The White Terry Robe

Author's Note: I had trouble categorizing this one. It's probably somewhere between Erotic Couplings and Non-Erotic, depending on your expectations. Furthermore, depending how much latitude you grant me, it may be considered Non-English as well!

*

Four seventeen showing on his alarm clock and he's been awake for an hour and a half. Too early. Go back to sleep. But he is too keyed up. She's in his head. Lying in bed he can't shake the thought of her. Unable to relax, mind churning hotly. Images of her run like a film in his mind. The terry robe as white as heaven. Her brown eyes burning. Her hands reaching. And then it's ruined, all of it. Her fucking brother!

Go to SLEEP! But in his mind there she is again. His first day with the company. In a committee room being introduced to his new staff but seeing her in the outer office through the open door. She's walking the length of the floor toward the room. Stunned by her, his mind is blank while his boss speaks and his new staff look on.

It's the way she carries herself, elegant, her posture. Foot in front of foot, her hips swinging slightly as if she is on a fashion runway. Her colouring, shining black hair to her neck, a hair clip giving her hair shape but not itself a focal point. The colour of her cheeks, just enough makeup to highlight her eyes, natural looking, clean and fresh.

She is dressed at the limit, almost too chic for the office. She wears a blousy, flowered shirt fitting loosely, autumn colours. The top buttons are undone, a deep vee exposing her collarbones and the black lace of her camisole. She wears a black leather skirt, perfectly tight, framing her hips and thighs. It seems short but really it's her legs, long and slim. Instead of pantyhose she wears opaque black tights. High heels, expensive looking.

In an instant, watching her come toward him, feeling her steal away his own life and capturing him into hers. Losing awareness of his surroundings, the passage of time, his own behaviour. Immediately she becomes all there is in his world.

She has noticed his smitten stare through the door. A crooked smile, almost a sneer as sees him staring. As if she's saying, "Go ahead and look. Go ahead and want. But do you dare?"

"Hello." He is acknowledged. She turns away, heads into one of the private offices.

The movie of her plays itself over and over again in his mind. He sees her in slow motion, can picture the part of it he wants, her hands, what she carries, the buttons on her shirt. The shape of her hips. He hears her voice.

Stop it. No. Get some sleep. Calm. Calm. Nothing in my mind. Nothing in my mind…

How she looked days later at the pub with some others after work. A friendly invitation to the new guy. Introductions all around in the loudness, but who can remember? Her name's what, Dammy? Can't be. Must be Danny, Danielle. I can't hear. He listens for her name again to be sure, to get it right. She sits across the table from him. He listens to the others, telling their stories. Dammy, yes, it is. They're calling her Dammy.

It's Dress Down Friday so she's wearing jeans and a brown jacket over a beige t-shirt. Her hair is down, falling over her face. She brushes it aside, but not always right away, letting it obscure her face, her expression, showing just a part of it. She brushes it, flips it away.

She crosses her legs under the table, the toe of her shoe grazing his calf.

"Did I just kick you?" Something in her voice, the hint of an accent? Her crooked smile.

"I might not sue." A flirt. Trying to be cool, but it suddenly seems so lame, a line stolen from a movie. Damn! Hope she doesn't know it.

She looks down at her drink and her hair falls. Raising her glass, holding it to her mouth, he sees just one beautiful, brown eye, a sparkle in it. Mirth? Mockery? When she lowers her glass her lips are smiling. Her upper lip, on the right it has a small twist, what might be mistaken for a sneer. He stares, unaware, unaware of what she thinks. She sweeps her hair from her face and he is spellbound.

Deep breath. Another. Sleep. Think about breathing. Nothing else, nothing else. Lunchtime in the company cafeteria. She wears a chocolate brown suit, expensive. She wears her clothes well, a tailored look.

"Dammy, is it?" and without waiting for her response he sits. Her makeup is minimal today. Beautiful. So beautiful. Her smile captivates him, her unique smile. The twist that becomes more visible as her smile widens, something unique, eye-catching.

They ride the elevator back up to the office. The elevator is full so they must stand close, arms brushing, pressed together. He breathes in her scent, a hint, barely there. Clover. He turns to her again, wants to caress her face with the backs of his fingers. He wants to feel the smooth softness of her skin. He imagines how it would feel, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, to undo her buttons and slip his hand over her breast, to cup her breast in his hand.

Lying in bed, he begins to stroke his hardness with his fingertips, long and slow. Four twenty-nine. Some sleep. Need sleep. But she is in his mind again, her face appearing in his open office door. She leans, holding on to the door frame. He sees her blouse fall open, the strap of her bra, the swell of her breast. His hand grips his cock firmly.

"Coming for lunch?" Yes. Walking to the elevator, people stare. She is so beautiful. She is with him.

No. Stop thinking. Sleep. But now they are back in the pub, the same pub, alone for a drink after work. Not really a date. She drinks red wine.

"It's actually Damia, French. So Dammy or even Dams." The accent, French.

"Everybody calls you Dani? Danielle?"

Her eyes widened. "All the time," as if she were impressed that he'd think of this.

"Mean anything?"

"Does yours? Con? Conrad?"

Before they go he asks. "Can I call you for a date? I think we could… I really like you." He has blurted this last, feels embarrassed. But it is the truth, how he feels. A little spark in her eyes? Maybe. "That would be nice." She writes the number on his palm. A nice smile, comfortable, familiar. A euro-kiss, two pecks, one side, the other.

"See you tomorrow," and she strides away. Again, watching her carriage, tall and confident, he sees her body move, illuminating the night, scattering her charisma over the sidewalk.

The reel of his mind spins forward. They are on the date, meeting in front of the movie theatre. He first sees her from behind, jeans and a t-shirt. The jeans are worn, threads only below her back pocket. Do I see skin? Black high-top shoes, white laces. He calls her name to not startle her and she spins with a smile. The t-shirt, Pearl Jam, Toronto 2006. She wears loop upon loop of beaded necklaces. She has punked her hair, uneven pigtails, chaotic, three he thinks. Heavy mascara, her eyes are darkly outlined, smoky. She looks funky, edgy, fabulous. The beads. He imagines the beads draped over her naked body. One hand at her mound loosely covering her there, the other at her breast, caressing, stroking her nipple. She is waiting for him…

He takes her to see the early show, hard to pick the film. Something with substance but not difficult. Sitting in the theatre with her, holding the popcorn until it is finished. Then, taking her hand in his. Her beautiful hand, long fingers. He plays with her rings, sliding, turning. Intimate. She turns and smiles, a peck on his cheek. On the screen the actors make love. Beautifully, erotically filmed. What is she thinking?

The goodnight kiss, her arms around his neck, his hands at her waist. On tiptoes she kisses him once, twice on the lips. The feel of her lips on his.

Her lips on his, over and over in his mind. Four thirty-six. Damn. His fingers circle lightly at the head of his cock. His hips thrust involuntarily.

A new scene jumps up to him. She opens her door a crack, the chain bisecting her face in the dim light of the hallway. Her eyes are bright, excited. Her hair falls over her face as she looks down to unhook the chain.

He had called her, a dinner date maybe. But she had paused on the line. His heart had sunk. No? She's ending this? Ending us?

But then her voice, words that surprised him.

"How about this? I give you the list, you buy the food and I cook. My place. Deal?" Laughing at him over the phone, knowing she has caught him off guard.

And he had been, completely surprised and excited. It would be intimate, inside her apartment, knowing how she lives, seeing it. Her kitchen, her bathroom, her domestic style. Her bedroom?

The meal was last night. He sees it all again in his head. She leads him to the kitchen where he sets the groceries on the counter. Her face beams over a glass of white wine held up to him, toasting. He can't take his eyes off her. Fitted red shirt with the cuffs flipped up for work, black slacks, black heels. She scolds him to get out of the way as she cooks so he stands in the kitchen doorway. She bends to move an oven rack and his eyes roam over her body.

Watching her work, washing the vegetables, expert with the knife. There's something in her movement, her suredness, her comfortable physicality. She moves gracefully, efficiently, enjoying herself. She starts a running commentary as she works but soon they're on to other subjects. He grins when she realizes she's emphasizing a point by wagging the knife at him.

"Non. I should cook the food, not you, n'est-ce pas?", laughing.

"Je suis déjà chaud." His high school French uncertain but he thinks he got it right: I'm already hot. She covers her mouth in mock alarm at his naughtiness, comes to him with a quick hug and kiss, then back to work on their meal.

He sits across from her as they eat. There is nothing sexier, watching her work her mouth over the food. Opening wide as the food passes her lips, watching them close softly over it. Kissing the morsel, sucking it through her lips. Her tongue peeks at him, dancing for him wet and dainty. To kiss her lips, to offer his tongue and have her respond to it. Sliding his tongue softly with hers, tasting her, the softness of her tongue, her lips.

Reliving the frustration he opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling in the darkness.

"Excuse me just a minute," she says afterward, as they're washing up. Excuse me just a minute. Excuse me just a minute. The image in his mind is her eyes as she says it. He sees them in close-up, the deep liquid brown, something there, her unknown feelings, a decision made but feminine vulnerability as well. Excuse me just a minute.

In his bed the image of her, she has stolen back to him, in the doorway posing. White terry robe, her weight on one leg, the other, naked, peeking out to her lower thigh. Her hands move to the belt, tugging it as if to loosen it.

"Leave that." Their eyes lock, a crackling connection in stopped time. "Come. We'll take a shower." He feels the rush of blood, a heartbeat.

The air shatters. Her buzzer. The look on her face, the disbelief, anger. Her face winces, eyes closed. Fury, stomping to the door. "Who is it?" Her chest heaves.

A male voice. "Dammy. Let me in. I need to talk. Damia. Let me in." A male voice. Who is it? She is with another man. His emotions explode. Anger, heartbreak, despair. No. Please no.

He hears her groan as she holds the button, buzzing loudly. Buzzing him in. Buzzing him in? She's letting him in? Now?

"My fuckeen brudder!" Her accent amplified in her anger. Her fists slam to her temples and she tucks her body down into a squat. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK", louder each time.

"I'm sooo sorry." She's pleading forgiveness, desperate for his understanding. No, no, no worry. Ok. Ok. He's not another man. Not another. But fucking now! Why fucking now! Bastard!

She gets redressed in a hurry. The introductions are a blur. He remembers the awkwardness. Her brother's problem is trivial, could have waited until morning. She yells at him in French, tries to get him to leave. But the mood is broken. In his mind he sees the look on her face at the door as he leaves, anguish as she apologizes. Behind her, her brother says goodnight, cheerfully. Tears come as the door closes between them.

His alarm shocks him awake. Asleep? I was asleep? He glances at the clock. An hour, only an hour's sleep.

~

His day at work is a complete waste. There is only her, she is the only thing. His mind, his universe, Damia. He tries to read, can't. He listens but doesn't hear, babbles in conversations. The white terry robe. Her hands drawing it open, offering herself, offering herself to him. Her brown eyes penetrating him.

He sees her from across the office. There are no others in the world. Their eyes connect over the distance, hold for a second, but she breaks it off. Embarrassed? He approaches her but she turns away and he thinks better of it. What would I say anyway?

She stays out of her own office, won't be trapped by him. At his desk he feels flushed, overheated, holds his face in his hands. He can't shake the mental image, the two of them under the stream of hot water. She's soaping her hands, lathering his chest. They kiss. He feels her belly pressing against his erection, her soapy hand reaching for him. No. No. Her fucking brother.

At home he cooks but only picks at his food. He feels frantic for her, strung out by her but so tired. The images of her fade in his exhaustion and he fights to get them back.

His phone rings. Damia? It's her. A pause. Neither knows how to begin.

"No. Don't," he says. "I'm coming over."

He is on fire. In the cab he can't tell if the sirens are real or in his head. Heading into her building, he can't remember the ride over. Her brown eyes, inviting.

He presses the numbers. She says nothing, buzzes him up. A young couple rides up with him. They lean close to each other, smiling into each others' eyes. They kiss. What if I weren't here? He pictures them stripping off their clothes, laughing, making love. He steps off the elevator before they do, leaving them to fuck.

Down the hallway her door is ajar. He feels his breathing, shuddering, heart pounding. He swings the door open and steps inside. She is not there. What's that sound?

Suddenly she emerges from the kitchen and faces him. White terry robe, leg extended, her naked leg offered to him.

"Shhhhh."

Her hands hang briefly at her sides while he takes in this picture. They move to the robe's belt. She tugs at it, loosening it. Her eyes are on him. He sees an almost imperceptible smile, the crooked curl of her lips. Her hands rise up to the robe, separating it slowly. It frames her naked breasts, small and lovely. She lifts if off her shoulders, lets if fall to her elbows, catching it there. Lowering her arms, the robe falls to the floor.

They step into each others arms and kiss deeply.

The sound. The shower is running.