She swirled the martini in her glass, made the right way with vermouth and gin. The one olive moved with the tiny waves she was creating. The speakeasy was close to her rented room, not the most posh place she'd ever settled for a drink, but not the dingiest, either.
Looking around, she could see that it used to be a nice building. The mirror behind the bar was large, framed in by carved wood showing angels in relief. This wasn't the type of place one would find many angels these days. She looked at her own face in the mirror, too large and too close for comfort. The lady looking back at her had short dark hair, in the latest style. Her eyes were large, brown, almond shaped though she wasn't of Asian descent. She could make men melt with those eyes. She tried not to.
She looked back down into her drink, contemplating the state her dead husband had left her in. The Roaring Twenties were certainly roaring right past her doorstep. The only thing exciting about her life in the last ten years had been the mild shock of realizing she could actually pay her bills this month. She'd lived in ten boarding houses in as many years, worked as a secretary, a church pianist, even in a few factories just to get the rent paid on what was always one room with a tiny sink, bathtub covered in plywood and used as a dining table, and a bed shoved into the darkest dingiest corner.
She saw the gentlemen enter, heard them laughing and carousing. This obviously wasn't their first stop of the night. The tallest one caught her eye immediately. He had her thinking of things she hadn't even thought of when her husband was alive. Before him, before she'd settled down and become the lady that her parents had expected her to, she'd had many dreams. Many fantasies of what a big powerful man like that would be like. What would life be like if he took her home with him? How would things change for her then? She probably would find something exciting in that life, more exciting than just getting by.
She looked up again, pulling herself from her reverie. Her eyes accidentally caught his in the mirror. She wondered briefly, stylish businessman, or gangster? Did it matter? She decided it didn't. Sexy was sexy, and there was no doubt about this man's appeal. He had broad shoulders, brought out more by his perfectly tailored zoot suit. The suit was perfect. The darkest gray pinstripe she'd ever seen, and the fedora matched perfectly, dark grey with a dove gray band.
He moved through the room as if he owned the place. Maybe he did. Some of the wealthiest men in any given city were running speakeasies these days. He moved straight toward her after their eyes made that brief contact. Her heart fluttered up her throat, like a butterfly trying to escape her chest cavity as she saw him getting closer.
He leaned around her left shoulder and knocked on the bar once to get the barkeep's attention. The bartender looked at him and nodded before turning to pour the man three fingers of scotch, neat.
The simple fact of his nearness was having more affect on her than the three martinis she'd downed tonight. She looked up at him slyly, keeping her lashes lowered. He took his glass off the bar and turned toward her, settling his back against the polished wood.
"Hello." Just one word, but it shot through her like twenty-five dollar whiskey. His voice was deep and pure, the way men sounded in her dreams. He leaned into her and waited patiently for her mind to gather and expel a response.
"Hello, Handsome." She was surprised at the even sound of her own voice, happy that she hadn't faltered or squeaked. She blinked up at him, finally feeling a bit of a buzz inside for once in the last ten years.
She wondered if she had the courage to withstand a night of getting to know a man, after all these years of only conversing with the bottom of a glass. He smiled a slow, easy smile under his jauntily tipped fedora, apparently happy with her simple response.
He surveyed the room for a moment like a king overseeing his servants. His gaze landed on her again and he winked as if they were sharing conspiratorial thoughts. "What brings you into my place this evening?"
She shivered a little, loving the drift of his honeyed whiskey voice down her spine. "Trying to trade the lonely for regret, I hear it's easier to drown."
"Well, God bless the lovely liar who told you that one. None of it drowns, it all floats, the drinking just helps you float along with it." He nodded once to punctuate his declarations.
"Sounds like you're a man who's tried to drown a few of his own demons once or twice." She said, hearing the tiny slur in her voice now.
"That I have." He replied, nodding again. He looked her body up and down, taking in the slim black dress. She'd added the jet beads herself, after making the dress from one of her husband's old suit jackets. The thousands of jet dangles hid the men's fabric well enough that no one would guess she couldn't afford to buy new clothes. The jet would have been too expensive to buy, as well, but she'd made a deal with the owner of the last place she'd rented to help in her tailor's shop for a few scraps and bits now and again.
His eyes lingered on her legs as he perused her form. She paid him back in kind, letting her eyes assess his expensive, well tailored suit and the muscular form beneath it. Whatever this man was in the world now, he had the look of someone who'd grown up on a farm. He had the kind of body one only gets from working long days in the heavy summer sun, throwing bails and plowing fields. When their eyes met again she had the notion that maybe this would all be much more direct than she'd suspected. He seemed to be reading her vibes right, after all. She could see the heat in his eyes and she was certain he knew she wanted him, too. He wasn't a man who seemed like he'd miss that kind of thing.
As he sipped his scotch, she her martini, they both drifted into their own thoughts. Those floating memories and emotions. Those things that could not be drowned, no matter how much rotgut was poured upon them.
His head snapped up like a dog sniffing a meal. He grasped her wrist and thrust both their glasses onto the bar, nodding at the bartender who was bustling any evidence of alcohol into a hidden cupboard. The bar was left covered in only water, tea, and the remnants of people's evening meals, the speakeasy becoming instantly a dingy restaurant. Still, it was not a wise place to be found by the police.
She happily followed him from the tiny building. He wound them out a rear entrance that must have taken them underground as they came up through a cellar like door two streets from the door she'd entered into earlier that evening. She giggled quietly, feeling a rush at the thought that they'd barely escaped capture for illegal deeds.
He took her hand and rushed her toward a building, looming up the surprisingly clean alleyway. "My name is Robert. I do not like it shortened."
Her giggling ceased at the seriousness of his tone, but the mild excitement and the smile remained, flitting about her features like candlelight. "Zoe." She pronounced it "zo" like her mother had, though she knew enough of the world now to realize that most people pronounced the final letter.
He didn't let go of her hand as he led her up the fire escape of a very luxurious apartment building. The fire escape alone was such a rare thing that she knew right away he must be better off than she'd even first suspected. His hand was work roughened and large, engulfing her tiny fingers in his grip.
Her dark edges were beginning to fray, she could feel her mind open to the possibilities of this night, of the world, bit by tiny bit. She followed his clanging steps up the fire escape, not fearful for a virtue she no longer had. Nor was she wondering what the neighbors might think, were they to look out and see a fairly young woman, for she was only twenty-seven today, going up the stairs behind their rich neighbor.
The gentleman, Robert-she reminded herself, looked back at her, his smile conspiratorial again. "A nightcap?" He asked, opening a tall window on the landing they'd come to and stepping through.
"Oh, yes." She replied, her voice now sounding like that of a young girl to her own jaded hearing. There was a lightness she'd never possessed in that tone.
He let go her hand and she missed his touch immediately and immensely. She sat in one of his upholstered armchairs and slicked her hands down the outside of her thighs, craving touch even if only that of her own hands.
He placed his fedora on a shelf, his overcoat on a hook by the door. He moved fluidly over to the small wet bar squirreled away within an innocuous looking globe. His movements seemed to take over the space, leaving no where for her eyes to rest but on those broad shoulders, that dark, dark hair, and those piercing black eyes. She had a moment to wonder were they blue or brown? Or merely black as they seemed? And then another drink was in her hand, this one, she found, made with infinite more skill and much better liquor.
He sat in the chair just next to hers, facing her slightly, watching the view out the big windows with half an eye. She noticed he never stopped monitoring his surroundings, waiting for trouble.
They drank in silence, neither had much need for words on this dark, wet night. The rain hadn't been coming down for hours, but the air itself was still heavy with moisture, the cobbles glistening on every street. He watched through the watery panes and she watched him as he did so. She had already memorized his strong jaw, the widows peak of black hair that made him look like a silent movie star.
She wondered if he'd take her to the cinema after this. Would it be just one night, of silly excitement and the search for something bright and hot in this damp, dark world? Or would they come together again, reaching some mutual understanding? Already they were together simply, no conversation needed to be forced into the silence of their understanding. Perhaps they would continue that way.
She inched her dress up her thighs, wondering if he would take his eyes off the window for a moment. He did, long enough to look into her face with a flash of heat. He set his glass down, gave her a questioning glance. She'd never expect that he might question her willingness in this night. She set her glass next to his on the deep mahogany table. She rose and took his hand, leading him into his own bedroom.
As soon as her consent was clear, he came to be the aggressor once more. He turned the electric lamp on, bathing the room in a soft light. For the first time that night she realized that the moon was full. They'd sat in the parlor drinking with no need for lights at all.
He looked her over again as soon as the light was upon her face. His eyes drew her in and made her fear she'd never be free of his gaze, whether she saw him again or not. He moved into her, trapping her between the wall of his luxurious bedroom and his warm body. He put a hand upon her cheek, moved his head down, finally, FINALLY, his lips were upon hers.
Her whole body tensed in shock. She'd felt nothing for so very long now. Tried so hard to push down even the tiniest hints of emotion, and now in one tiny touch, all of that effort was lost to the wind.
She pressed herself into him, the jet beads of her dress pulsing with her heartbeat, thrusting into her flesh and his as she writhed on him like a wild thing. He pulled back for her when she moved her hands between them. She undid the buttons of his suit jacket. She forced herself to calm down, knowing that this man wasn't about to throw his expensive clothing on the floor in a pile. As she neatly hung the jacket on the back of a chair, he came up behind her.
His strong arm wrapped around her waist and he caressed her on her lower belly. The beads of the dress clacked gently and her every nerve fluttered, strained against her skin. She felt that every tiny sensory receptor she had was calling out to that hand, that touch, "Touch me! Feel me! Keep me!"
Her body pressed into his, her backside into the front placket of his posh suit. She ground against him until he groaned. He spun her around and crushed her to him, kissing the breath from her and releasing her just seconds before she was sure to faint. He ripped his shirt off, throwing buttons in all directions. She gaped, astounded at the sudden urgency overtaking such a man.
She laughed and helped him struggle from his suspenders and trousers, his shoes, and everything else. He grinned at her wickedly and all of a sudden she beheld what he must have been as a child- purely mischievous and nothing but lovable.
He ripped her dress over her head, tearing one side completely in his rough urgency. "I'll buy you a new one." He said, that honey and whiskey voice now even deeper, even more astoundingly attractive. It danced across her sensitized skin as she smiled at him, uncaring about her only dress. She felt her nipples form peaks, felt them tighten even more as they drew his gaze.
One of those large, calloused hands came up and caressed her breast. She gasped, exhilarated by the sight of his large hand covering her, touching her. She moved into him, pressing her chest into his palm rubbing her body against his, straining to kiss him again.
He obliged her and leaned down, moving his lips over hers with new vigor. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, found his tongue with it and asserted herself for the first time, taking her own pleasure.
He groaned, pulling her even closer and moving his free hand to her backside. He pulled her hips against his, ground into her, flesh against flesh.
She heard the mewl escape her throat, knew she was on the brink of begging. It had been so long since she'd had a man inside her. And even then, she'd lain with her husband as she'd thought a wife should, her nightgown gathered at her waist, her eyes on the ceiling.
Now, this experience, this was nothing like what she'd had before. This was like she'd only imagined. She'd heard her cousin Lucy in the hayloft with one of the farmhands once. Ever after that she'd only imagined that kind of pleasure, only dreamt it could exist for her. Girls like Lucy didn't get to live long, happy, stable lives like her parents had convinced her she'd wanted.
If she had known she could feel so much, she would never have married her poor dead husband. Or perhaps she would have. It was too late to tell.
His hands had moved on, both gripping her ass now, pulling her legs up around his waist, allowing him to caress her inner folds with the tip of his penis. Still, he refrained from entering her. His mouth moved from her mouth, across her cheek, down her jaw. She dropped her head back and sighed.
Ecstasy! When had she felt anything so good? A memory flashed through her, bringing out that laugh again, the laugh she hadn't heard from her own lips in far too long. She was a kid, given a penny for candy while her mother bought supplies. This is what that felt like. That unadulterated, childlike joy she thought never to feel again.
She pressed herself into every inch of him. Her nipples rubbed his chest, tantalized by the light dusting of dark curls. Her belly pressed against his, warmed for once so that it didn't feel empty. Her smooth thighs rubbed against the outsides of his, soft against hard, smooth against rough, woman conquering man. She could feel the texture of his hands on her ass as he moved her against himself. She locked her ankles behind him and moaned as he sucked her neck lightly. She never knew these kinds of things existed, these were not the types of actions discussed before one's marriage, or with one's mother.
She reveled in the depravity she felt just then. If the quilter's circle at her mother's church could see their little Zoe now. They would have been scandalized enough at her living conditions, which was just the reason she hadn't spoken to her family at all since his death.
And now she'd found what her soul had longed for her entire life. She realized with a jolt that she still wore her stockings and garters. She looked down at her own legs, marveled at how sexy she felt wearing just that while she writhed on this big, gorgeous naked man.
He really did have the shoulders of a farm hand. The ropy muscles of his arms felt like steel under her hands. She felt no strain in them as he held her up, only firm control. His erection felt the same way, huge, engorged, and yet somehow she knew that he was the one in control, not his body.
He sat with her, on the edge of his satin covered bed. The four posts were draped in gauzy red fabric, the pillows were so plentiful she wondered if he'd stolen the whole set up from a brothel.
She pushed him back, loving that he allowed her some control. She crawled up until her breasts were above his mouth, looking down at him. She brushed her nipple against his lips until he took it into his mouth and suckled her. She arched her back, screaming outright with pleasure now, as his hand found her slit just as his mouth took her into a spiral of pleasure. His large, blunt tipped finger slipped inside of her, moving in and out. He rubbed his thumb against her little button, a place she'd never been touched in her life.
She instantly shattered, uncontrollably writhing against him, on top of him. His mouth continued to lave her breasts, she held her hands in his hair, keeping him close to her.
He waited until her body had calmed and then flipped their positions. He rose above her, those muscled arms bearing his weight effortlessly, those shoulders forming a room around them, enclosing them so that only the space their bodies took up existed.
She was nearly apoplectic with wanting him, even though he'd just brought her to a peak she'd never experienced. She longed to feel him moving inside of her. He laughed quietly, recognizing her plight. He reached down, slowly, letting the back of his hand graze her on its journey. Her nipple, her ribs, her belly, her hip, and suddenly he was touching her, testing her, filling her with his fingers. She moaned and slapped a hand against his rock hard bicep. "You bastard! Fill me up!" She didn't even flinch to hear such harsh words from her own mouth. Words she never would have uttered in any of her past lives. This was a new life altogether, it seemed. This was a life that allowed her, finally, some freedom.
He withdrew his hand from her, his grin wicked indeed. He grasped his own member and rubbed the head of it along her slit, unable to resist teasing her once more. "What is it that you want from me, my dear?" He asked, and that voice, coupled with all the sensations she was already feeling was enough to start her on a slow rolling orgasm again. She gasped aloud as she answered, "This. You. Inside of me. Every night. Filling me up. Whenever you want me. However you want me. As long as you want me."
There would be time to regret the begging tomorrow, now matter how truthful it was tonight. But for now, there were no more words. Only his length, finally slipping into her. She screamed, biting his shoulder to keep quiet. He'd bruise tomorrow, but that too was easily ignored just now. This was nothing like the sex she'd had before, nothing like the mechanical rubbing and routing. This was passion and grace, this was what God must have wanted for his children when he thought them up, for this was the highest she'd ever flown in any fancy and every dream.
He thrust into her and brought himself nearly out of her, shoving her back into the large mound of pillows. She sighed each time, keeping a happy rhythm, each sigh building louder as her pleasure increased.
He touched her everywhere, his hands meandering slowly, then roughly, now so softly, next with more passion than she imagined existed. She came a third time, her body convulsing around him, her muscles so tight on his shaft that he yelled out his own passion, his body milked into orgasm by hers.