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That Questioning Look - Ch 2

One look from him STILL makes me wet... but now I get to own him a little, too
Author’s Note: This story takes place following “That Questioning Look” and is meant to be read in sequence. Any comments would be welcome and very much appreciated. Special thanks to RTNorth, author… and editor… extraordinaire… though he doesn’t call himself one! You rock, brother.

That Questioning Look – Chapter 2

I’m back on the road again, ostensibly for work, but my mind is going somewhere else entirely. Six months ago, I went away on a conference, and came away with far more than just a reference manual and a Powerpoint presentation. I’d had an incredible encounter with one of the instructors that has been indelibly etched into my body and mind. I’d be kidding myself if I told anyone that my pulse wasn’t increasing with every kilometer I drive. I’m trying to distract myself, singing along loudly to a collection of CDs I’ve brought with me, but any song with even remotely sexual connotations has my thighs clenching together as I drive. I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to concentrate on this next conference. I don’t even know if he’s instructing again… and I’m not certain if I would be disappointed or relieved, if he isn’t. We haven’t seen each other or communicated in any way in six months.

I finally pull into the hotel, the very same one as the last time, and I’m assaulted with memories. I was so bored with my life, when last I was here, so restless and unsure of where this vague dissatisfaction was leading me. The last six months have been much worse and have taken their toll, both mentally and physically. Work wise, I’ve been succeeding beyond anything I’ve ever done before – when I returned from the last conference, I threw myself into every aspect of my job, and professionally, it’s paid off in spades. Personally, my relationships have been suffering greatly from my apathy and lack of attention. I’ve lost weight, because most food has simply lost its appeal. I’ve been craving sustenance of another sort.

After checking in, I head for the elevator to bring my meager luggage up to my room. I hadn’t been paying attention when the hostess handed me the card key, so when I glance down to check the room number, my stomach drops and I stumble a little. Room 422… someone Up There is obviously having a hell of a laugh at my expense! Unbelievably, in a hotel with four floors and hundreds of rooms, they’ve given me the exact same room as the last time. When I come off the elevator, I walk down the hall to the dreaded room and slip in the card key. I stop dead, as soon as I enter, and jump when the door snicks behind me. My first impulse is to turn right around and leave. Everything about this room is horribly, achingly familiar, and I know I need to go somewhere to clear my head. I have a feeling I’ll only come back when I absolutely have to, and pray that I’ll be so exhausted that I’ll drop into an instant slumber.

I succeed in distracting myself for quite a while. The beauty of this conference being only six months later is that the weather is now sunny, cool and comfortable, with the advent of spring. Little towns like this one blossom in the spring like a maiden on the cusp of womanhood; no one could fail to be moved by the singing birds, the blooming flowers, the buds opening on the trees and the fresh crisp air. Everyone I pass as I walk around town can feel it, too; people are more cheerful, more indulgent and more tolerant of their fellow man, with the weather so pleasant. I walk for hours, stopping for coffee along the way, until it’s dark and I have no choice but to head back. Spring in this part of the country is chilly when the sun goes down, and my fleece sweater isn’t quite warm enough to keep out the stiffening breeze.

But back at the hotel, I realize I’ve just been delaying the inevitable. Unlike the last time, I know exactly why my skin feels tight; I know precisely why my heart rate is erratic and my stomach feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with a lack of food. As I step into the room, glaring impotently at the room number as I walk through, I almost jog to my suitcase in the corner. I unzip it with unsteady fingers and flip it open, to reveal a selection of toys and an enormous bottle of lube lying on the top of my clothing. I pull out my familiar pink vibrator, and, with shaking hands, a smaller purple vibrating butt plug. The butt plug, combined with this room, has me almost hyperventilating. I purchased it right after the last conference, when I returned home, and haven’t been able to have an orgasm without one ever since.

As I shake off any further self-delusions, I begin a ritual that has kept me sane for six months. I step out of my shoes and strip off my clothing, dropping it heedlessly and uncharacteristically to the floor. I’m already lost to myself in memory and fantasy, and this room, this room, with its hotel smell sends me past the point of any other awareness. I pull back the covers and crawl onto the bed, breathing deeply through my mouth. I can feel my pulse everywhere – in my lips, at the base of my throat, at the tips of my nipples and in my pussy. As I touch myself, I’m almost dripping, I’m so wet. I spread the wetness on my nipples, and they pebble in the cool room. I grab both tits and squeeze, feeling the wetness on my palms.


I take my pink vibrator – a silicone, jelly-like creation with a very realistic phallic shape and head, if somewhat lacking in size. Attached to it is a model of a small animal with a long tongue, designed to vibrate against the clit when the pseudo-penis is inserted. I rub the head against my clit, moaning in anticipation, before filling my pussy with its length. I turn it on a low vibrate, making sure the little attachment is lodged firmly in the lips of my pussy and held flush against my clit. My eyes close, and my memory takes me back… I remember sitting on a chair, and at this, my eyes snap back open, and I search the dim room… there it is… that chair. He was seated in it and I was astride him. I wanted to take my time and explore him, but he wasn’t having any of that, and he pulled both hands behind my back to hold them in one of his. The other hand he used to pull my hair so my head was pulled back tight. I’m on my knees now, with my vibrator upright and underneath me, and my hips are pushing down, harder and faster. Frantically, I remember I had packed a dark blue silk scarf… not for a fashion accessory. I slide off the bed, my vibrator still inside me, and pull it out of my still open suitcase. Back on the bed… where…where…? THERE! The knob on the headboard is more than enough. I wrap one end of the scarf around my hair and the other around one of the knobs on the headboard. I’m on my knees again, facing away from the headboard, vibrator back upright underneath me, and now… I lean my head forward, and my hair catches and pulls. Not exactly the same, but enough that I can feel my juices starting to drip down my thighs. Yeah, I think to myself, just like that…I’m panting… and remembering…

“Now what are you going to do?”

God, that voice! And I’m again sliding up and down his turgid length, lost in lust and want. What am I going to do, indeed? There are only so many things I can accomplish on my own, but I know exactly what I want next… the one thing that has become a critical component to my sexual existence.

My hips still gyrating, I take my lube and squeeze a generous amount on both hands. With both hands on my ass, I massage both cheeks, squeezing hard and sliding my fingers into the crack. I’m moaning, my breath is catching in my chest, but with my eyes closed, I can almost feel the heat of him behind me. I didn’t say much, before, I was so overwhelmed by him, but now, lost in my fantasy, I can say whatever I want…

“Oh, god, baby…yes, YES… fuck, get it in me!”

My legs are starting to quiver, my pussy is grinding feverishly on my vibrator, and I’m covered in a sheen of sweat. I finally grab my butt plug, the clincher to sending me completely over the edge. I soak it in lube, turn it on and it slides easily, oh, so easily, up my asshole. I toss my long hair out of my face, and let everything go.

“Ohh, yes, fuck me… FUCK ME… oh god, pleasepleaseplease, I’ll do anything, give it all to me…”

I’m sitting on my calves, my vibrator inside my pussy, the small attachment against my swollen, rigid clit, my butt plug is pushed deep inside my ass, and I finally, finally feel the crescendo building. My hands have been supporting me on the bed, but at this point, I sit straight up, further pushing my toys inside my body, and grab both tits, shaking and squeezing them, imagining larger, rougher hands… I swear I can feel hair on a sweaty chest against my back, hair from his bush rubbing against my ass. I tip my head forward, feeling the scarf pull again, and I’m imagining a stronger grip, pulling and controlling me.

At this last thought… controlling me… I’m pushed over the edge…

“Ah, ah, ah, ah, oh god, yes, YES, YES, baby, COME ON, fuck, come in me!”


I feel the surging heat in every cell of my body, a swelling rush that explodes outwards from my very centre to the tips of my fingers, my toes, the top of my head. My mind shuts down as the orgasm takes me under. I collapse on the bed; with trembling hands, I slowly reach behind me to undo the scarf from my hair, and then turn off the vibrators. In my throes of ecstasy, I’ve pushed the butt plug out, but when I pull out the pink vibrator, it’s completely soaked from my juices alone. The wet spot I’ve left on the bed is the diameter of both of my hands, spread out… another thing that happens only when I’m alone, now, and only when I think of him. I lay on my stomach to catch my breath, too blown out to think of the implications of what sent me so far, so fast. My body, now bereft of the stimulus of my toys, is still humming, still needing, and my hips still flex and stretch into the mattress. Though it seems vaguely incomplete, like always, the knife edge of my raging, burning want has been blunted just enough, so I can drift off to sleep.

The next morning, I drive to the conference centre. I still can’t make up my mind whether I want him to be there or not… and the tension of not knowing had me nursing a travel mug of tea on the way in, my stomach not up to anything else. As I enter the auditorium, once more smiling and greeting familiar faces, I find a place to sit. I spend a few anxious minutes tapping my pen on my thigh, when the conference coordinator finally comes in the room, to get things underway. She is followed by her half dozen or so instructors… and my stomach clenches. He isn’t one of them. In a strange way, I’m relieved. Now I can totally concentrate on the conference and not on a preoccupation that has turned into an obsession.

After a productive morning, a few of my colleagues and I head to a small local pub for lunch. We’re laughing, talking about our jobs and families at home, and making fun of one of the instructors who we’re all convinced talks through his nose, when another small group of people come through the door of the pub – laughing, shoulder-punching and obviously all friends. I’ve just finished a superb plate of pan-fried haddock and am on my second glass of wine, my stomach hurting from laughing at yet another impression of our very knowledgeable, nasal-voiced instructor. It’s been a perfect morning, and eating lunch out with these women who have become friends over the last two conferences has me more relaxed than I’ve been in months.

I glance over at the bar… and feel the colour drain from my face. There he stands by the bar, in attractive but casual clothing and surrounded by other men. All I can see from here is his profile, but I could instantly pick him out of a crowd of a thousand, could they but fit in this room. Within seconds of seeing him, it’s as if I’ve tapped him on the shoulder or called his name. He turns his head right away towards our table, and his gaze collides with mine… and holds. When my friend and colleague sitting next to me makes a joke, I turn my attention to her, laugh weakly and try to hide my trembling hands by taking a sip of wine. What kills me is that I know I’m as transparent as my glass of white wine to a man standing across this room; he stands there almost dispassionately staring at me… and now all I’m doing is looking for an easy exit.

I’m not going to get one.

His expression relaxes, his eyes become warmer. Still holding me prisoner with only his eyes, he raises his eyebrows with that questioning look… my lips part in a quick exhale, my hands clench on my thighs, and I know I’m soaking wet. He almost imperceptibly inclines his head toward the bar, indicating that I should come over. Like every other interaction between us, I’m helpless to do anything but what he wants. I excuse myself to my friends, as casually as I can manage, saying vaguely that one of the men is an acquaintance I haven’t seen in a while. Acquaintance… well, that’s one way of putting it. I take a steadying breath and make my way to the bar. He smiles, and opens his arms for a quick hug, as if I really was just a friendly acquaintance, and my heart almost stops. He smells and feels exactly the same.

“Hi! How’ve you been?” What a scintillating conversationalist I’ve become!

“Well. Yourself?” He’s twinkling at me again, as always, amused at my sad attempts at normal social interaction and my denial of the blatantly obvious. “You’re here for the conference again,” he continues, making it a statement rather than a question. No denying the obvious for him.

“Yes,” I say breathily, “I notice you aren’t instructing this time.” Wonderful. Obviously he was never attracted to me for my intelligence! Why can I never get it together around this man?

“You’re looking really good,” he tells me, and I flush with the compliment. “How’s work been?”

“Thanks, I’ve dropped a few pounds, and I think it’s entirely thanks to work! We’ve been working on this new project for months, and the information you gave us at the last conference has been an enormous help.” I’ve grasped the discussion of work like the lifeline it’s been the last six months and once again, it comes to my rescue. I’m able to tell him more about our project at work, a database that promises to enable us to have essential data reports and real-time statistics at the tips of our fingers and cut our workload almost in half. I think he’s interested almost in spite of himself, and the two of us are engrossed in conversation for about twenty minutes. Before I know it, my friends are grabbing jackets and purses, and heading for the bar to pay their bill.

“You should go, since your friends are leaving,” he says. Then, his voice drops and he almost whispers, “What hotel are you in?”

My head snaps up; I look right into those amazing eyes and tell him the name of the hotel… the same hotel as before. Before he asks, I tell him, “422.”

At that, his eyebrow quirks, and he laughs, “You’re kidding!”

“I only wish!” I laugh back. My stomach is still dancing a tango, but I’m relieved that we’re able to talk and laugh together… more relieved that I can be in his presence with some degree of dignity.

As I start to walk towards the cash register, he asks quietly, “Sleep well last night?”

“Not hardly,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed, no longer smiling. He steps closer to me… too close.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. I look up through my eyelashes. “I’ll call you,” he says with quiet promise. Against all common sense, I hold that promise close, and head back with everyone else to finish off our afternoon.

Unfortunately, with this new encounter and the thought of what might come later, I’m robbed of the focus I’d had that morning. The conference has moved on to syndicate work, which involves small teams, or syndicates, working together to solve various problems in proposed scenarios. My contributions are lackluster and flat; this is a far cry from my enthusiastic participation in class discussion that morning. Thankfully, no one seems to pay too much attention, but one of the women with whom I’d had lunch asks me about my “friend at the pub” when we have a quiet moment. I give her the same story as before about him being an old acquaintance, but I can tell from her expression that she isn’t quite buying it. But however well my “old acquaintance” seems to be able to read me, as if I were written in large print with colour illustrations, to anyone else, I’m completely opaque; I’m able to brush away her doubt with confidence. I only wish I could don that armour of confidence around him, because I know I’ll need it to hold my own with what’s to come.

At last, the afternoon is over, but I’m determined that this time, unlike the last, I plan on leaving an indelible impression on him, such as he has left on me. I make plans with a few of the women from my syndicate for supper. I very deliberately walk to my car, drive the speed limit to the hotel and head to my room. After a quick shower, instead of dressing down, I decide to pull out the heavy artillery and dress up. I pull a simple, black, mid-thigh length sheath with spaghetti straps from its hanger, apply a touch of makeup, mostly to accentuate my eyes and lips, and pile my unruly, long hair artfully on the top of my head, leaving a few curls to fall by my face. As a finishing touch, I slip on ridiculously tiny, high-heeled, ferarri red sandals. For a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, I decide I clean up pretty well. With that, I throw on a short, black trench coat, grab my little handbag, and head out to catch a taxi to meet the girls.

Three hours later, full of decadent filet mignon, garden salad and death-by-chocolate cake, the taxi drops me off in front of the hotel. With a smile still on my face, I tip the cabbie and head inside, buzzing with just the other side of too much red wine, and three hours of a great time out with friends. I catch my reflection in the mirrored door of the elevator and see a well-dressed young woman with a flushed face and bright eyes; though I wonder where this carefree creature has been the last six months, I’m suddenly very glad to see her. I give my reflection a wink and a grin, just before the doors open. When I walk down the hall and slip the card key in the door of room 422, it somehow feels a lot less intimidating than when I first arrived.

In my room, I slip off my shoes and am just about to take down my hair, when the phone rings. Though my stomach flutters, I narrow my eyes in challenge, as if he could see me… then take a quick breath, before walking over to pick up the receiver.


A deep, hauntingly familiar voice replies without preamble, “Are you busy?”

I can’t help grinning, my stomach tightens in anticipation as I fall back on the bed, twirling my fingers around the phone cord. “Not particularly,” I reply, only a little breathless. “What’s up with you?”

But he ignores my attempt at flirtatious conversation and gets right to the point. “What’s your cell phone number?”

I hesitate for just a second… but I know deep down, I’ve always known, that I would do or give anything he asks, and I’ve been waiting for this moment for six long months. I give him the number, and damn the consequences.

It doesn’t shock me when the phone in my hand immediately goes dead, and seconds later, my cell phone rings.

When I answer, he again goes right to business. “I need you to walk to the hotel lobby. Keep your phone on.”

“Okay,” I whisper. Keeping the phone at my ear, I pause at the end of the bed, before sliding my panties down my legs and kicking them off with one foot. I feel a slight tremor go through me at this act that feels almost defiant. Then I slip my siren sandals back on my feet before heading out the door.

He hasn’t said anything, but I can hear him quietly breathing; even as I descend in the elevator, I don’t lose reception. I’m sure he has no problems hearing me breathe, either, as even to my ears, it’s deep and loud. Although I’m nervous, my traitorous body is already preparing itself as my pussy gushes, soft, wet and willing; the feeling is far more apparent in my little dress, with no panties.

As the elevator opens, I tell him, “I’m in the lobby.”

“Walk out the door, and walk towards the right hand side of the parking lot.”

As I walk out the door, phone still held to my ear, I hear him inhale, ever so slightly. I wonder… can he see me, yet? My tiny high heels click softly on the pavement, and the devil in me adds a little extra swing in my step. I hear it again, though it’s barely audible… yes, that was a quiet, though sharp, intake of breath. He can see me.

“Look for a black Dodge pickup,” he says, his voice a touch lower than normal.

I see it. Now my heart is pounding, so I can almost feel it in my throat. That old, familiar flight, fight or sex feeling is back again, and the rush is intoxicating. When I see his shadowy form in the driver’s seat, I click my phone off, and approach the truck. He doesn’t move when I reach the passenger door, open it, and climb in. His scent completely permeates the interior of the truck, and I breathe him in. I feel the wetness between my thighs get decidedly wetter. I get wetter still when he slightly raises his eyebrows at me with that questioning look again.

“I didn’t tell you to hang up.”

I shrug and smile in response. He starts the engine, and we drive away. His radio is off, and it’s dark outside, though the moon is full, so there is nothing to distract me from the power of his presence. He at least has a steering wheel to keep his hands busy, while mine twist in my lap.

But since the only thing to watch is him, that’s what I do. I turn my body slightly towards him, angling my left knee as close to him as possible. At first glance, he appears completely relaxed; he has one arm resting on the top of the steering wheel, the other resting on his door, elbow hanging out of the open window. He has that masculine sprawl behind the wheel that I’ve always loved. However, when I continue to stare at him, I notice his left hand is clenched in a fist. My gaze wanders up to his face, and his jaw seems tight. It’s like he’s holding himself under rigid control.

It dawns on me: I’ve found the armour of confidence I’ve so needed, to pit myself against this all-consuming personality. He’s dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, and the incongruity of my slinky black cocktail dress and bright red heels has just made this moment far more carnal than if I had been dressed more simply. I don’t know where he’s taking me, or how long it will take to get there, but I decide it’s time to initiate the proceedings, to see where it takes me.

My seatbelt makes a soft click as I remove it, and I slide over close to him. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. I put my right hand on his thigh, and trail my hand upwards to his cock, which is straining the fabric above it. Knowing his phenomenal control, I don’t feel the slightest worry that we’ll go off the road, but I can’t resist this, touching him, owning him just a little, while he’s almost powerless to stop me. I open the snap of his jeans and slide down the zipper, until I’m able to slip my hand down the front of his briefs.

We both breathe in sharply… oh, god, he’s as wonderful as I’ve remembered! I lean down and lick the head of his cock, which is all I’m able to get free, and slip my tongue in the slit to taste the pre-come. I work my tongue all around the head, under the crown, with quick flicks against the frenulum, and his hips jerk instinctively, restrained by the seatbelt. I feel the truck accelerate slightly, and its power feels like it’s mine. I pull as much of the shaft of his cock as I can, to get my hand around it, and slide the other under his ass. One hand buries itself in my hair, pushing down slightly on my head. I think I’ve surprised him with this, as his control isn’t as perfect as I remember; his breathing is heavy and loud in the truck; he can’t seem to help trying to thrust up into my mouth, restrained as he is. I wish I could pull all of him into my mouth; his taste is the opiate I’ve remembered, and I’m now so addicted, I could drink from him all night. He doesn’t give me that option. The truck suddenly slows slightly and turns onto a dirt road, still going much too fast; he curses quietly, but I can’t help but grin, even as my mouth continues to work him.

The truck pulls to a sudden, dusty stop, and I know my time of being in control has just come to a halt, just as quickly. When I sit up, I see what looks like a small cottage or hunting cabin in front of us, and woods all around, but I’m not given a chance to see much else. He rips off his seatbelt and hauls me onto his lap, facing him, puts both hands in my hair and kisses the breath out of me, rubbing his tongue with mine and filling me with his drugging taste and scent. In desperation, I pull my dress up around my waist and push myself against his cock. When he feels my naked pussy against the head of his nearly freed member, he pulls back sharply to look at me. All teasing, all amusement has fled; the only expression on his face is naked hunger.

He opens his door, and swings his legs out, with me still on his lap. He grabs his jacket with one hand, then, with prodigious strength, he carries me, with my legs wrapped around him, to the back of his truck. Holding me with one hand under my ass, he flips open the tailgate, places his jacket down, before setting me down on top of it. Without words, he pulls me to the edge, pushes me flat on my back, then leans over me. Parting me with his fingers, he licks me straight up my slit, and I cry out. He licks and sucks around my clit, sliding his stiffened tongue in my hole, doing everything but what I so desperately need, and I’m going crazy with want. Finally, he takes my clit in his mouth and slips first one finger, then two, into my asshole. When he hums against me, I explode in a furious orgasm… I know I’ve filled his mouth with my juices…oh, god, I’ve waited so long for this!

Giving me no time whatsoever to recover, he pushes his jeans down and pulls me even more forward. Both of us panting, he lifts me over the head of his cock. Carrying me just to the side of the truck, he pushes me back into it and drills into me hard, grinding his hips in a circle and relentlessly pounding me into the cold metal. The moon peeks through the trees to illuminate us in a pearlescent glow, and the quiet of the night is broken by the sounds of flesh slapping together over and over, our frantic breathing, and my cries and moans. There’s something wildly primal about this that is so incredibly, powerfully sexual… being slammed up against his truck when there’s a cottage right in front of us is the most arousing thing I’ve ever experienced. He couldn’t wait until our clothes were off; he couldn’t wait another second to fuck my brains out and I’m absolutely loving it. With my clit rubbing against his abdomen with every thrust, in no time, the pressure is building again, and I go over with a scream, depending on him completely to hold me up, when I cling damply to him in the aftermath. He leans into me for a moment, pushing me even harder against the truck to give himself a rest from holding me all that time. My head is tucked under his chin, but he’s still hard inside of me, so I know we aren’t finished yet.

He gently lets me down, pulls up his pants without doing them up, and leads me to the front door of the cottage. When we get inside and he lights a dim lamp, I see that it really is more of a hunting cabin, but the double bed in the corner looks more than adequate enough to me. He heads right for it, pulling me with him. I pull my dress over my head and he sees me standing there with nothing on but my silly red sandals.

When I go to take them off, he whispers, with the ghost of a grin, “No, leave them on.” I can’t help but blush, but I do as he says.

When I curl up on my side on the bed, he reaches into the drawer of his bedside table and pulls out a bottle of lube. He gently rolls me over onto my stomach, then leans over to whisper hotly in my ear, “Are you ready?”

God, am I ready! In answer, I get up on my knees and elbows, and glance over my shoulder with the smokiest look I can give him. It’s all the encouragement he needs, before covering my ass and his cock with copious amounts of lubricant. I’m still a tiny bit nervous, as no one has done this to me in six months, but the anticipation has been killing me now all night. He finally slides the head of his cock in my tightest hole and time simply ceases… oh, my god…YES! It’s much easier this time, and in seconds, I’m pushing back against him, taking everything he has to give me.

His pace picks up; our harsh breathing, his gritted out encouragement and the wet slapping sounds in the room are the most erotic things I’ve ever heard. Once again, he’s overwhelming me, owning me in a way no one else ever has. As he pounds into my ass, he grabs my hair, pulling my head back tight. One of his hands slides down to my clit, and that little extra bit of stimulus has me racing for the heights for the third time tonight. He can feel it as I clench around him and my cries get louder and more frantic.

“Are you going to come, baby? That’s it… come on…” His hot breath is in my ear and his warm, sweaty chest is rubbing against my back… oh god…

“Yes…yes…YES!... NOW!!!” I scream, from the pit of my soul. I come in a rush that’s almost painful, tears rush to my eyes, and he’s moving so fast behind me that all I can do is take it, sobbing, until he shouts to shake the walls, shooting his enormous load into my ass. We collapse on the bed, exhausted, his heavy, full, wonderful weight pressing into me, and my mind is blissfully blank. I still feel his cock in my ass, and he flinches a little as I involuntarily clench around him, from the aftershocks.

What could have been minutes, or maybe an hour later, he asks me in the silence, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

It was pretty intense, at the end, but I didn’t want him thinking my tears were from any kind of pain. “No… god, no… you didn’t hurt me. That was… incredible,” I tell him.

He seems relieved, and smiles at me. A real smile, nothing superior or sardonic in it, something he’s never done with me. To my surprise, it lights up the dim room.

But I know this interlude is coming to a close. Everything about it has been longer, more… powerful… than before, but our personal circumstances haven’t changed in the last six months. We know this thing between us can never go anywhere, but we can’t seem to help ourselves when we’re in the same vicinity for any length of time. But I have a premonition that this time we’ve just had will be the only one, during my visit here. I don’t care… it was worth every hot second of it.

I make things easier for him by finally whispering, “I should go.”

Without speaking, he slips away from me so I can sit up, and we both get dressed. The drive back to my hotel is quiet, like before, though thankfully the silence is peaceful, and even companionable. He stops at the doors of my hotel, and I turn to him.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“Thank YOU,” he replies, in a perfect echo of our last goodbye six months ago. He smiles at me gently, obviously remembering that moment as well as I do.

I give him a hug, without clinging, and press my lips to his cheek in a soft caress. I then get out of the truck and walk through the doors, without a backward glance. There’s something about this whole thing that has left me a bit uneasy, though I can’t think for the life of me what it is.

Back in my room, I’m still ruminating, as I finally take off my sandals, let down my hair and peel off my dress. I hold the dress to my nose for just a moment, breathing him in again, before putting it back on a hanger. I wander into the bathroom, naked, still thinking. In the shower, as I almost regretfully wash his scent from my skin, I still can’t put my finger on it.

Finally, I set my alarm and crawl into bed, as I’m completely exhausted, both mentally and physically. I vow to get to the bottom of whatever it is, in the morning. After I pull the crisp sheets and blankets over me and turn out the bedside light, oblivion sweeps me under in a matter of moments.

In the morning, to the blast of the clock radio, I shake myself awake. I stretch luxuriously, feeling delightfully stiff and sore, and wish I could just laze around in bed. But there is still a day a half to go for this conference, so I haul my ass off the mattress and get myself washed and dressed.

I’m about to go out the door, when I realize I left my lip gloss in my little black handbag, the one I carried last night. It’s sitting on the chair, where I carelessly tossed it last night as I came in. When I open the bag and pull out my lip gloss, I notice a small piece of paper, folded in half, that I don’t remember putting there. I take it out, and open it up to read it.

My heart stops dead in my chest. There is no greeting or signature. On the paper is simply his name, a cell phone number and an email address. Now I know why I felt so uneasy last night.

This isn’t over yet…

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