I reached out and paused, tentative for a moment, at his belt buckle. He pulled his shirt over his head, and I leaned over to kiss his neck and bare shoulders. Teasingly, I ran my hand along the front of his zipper, feeling his response and hearing his guttural groan. His eyes rolled skyward, and a small grin formed on his lips. I smiled, my confidence restored. He ran his hands up my sides, grazing my breasts and burning my skin. I attempted to push him back onto the bed.
He smiled slyly, grasping my hips with his hands. “You can’t be in charge all the time, Claire.” He held my arms out, tracing his fingertips in excruciatingly slow circles down my torso and across my breasts. He bent his head close in an almost kiss. I could feel his breath on my skin, but he kept his palm low and warm on my belly, forcing me upright.
When his lips finally met my flesh just beneath my breast bone, I gasped. He tilted his head slightly, and I could see his smile of satisfaction. I ran my hands through his hair, my nails clawing gently at the back of his neck, as his mouth trailed hot and wet down my stomach and thighs. He paused, giving me a raised eyebrow.
I laughed self-consciously. The sound of my laughter echoing in the dim room had a clarifying effect. Time seemed to stop. I felt on the precipice of something profound; I felt alive, something I hadn’t felt in six months. Desired and desirable. How long had that been missing? Years, maybe?
When our lips met, his mouth tasted of vodka and peppermint. His lips moved in cadenced rhythm with mine, and I pulled him closer, needing the connection. I felt his nakedness under my palm, his light feathery chest hair so different than Greg’s, his smell, a woodsy, musky mixture that made my head spin. I kissed his neck, biting gently in the way Greg liked because I knew no other way to be with a man. He moaned softly, his breath coming in short bursts with a soft incantation, “Claire…” and for a second, I opened my eyes, startled. Greg had never said my name during sex, had barely said anything at all most of the time. And I couldn’t stop comparing. The feel of Will’s thick dark wavy hair in my fingers was a stark dichotomy to Greg’s short, soft buzz. Will’s leanness felt alien, his kisses foreign.
When I reached down to grip him and heard his sharp intake of breath, I once again felt in control, almost powerful. With careful precision, I moved into him, gently pushing him back on the bed, and straddled his hips. The familiar pressure as I sank onto him, dizzyingly pleasurable, brought me to the edge, and I moaned softly.
“Shh,” Will whispered with a gentle smile.
We moved in a singular rhythm together, in tune, naturally synchronized. And as I watched Will’s face, unfamiliar as a stranger’s, it occurred to me that I could be my own person, anyone I wanted to be. I felt a liberating surge of power rise up, bringing with it a long buried heat of desire. Waves of pleasure thrummed from my core. Will’s visceral cries interwove with mine as we climaxed.
Sated, I lay in the crook of his arm, our flesh moist and sticky where it met. Silently blissful. Oddly comfortable with this stranger. I half-expected him to come up with an excuse to leave, but he surprised me. Having never had a one-night stand, I didn’t know what to expect. I anticipated more awkwardness. Maybe there would have been, if I’d not known the interlude for what it was, if I’d been thinking about a future with the man. If I were single.
I realized that I had technically cheated on my husband. Mulling it over, I discovered that I no longer cared. The sex had been at least as good as the best sex Greg and I had ever had.
“What are you going through?” Will asked. His fingers traced patterns on my palm.
“What?” I looked up at him. Was I that transparent?
“Last night, you said you’re kind of going through something. And then tonight, you show up, this… lioness on a hunt.” He laughed. “So, I wondered.”
I debated on what to tell him, if anything. “My husband left me.”
He arched his eyebrows at me. “You’re married?”
“Sort of. Well, technically, yes.” I tried to stifle a giggle, which had to be from the martinis, but mortifyingly, I couldn’t. I coughed to cover it up.
He propped himself up on his elbows. “Are you laughing? At me?” He looked mildly annoyed.
“Oh, God, Will, no! Listen, here’s the whole crazy story. Six months ago, my husband went on a business trip and never came home. I have no idea what happened to him. He could have run away, or he could be dead. I found out later that he’d been having an affair, and he wasn’t really the person I thought he was anyway.” Oh, God. Information overload.