SHE NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN AFTER THAT FIRST time. They didn’t exchange phone numbers or last names; he’s never again showed up in Lily’s. Not when she’s been there and no other time, either. Don or Sam or Lily would have told her.
Instead, she has spent the ensuing years dreaming about him, dreaming about that night. She’s walked the streets of her neighborhood hoping to run into him, though for all she knows, he could have been from anywhere, from a city halfway or all the way across the country. He might live in some small town or in the wilderness. Despite the hours they had spent together, Miri doesn’t know where he might live. If she did, she might pursue it, so she feels lucky she doesn’t know.
If she thought he lived in a big city, what would she do? Travel to all the big cities in the country and spend hours wandering the streets, looking for his face, his body? What if she thought he lived in a small town? Or somewhere in the wilderness? After three years, she knows she might be crazy enough to try anything, so she’s glad she doesn’t have any idea, glad she can’t even guess where he’s from.
Instead, she does what the masturbation was supposed to do, what she’s promised herself she won’t do. She relives, again, the night he ruined her.
He commands her to sit, and she doesn’t hesitate, simply steps forward and sits down in the chair. She rests her arms on the wooden armrests, places her feet together flat on the floor and settles in.
“Close your eyes.” His voice is husky and deep and she tries to decide whether seeing him is more important than listening to that voice. She chooses obedience and closes her eyes.
She listens as he walks across the room and leans over her, his scent lush and ripe and intoxicating. He whispers, so close that she feels the words as much as hears them, “Don’t open them. No matter what, don’t open your eyes.”
Miri nods and scrunches her eyes tight. “Remind me,” she says, “because I might forget.”
“I have a better idea.”
She hears a ripping of cloth, and soft cotton, imbued with his scent, fall over her eyes. He must have ripped his T-shirt, she thinks as he ties it at the back of her head.
“Tight enough?”
She nods again.
“I’m not sure I’ll be in any condition to remind you of anything,” he says, “and I want to focus. Is this okay?” He touches the blindfold.
“Yes,” she says. “I think I like it.”
His voice moves away, lowers itself closer to the floor and she feels his hands, big and warm and callused, on her ankles. And then she feels his tongue, right there on her ankle bone, wet and supple. He circles the bone, lifting one leg to his mouth, pushing the other aside so he can settle between them.
Miri reaches for his hair but he stops her. “I’ll tell you what to do,” he says. “Just enjoy.”
She pulls her arm back and enjoys.
Enjoys the feel of his tongue on her anklebones, the warmth of his body between her legs, the sound of her breathing, his breathing. She can feel her heart beating and imagines she hears his, pumping in time with hers.
He stretches his hands around her foot and pulls off her sandal. His tongue follows his hands, a firm rasp against her sole, a quick nip at the base of her big toe, a damp tip sliding slowly between each toe.
He takes a deep breath and leans into her for a moment, and she knows he’s smelling her, the spiraling intensity of her arousal. It’s everywhere, filling the room with salt and strawberries, swirling with his own aroma, converting the very air they breathe into sex.
He removes her other shoe, arousing that foot, then pulls her legs farther apart. Another rip and her ankles are tied to the base of the chair, her legs far enough apart that he can rest his body between them.
“Okay?” he asks, his hands on the backs of her knees, pulling them parallel to the legs of the chair.
“Perfect.” A whisper is all she can manage.
He ties her knees to the chair and her skirt pulls up to her thighs. She is exposed beneath it, the crotch of her panties soaked and pungent. He ties her wrists to the armrests, her elbows to the bend of the arms.
Miri doesn’t move, simply waits for instructions, every inch of her body desperate for his touch. She doesn’t know where she wants him to touch, and she’s careful not to indicate any preference. He knows what she wants.
He runs his fingers up her thighs, stopping when he reaches the hem of her skirt. “What’s in your bag?” he asks, rattling the shopping bag she had carried into Lily’s.
“A dress. A sundress.”
“Good,” he says, before he rips her skirt down the front seam, pulling it from beneath her. He shifts his hands under her hips and lifts her up as far as she can go tied as she is. She hears him take a deep breath, then another. In, a slight moan. Out, hot breath on her panties. In, another moan. Out, more heat.
His hands clench on her hips, then lower her back onto the chair. His tongue settles on her belly, a swirl of dampness across her heated skin. When he moves to another spot—on her hip, across her ribs, underneath her arm—the wetness left behind cools her enough to bear the pleasure for one more moment without moaning.
She forces herself to sit without moving, without consciously clenching her inner muscles. She allows it to happen to her. She allows him to happen to her.
Miri has never done this before.
She has always been the actor, never acted upon. She has always been in charge of her own pleasure, of her partner’s pleasure. From that very first time, Miri has known how to get what she wants, how to get to the edge, to stay there until she can bear it no longer.
She has always known exactly what to do and when to do it, and she has done it. Always.
This time, in this hotel room, Miri is acted upon and she understands, suddenly, that there is undeniable pleasure in being pleasured. That passion can be given rather than taken.
And she doesn’t know how she will live with that knowledge.
Jack’s tongue slides down the inside of her arm, slowing, stopping at the crook of her elbow. A light nip. He doesn’t need her voice to tell him what she likes. Her body responds more quickly than she could speak the words.
Please. More.
He takes note of each shudder, each quick breath, each time her skin reddens, each time her nipples swell, her scent intensifies. It’s as if they’re linked together in some unfathomable way, as if her body is connected to his mouth, his hands.
He tears her T-shirt from bodice to hem, then from her shoulders. The air-conditioning feels good on her skin, allows her to relax even further into the chair, to loosen the muscles that had begun to tighten into the final spiral.
She never wants this to end.