I'm trembling ever so slightly as I shift my weight on my black heels. I've no way of knowing which crowd of deplaning passengers will be your crowd, so I scan each face, looking for you.
I see you a split-second before you see me. You're dashing; the navy blazer hugs your wide shoulders and cuts in at your waist, emphasizing your masculine shape.
I'm glad I opted for slightly dressier wear than my usual jeans. My long black skirt is modest but clings to my hips and rear in just the right places. My top is white, demure, but anyone looking closely would notice the hint of the black bra underneath and the deep décolleté subtly shadowed by the mandarin collar. My dark auburn hair is long and loose. The wolf whistles and cat-calls from the boys' high school soccer team I walked past in the parking lot suggest I look pretty good.
You have a backpack over your shoulder and a duffle in your other hand and still you manage to envelop me completely in your arms.
Our embrace is brief but electric. A quick kiss, full of promise.
You hold me close to you as we walk toward the parking garage elevator. We've gone but a dozen steps when you stop suddenly on the concourse and grab my face, turning me toward you for a full open-mouthed kiss, heedless of the crowds of people around us. My legs shake, I feel you hard against me. I wonder if we'll make it to the hotel.
We break apart enough to move and continue to the elevators. I'm briefly disappointed that we don't get the car to ourselves but revel in the rising sexual tension.
You're sweet, chivalrous, protective as we walk through the airport. You laughingly tolerate my insistence that I know where I parked and are gentlemanly at being proved right in the end. You balance me as I catch my heel near the curb and call me honey. It feels like you're taking possession of me, and I'm surprised to find I like it.
I give you the keys to my Explorer. You look at me as I slide into the passenger seat, glancing down as my skirt rides up my thigh. The gaze you shoot me is smoldering, demanding.
We make it out of the airport, heading into the city, talking quietly while you drive, holding hands, touching each other over the arm rest between the bucket seats.
I think we're both surprised when we decide to stop for dinner, but the conversation is just as stimulating as the caresses are. We're enjoying the anticipation, the foreplay, the relaxation.
You take us to a cool little bar, an old speakeasy. You order for us both. We talk, laugh, drink. Every so often, I drop my shoe under the table and run my foot up your leg. Every time I do, you devour me with your eyes.
It's warm, clear. We wait outside for the valet to come back with the truck. I stand behind you, my arms around your waist, my four-inch heels bringing the top of my head to your shoulders. You hold my arms tightly against you, I lean my cheek against the broad expanse of your back.
A man walks past us and stops. He says he's Navajo. It's like something out of a script, a lucid dream. He calls me beautiful, tells you you're lucky. You agree with him, and he serenades us briefly with some pop tune from our high school years. I'm dizzy, lost in this reality, desperate with desire, while fate, karma, and destiny whisper in my ear.
