It had been 69. Soixante-Neuf. It sounded sexier as she said it, as did almost everything she whispered to him, her love and sex talk and moaning in her native tongue. He understood the sense of it, if not the literal translation. It had been slow, intense, deliciously fantastic--he barely knew her, yet somehow, there was this wet, hot, extraordinary meeting.
Somehow it had progressed from seeing each other at a meeting of international partners: a look, a checking out, an assessing and measuring of an unknown person, had gradually come to include secret smiles as they each noted finding amusement at the same points in the tediously long presentations.
As if in a dream, they had both walked out at a break point in the proceedings. It was meant to be 30 minutes for a stretch, a pee, a coffee, or time to call in and retrieve messages:all the myriad chores attendant on being "on the road" and away from home.
Without discussion or introduction, they had got on the elevator, travelled to the executive floor, each one nominally going to their respective rooms to freshen up.
At her door, she turned to him and simply said, "Come in."
There was no pretense, no verbal foreplay. She simply walked in, expecting him to follow. She turned to face him, looked him in the eyes, and stepped out of her skirt.
He was afraid to say a word, to break whatever spell this was, to make it pedestrian, or awkward, or to stop whatever magic was making this woman present herself to him as if a gift.
