were so blue, so blue. He wanted to dive into them, become immersed in them, to see and experience nothing but that blue, everywhere, surrounding him. "I want us to make a memory tonight. Something to think back on when we need to, or want to. Maybe when we're feeling lonely. And God knows, I've been feeling alone in my marriage for a long time now." She paused. He was about to speak, offer a response, but she placed a finger to his lips. "My husband will be back tomorrow afternoon," she went on. "And my kids. Johnny and Matt." She smiled. "They're the best, they really are. I love my children, Kyle. I still love my husband, too, even though things haven't been going so great. I don't want to hurt them. I can't have an affair, can't get involved in a relationship with you. Do you understand?"

He heard her, if that's what she meant.

"I'm really sorry," she continued. "I feel very selfish coming back here tonight. Maybe it was stupid. I guess I just want to get lost in you, for one night. I want to make a memory, Kyle. That's all I can do. That's all I can offer you."

He wanted to blurt something out, to ask her to reconsider. Didn't she know that he had feelings for her? He could give her a much better life than her husband. Why didn't she divorce the creep? Why didn't she . . .? But then he got hold of himself. What was he to her, really? A kid. Ten years her junior. A nerd, just starting out in the world, a newcomer to New England. She had a life, firmly in place. She had a family. Yes, he understood. It was a bitter understanding, tinged with acid. But they did have tonight. Who needed tomorrow, wasn't that what the old song said? A week ago, practically a virgin, if he had been asked whether or not he'd grasp onto an opportunity like this, he'd have responded with a resounding yes.

Besides, maybe he could lavish her with enough love, enough affection, that she might reconsider. Maybe, in the morning, she would rethink her position. If he just adored her well enough, made love to her tenderly enough, satisfied her every whim and desire. Maybe . . .

He smiled, nodded. "Carpe diem," he said.

She smiled back. "Carpe mecum sempiterne noctem," she said. When she saw his blank expression, she laughed, and offered an explanation. "Sorry, I'm a nerd, remember? I took Latin in college, and still remember a few phrases."

"But what you just said . . . what does it mean?"

She looked at him, and the blue in her eyes seemed to swim, dance. There was a hunger in them. "It means . . . 'seize the night forever with me,'" she said.

He felt like laughing. He felt like doing a cartwheel. He felt like scrunching up into the fetal position, protecting himself from feelings that were too sharp, too pointed. He felt like crying. Most of all, he felt like kissing her.

Their lips met, and then their arms were around each other. She kissed him with abandon, moaning in his mouth. Even through the barrier of their clothes, he could feel the heat in her. . . .

It was happening so fast this time. She was a whirlwind. He had never experienced such passion. Before he knew it, she was kneeling on the floor, before him, unzipping his pants, pulling them down his legs. She rested her elbows on the sofa, on either side of his thighs. Eyeing the tent in his briefs, she licked her lips.

He froze up. She had seen his dick the other night, but it had only been for a brief moment. Now she was right there, kneeling down in front of him. She was at eye level with his crotch, with his pathetic five-inch penis, his inadequate excuse of manhood. She—

She reached for the waistband of his underwear, started to pull them down. He fought the urge to grab onto her hands, prevent her from doing it, but instead, he lifted his butt off of the sofa cushion, allowing her access.

She tossed his briefs aside, looked up at him. "One thing my husband doesn't like me to do anymore is blow him," she said. "So, I've kind of been wanting to do something like this for a long time now." Again, she licked her lips, gave him a wink.

She was acting so . . . pleased . . . with his dick! How could she be? He didn't want to express his insecurities, didn't want to go fishing for words of reassurance. But he couldn't help himself.

"You're not . . . you're not turned off?" he fumbled out.

She tilted her head, blew on her bangs. "Kyle, didn't we go through this the last time? I think you're super-cute, and very desirable. Do you want me to show you how much?"

"Yes, please." It came out as more of a whimper than a statement. He was thankful he was sitting on the couch. If he were standing up, he was sure his legs would turn to Jell-O, and he'd topple over, onto the floor. No one, ever, had gone down on him. Not once in his twenty-five years had he received a blow job. He nearly came, then and there, with the sheer anticipation of it.

She leaned forward, placing more of her weight on her elbows. For a fleeting moment he wished she'd take her glasses off so she wouldn't be able to see so well, but then he felt her lips wrap themselves around his cock-head. She held them there, then slid up and down his five-inch shaft, slowly, as if savoring his taste.

He couldn't believe how good it felt. He'd always imagined how it would feel, but he never believed it could be like this. She increased the pressure and tempo, and he bucked at the hips. Already he was close. Then she was back, playing with his tip, flicking her tongue out, licking him, teasing, tantalizing.

"Unnnh," he moaned. His body was ready to cum, but his mind wasn't. Not yet. He wanted to prolong the pleasure.

But he wasn't able to. She glanced up at him, winked again, and that's all it took. The visual of her blonde hair falling onto his groin, of her lips wrapped around his cock, the sensation of her mouth on him, having her way with him . . . it was all too much. He bucked violently, grunted, felt the seminal fluid rushing through him, racing, sprinting. He felt a sense of inevitability, like a raging river crashing through a dam, and then he let loose, squirting into her mouth.

For a moment, she looked surprised, her eyes grew wide, but she kept on sucking him all the way through it. And then she swallowed his cum.

"So . . . how was I?" she said, still kneeling on the floor.

He was lightheaded. It felt like he might float up, bump his head into the ceiling. "Paradise," was all he could say.

She smiled, looked at his rapidly deflating dick. "Hmm, looks like there's a little mess." And then her lips were on him again, licking his cock-head clean. This act alone returned him into a state of semi-hardness.

The next thing he knew, she was beside him on the sofa again, and then her lips were on his, and then her tongue was deep in his mouth, thrusting, parrying, and he tasted his own fluids, drank in the residue of his release.

He felt her hand move down his abdomen, settle in his crotch, and her fingers wrap themselves around his dick as they kissed. She stroked him, rubbed him, played with him until he was fully hard again.

"Mmmmm," she moaned as they kissed, as she squeezed his penis. Her hands were so soft, her skin so smooth . . .

He still was in a state of disbelief. This beautiful thirty-five-year-old woman with the long blonde hair, the sexy, petite figure, this woman he was so attracted to, seemed to love his dick. His dick, which he had always felt so ashamed of. She had licked it, sucked it, pleasured it, and now she was stroking it, not being able to get enough of it. Perhaps even wanting it again . . .

He reached behind her as they made out, tugged on her shirt, releasing it from her slacks, untucking it. She reciprocated, breaking their kiss so she could unbutton his shirt, and then guide it off his shoulders. He was completely naked now, and yet his self-consciousness, his sense of inadequacy, was fading. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to feel really and truly desirable.

He wanted to say something, to thank her, to tell her she was beautiful, in every way. But he didn't want to risk breaking the mood, didn't want to stick a dagger into the passion and lust that was boiling over, spilling onto both of them, ready to erupt.

But then the phone rang and did the job for him.

"Oh shit," he said, just as she was about to kiss him again.

"You have an answering machine, right?" she said. The lust in her voice was so thick he could have reached out and grabbed a hold of it.

"Yes," he croaked, and they kissed, and her fingers again found his penis.

But then the answering machine beeped and his mother's voice came on.

"Kyle? Hello? Heellllloooooooo? You know I don't like leaving messages on these things, Kyle. Pick up! Where are you?"

"Shit," he said again. "Look, I'm really sorry, but I better answer it. She left me two messages yesterday when I wasn't here, and I didn't return her calls, so . . ." He felt like a loser. He needed to interrupt making love to a beautiful, horny woman so he could talk to Mommy? Good grief.