Seen

This was the third time she locked eyes with him today.

The first time was this morning before the trade show opened. She is not a fan of these shows, but it is the best way to get in front of new customers. Every few weeks she gets on a plane and has to pretend to be interested in whatever the conventioneers are saying to her. She puts up with the shady attempts to accidentally grab her ass or look down her shirt – let's be honest, she wears that blouse specifically on the floor to drive traffic to her booth. She goes because if those creeps think they have a chance with her, she can sell them anything.

The other vendors are often in the same boat – Brilliant women forcing their feet into 3" heels, getting dismissed as booth babes and road-weary men wearing predictable logo shirts competing against them for the same eyeballs... all of them smiling as if they were your long-lost friend.

She knew the drill: tits up – ass out – eyes looking for any real interest outside of "meet me outside the men's room in 5 minutes."

But as she was finishing her second cup of starbucks and making sure the info sheets are properly positioned on the table, she saw him just sitting at his booth down the row from her stand. He was looking at her. Not her ass, not her boobs, not her shoes. Even though her feet looked fabulous this morning, he was looking straight at her eyes.

It was that moment when everything stopped in the hall. Or so it seemed.

She squared her shoulders to him and stood up straight. Never breaking eye contact. He didn't blink. There was nothing threatening in his look. He wasn't trying to undress her mentally (she knew what that felt like). He wasn't trying to figure out how to get her to come sit on his lap (again, very common in this crowd). He was communicating with her through his eyes.

He saw her.

The moment broke seconds later when his partner got between them to review their game plan for the show, and then the horn sounded and the hall was filled with sweaty leering potential customers... so 'tits up,' time to get to work. When she looked back, he was gone.

Until the second time she locked eyes with him later that afternoon:

There is no pause in these shows – the aisles are full of people trying to get free swag from every vendor. How many free pens can one shopping bag hold? The customers kept trying to find out – to break last years record. When they did stop to talk to her, she pretended not to be annoyed at their attempts to brush up against her ("oops, sorry miss, someone bumped in to me – I didn't mean to grab you like that...")

After finally getting rid of one particularly smelly local, who seemed to be there only for the stale candy found on each desk, she took a deep breath to clear her lungs – stood up and found herself nose to nose with him.

He was carrying a cardboard tray of coffee – the good stuff from the lobby, not the swill from inside the hall. But she could barely see that because her eyes were locked on to his again. Deep Blue eyes that refused to surrender any details, but captured all of hers. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down, takes one of the coffees, and hands it to her.

No words

She startles at the offer, then remembers her words... "Thank you" she gushes. The caffeine is welcome, the warm smell, even more. He breaks a small grin – nods his head slightly. Then turns to leave. She quickly tries to read his name from the credentials hanging around his neck – but he is lost in the crowd before she can ask him to wait.

No "hey sexy, what's your name?"

No "what say we take a quick lunch break?"

No expectations at all – but those eyes seemed to read her more than she could ever say. He was connecting with a part of her that she hadn't felt in a very long while. That part of her that wanted to just walk away from the booth and grab him and run away and do things and say things and kiss things and fuck things and bite things and touch things and and and...

And there are still people here she has to pretend to like. So, she tried to forget him. Well, she tried.

She wasn't successful.

Because now it is the end of the day. The trade show is closed, everyone locks up their pamphlets and scatters to their hotel rooms. Drinks at the bar ("I'll have a cranberry and vodka," she tells the bartender) and now she finds herself in a lobby with the same, burned out crowd that travels from show to show. She recognizes many of the faces... hell, she is pretty sure she slept with a few of them who don't even see her tonight. She is just one more pair of legs in a sea of exhausted bodies. She is pretty sure that redhead over in the corner is going to hook up with that Asian guy she is leaning on, but only if he will stop arguing with his neighbor about iterative interface development.

Maybe I should try to hookup with the redhead she thinks briefly. A wicked smile crosses her face as she remembers her one trip to Dublin a couple years ago when she found herself surprised to wake up next to ... green eyes, tattoo on her right ankle ... what was her name?

The memory excites her enough to decide that no one here at the hotel bar is worth her time – she can take care of her own damn self. If these guys (and girls) aren't going to notice her tonight, then fuck them all. So, with her drink in hand, she spins to head toward the elevator bank...

And 5 steps later, finds him standing there, leaning against the wall. He is looking right at her.

But this time is different – She is not trapped behind a stack of marketing collateral, or swamped by a dozen guys all trying to grope her without her noticing. This time, she is free to come and go on her own terms.

The decision is made before she knew she made it.

She stands there – eyes locked with his – and tilts her head back slowly and swallow by swallow drinks every last red drop in her glass. He watches her neck pulse as it courses down her throat, and for the first time she can see that he doesn't just see her – he wants her.

Not just sex. He doesn't just want to bang one out – he wants her.

And that is what she had been wanting for months.

She finishes swallowing and puts the glass down on the table beside her, takes one more breath, and walks the last few steps across to room to where he is standing.

He is trying to be cool on the outside, but she has been around enough men in her life to see his pulse racing in his neck. She owns him and he doesn't even know it yet. She puts one hand on his arm and slowly leans in to whisper in his ear, "I never thanked you for the coffee...". Her lips brushing against his ear as she pulls back.

He says nothing – just nods as if to say, 'don't mention it.'

The decision is irreversible and she knows it now. It has been a while, but she has been her before and she knows the music and how the dance is done.

She never takes her hand off his arm, but instead slips her hand through as if he was leading her to the opera house up the street. Then confidently, as if this was as normal as sunrise, she takes him by the arm, turns him around the corner and pushes the up button on the elevator.

Doors open. They enter. She immediately pushes floor 17, but then he pushes 44. ... Alright, let's see where this is going, she thinks. The doors close and for the first time, they are alone. He doesn't slam her against the door and start forcing his tongue down her throat like that guy from Austin. He doesn't try to lift her skirt and jam his fingers between her legs like what happened in Singapore. Instead he just slips his arm around her waist as if they had done this elevator ride a hundred times before.

Smooth... she thinks. He is still trying to play this cool.

Floor 17. Doors open. He doesn't move. His arm stays wrapped around her waist. Not grabbing, not clutching, not preventing her from walking out the door and back to her own room where a predictable, and independent resolution to her tension would happen.

No one moves.

No one breathes.

She is sure she hears his heart pounding... or is it her own?

It seems to take forever – The elevator is evidently confused: Why would someone push 17 and then not leave, it seems to ask.

It finally figures it is a lost cause to wait and the doors close and the upward climb continues.

Twenties... Thirties... Forties...

He holds her no tighter, but she feels the tension so powerfully she is either going to grab him and kiss him or run screaming out the door.

Floor 44 – Top Floor. Doors open. And with the slightest pressure on her lower back, she takes a breathless step forward on out to the hall. He guides her to the right, then to the right again. The room numbers are unreadable – she can't focus on any of them. He pulls her to a stop suddenly, produces a room key and opens the door.

He holds it open and stands to the side – looking at her again. This is her last chance. She can say good night – give him a wink and a kiss on the cheek and go back to her own room. But she never really had that option and she knows it. So, she takes one last breath in the hall (make him wait for it at least), and then confidently walks past him into his room.

It's snowing outside the hotel.

She takes off her blazer (she hates how it feels anyway), and tosses it on the couch. She does not look back as she hears the door close behind her. She keeps walking towards the window.

She pulls the curtain back all the way – Floor to ceiling windows look out into the darkness. Rain is common this time of year in Seattle – Snow not so much. No one is going to look up to see one woman standing at the window 44 floors up – even if they did, the snow would blind them anyway.

She doesn't turn around but stands there facing out. She hears him walking up towards him, but she won't turn and look at him. She wants to be in control, and if she looks into those eyes, he might take the upper hand here. She reaches around behind her back and starts to unzip her skirt.

Hands stop her. They prevent her from pulling off her skirt. No one moves for a second. No one has EVER stopped her from taking her clothes off. Did he not understand what is going to happen here? She needs to get laid in the worst way and now has ended up with the one guy who is just going to talk all night? No way – This needs to stop now, she thinks and begins to turn around to tell him what is going to happen, when he grabs her shoulders and turns her back towards the snow-soaked window.

He lifts her right hand – up over her head – and places it on the glass. It is cold – the heat from her fingers fogs the surface. He takes her left hand and puts it up there beside the other one. She looks like she is under arrest – about to be searched. This is not the way to be in control she thinks.

He keeps his left hand on top of hers, then slides his right one slowly down her arm, over her shoulder and then traces a line down her spine, feeling every bone on her back. He passes the top of her skirt and comes to a stop at the zipper she tried to undo before... and waits. And waits. She doesn't move. She has accepted that this next move is his.

His right hand stays at the top of her ass. She can feel that he has the zipper in his fingers but hasn't moved it one click. But now his left hand slides off her hands still pinned to the glass. Down her wrist, past her elbow and down to her side. His fingers graze the side of her breast – he may be going slow, but his intentions are crystal clear. Now at her stomach, his had wraps around her front so he is holding her now in front and back. He has her pinned in a trap entirely of his own design.

The zipper moves.

The action is smooth, but definite. Untethered, the fabric drops unceremoniously to the floor. She never wears anything underneath her skirt except her hose and garters. It avoids lines that attract attention. But now that means that her ass is completely exposed to him while she remains with her hands on the window like a criminal.

His hands trace down her naked hips – following the seams of the now exposed garters until he gets to the tops of the stockings. One hand on each thigh looking for a non-existent pistol. He moves close in behind her. Her skin can feel him pressing against her entire length. And she clearly feels that he is ready to search her thoroughly.

Putting pressure on the back of her legs, he makes her step out of the fallen skirt. One foot, next foot... Spread those legs – her resistance is token at best. Soon she is spread wide, facing the snow fall.

He continues his search for weapons now moving back up the outside of her legs. She wishes he would check between her legs, but he leaves her aching instead.

His hands run up the back of her blouse – the silky fabric beginning to stick to her skin as her temperature rises in spite of the cold air coming from the glass. He runs his hands back down the inside of her arms circling around her to meet at her belly. The tempo pauses... she knows what comes next, but he still makes her wait until she presses her ass against him. Feeling his cock through his pants. That is the signal he was waiting for.

His hands start their journey up. Fingers begin unbuttoning her blouse from the bottom. Each button exposing more skin they reach the bottom of her breasts. Way more sensitive now than normal as a result of how long he has been teasing them. He keeps unbuttoning past her B cups until like the skirt, it falls open. Only with her hands against the window, it can't fall to the floor.

His fingers are now free to continue their search. She realizes that she chose the front clasp bra for today. So does he. In one movement, her bra is open and her nipples are exposed to the cold.

Anyone lucky enough to be standing outside the 44th floor would see her now – completely exposed from top to bottom. Her thighs spread for the world to see her shaved nakedness. Her nipples harder than they have been in years. Her face, framed by her curly hair, defiant to the voyeurs she imagines are watching... look at me, her eyes demand, even though no one from the outside can see.

He reaches up, brushing past her aching chest, over her shoulders and puts both hands over hers. He leans in behind her. She feels his breath on her neck before she feels his kiss. Her knees buckle at that moment.

He pulls each hand off the glass and guides them down to her side. Freed from being held in place, her shirt, her bra now falls to the floor, joining the rest of the clothes dumped there.

He turns her around now. She can't avoid it. He is looking at her. He is looking at her eyes.

He sees her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The snow has stopped falling a couple hours ago. The sun is not yet up, but she can sense it wants to try, even in this cloud covered city.

He is still in bed watching her as she reassembles her clothes. No point in putting the stockings back on – I'm just going to pack them in my suitcase when I get down to my room anyway, she thinks... Skip the bra as well – let them see me – I don't care who notices – my hair is a mess anyway.

She puts the blazer back on out of habit. Stuffs her remnants in the pockets. And turns for the door.

She starts to open it when...

"Wait."

Pauses. Breathes. Turns.

She looks at him.

"What's your name," he asks.

She thinks for a moment. Then walks over to the table. Grabs the pen and paper and writes. Picks up the paper and kisses it. Folds it and puts it back down.

She opens the door.

It slowly closes behind her.