By Invitation Only

It started when we were invited to the same party, a coincidence of knowing people who know people who just bought a downtown penthouse condo and wanted to break it in, the more the merrier. It was a top-shelf, black-tie sort of affair to let us all play at being part of a different world for a night.

We each received our invitations separately, at different times, from different people, yet reacted to them with the same sense of intrigue. I was ready for a brief escape from my own world of caffeinated nights, overlapping deadlines, and perpetual to-dos. You thought, if nothing else, it might make for a good story and the perfect occasion to debut that hot little dress you hadn't been able to resist buying.

The appointed Friday arrived, and the evening's plans preoccupied me throughout the day. I looked forward to the chance to shed my professional single woman persona and go schmooze with a more glamorous crowd for a change. I dismissed myself from work early to allow plenty of time for a luxurious getting-ready routine – a jasmine-scented bath, attention to fingers and toes and brows and skin, the careful selection of color and scent.

I wore my hair combed in a side sweep that curled slightly at my temple, and a silky, pearl-white sleeveless blouse with an oriental collar that buttoned up to my neck, save a keyhole slit that opened daringly low on my breastbone. A skintight black-on-black lace pencil skirt and vintage nylons with a seam up the back completed the look. As I took in my reflection one last time before leaving, I could easily see myself with martini glass in hand, laughing extravagantly at someone's borrowed comedy, assuming the skin of someone who fit in.

You were the last person I expected to find. Just about everyone and everything else at that party was predictable from the moment I stepped in – the sleek modern styling of the condo, where every light appeared to be on a dimmer switch; the unidentified electronic jazz pulsing gently from the sound system; the mostly white, mostly waifish women mingling with stubble-jawed men in dress shirts and dark wash jeans. It was a surprisingly quiet, surprisingly adult party, the kind older twenty-somethings surprisingly find themselves attending when they suddenly brush up against the right circles.

But my real surprise was still the woman in the dark teal dress who spoke in low tones and with animated hands. I bumped into you at the bar while trying to wave down the bartender's attention even though I hadn't yet decided what to drink. You got to him first, and I watched him pour you a Bombay Sapphire and tonic. Your face was caught in the blue light from overhead; your long lashes cast shadows over your cheeks as you gracefully accepted the drink and turned directly towards me.

An introduction was all it took to get us talking. Between the two of us, we could banter well enough to entertain a few more among us, and we covered many a subject, from evolution to history to modern affairs and current news, which eventually lost us our audience. Not to say anything of the hospitality of our hosts, I was finally having fun.

Having sat too long in one place, and feeling the effects of the cocktail I'd followed you in ordering, I announced that I'd be taking my drink up to the rooftop deck for some fresh air. To my delight, you wasted no time volunteering to join me, and we loosely linked arms as we headed for the exit as a pair.

We were not the only ones on the rooftop, of course, seeing as a premier boast of this condo was its unobstructed view of the city and the river below. The choppy water glittered with reflections of so many lights – cars, bridges, highways, buildings. The patio was encased with a low railing atop a fence of glass panels; one almost felt one could walk off the edge and step right onto the next piece of the city skyline, easy as you please.

But being that it was spring, and past midnight, the roof offered little protection against the steady night breeze and the sprinkling threat of rainclouds far above. Little by little, our fellow party-goers abandoned their perches against the railings or cushioned in the deeply pillowed furniture of a sunken lounge area, until it was just us and the city whispering all the stories that crossed her streets even just now in this moment.

By that point there wasn't much hazard to guessing that the attraction between us was mutual. A few clever lines of conversation, unnecessary but not unwelcome touches on the shoulder or arm, and a little help from the gin, did all the talking for us. We chose a spot for city-gazing and stood leaning against the thin rail, musing on the lives playing out below, when we noticed we were alone.

A moment of silence, a natural pause in a conversation that continued to ramble in every direction. You faced out towards the city, and I turned until I was leaning back with both elbows on the railing, only inches from you. Crossing one leg over the other, I gently brushed the back of your exposed calf with my toe, looked at you over the edge of my glasses, and bit my lip with a slight grin.

You raised an eyebrow. To remove any doubt of my meaning, I lay a hand across your wrist and leaned in to you, inviting without insisting. When our lips met, a hot shock rippled through me, energizing and enhancing my craving. The breeze lifted between us and brushed your hair against my face. I released your lips and moved towards your ear, a tremor in my breathing.

"I want you," I murmured against your neck. I gently gripped your wrist and guided your hand down to the delicate lace hem of my skirt along my thigh, where I could already feel my pulse quickening close to the skin.

You rewarded me with a delicious smirk. Your fingers took the hint and crept up along and then underneath that hem, and I shivered at the long nails gliding against my nylons into the space between my legs. My hips began to dip down in response, looking for that pressure to grind against. My hand dropped from your wrist and brushed against the front of your own dress, hoping to excite you as much as you excited me.

As for what followed ... had any resident or tourist been walking along the avenue and looked up in wonder at this tall shining beacon of a building that commanded so much attention, and focused on that top balcony railing, they'd have been treated to the sight of my backside pressed against the glass, my head thrown back in sweet agony, your face buried between my legs, one hand alongside it and the other working inside the slit of my shirt to tease my nipples to a frenzy. Had a helicopter been flying by a moment later, the pilot might have seen me then bent over the railing, my skirt bunched around my waist and my fingers smudging the glass as yours were buried inside me. Had anyone at the party been listening above the music, they wouldn't have missed me calling out your name, God's, any curse or word of praise to come to mind, all moaned into the impassive night.

With or without an audience, I finished, my craving satiated beyond all measure, dizzied by the taste of myself still on your lips before we parted – not as though nothing happened, because the evidence was too great to deny, but content to be bound by this exposed secret between us like a spider's thread, each glad for our own reasons we'd accepted tonight's invitations.