“When you’re weary,” he sang. “Feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all…” Listening to the words made me feel so safe with him at a time when nothing else in my life was secure.
“You’re so special, Maggie,” he whispered against my neck, and for a moment I was clear-headed, knowing that this couldn’t happen, even though I wanted it to. I was still married-Sam was married. We were separated, but legally, we were both still committed to someone else. I jumped when I heard a noise on the stairs, thinking it was Alison coming down to check on us, but thankfully it was just her cat who sat and stared at us with glowing, yellow-rimmed eyes in the dimness. I loved Alison, we’d been friends forever, and she’d taken me in after I’d left Tom, with nowhere to go and my two small children. (It hadn’t yet been a month since I’d discovered the hotel room bills and listened to his lies.) But I admit, I’d questioned her judgment when she told me that Sam and Josephine were coming to stay for the night, because her place was closer to the airport. Sam… her beautiful, talented, wayward and often manipulative ex-boyfriend…
and now soon-to-be ex-husband of Josie… I imagined, when she’d told me, seeing the light in her eyes, that she wanted some sort of reconciliation to take place between her and Sam. She had flirted with him mercilessly all night, but he’d been lukewarm, and seemed to prefer playing and singing for me than talking to her. And now here I was, questioning my own judgment. What was I thinking?
“How long have you been playing?” I asked, thinking I might change the subject and shift our gears a bit.
“Guitars? Or women?” His lips grazed my hairline. I swallowed hard. “They’re actually a lot alike.”
“Really? How?”
“Well… a guitar really is a woman you know… she has a mouth,” he touched my lips with his fingers. “And a neck,” his hand moved down my throat. “And the shape of a guitar is like the shape of a woman… a full, sensual, curvy woman… this shape here…” he ran his hands up over my hips, dipped in at my waist, and moved up my sides toward my breasts. “Do you feel that?” his hands moving back down again. I nodded, not trusting my voice. “And you know… she needs some fine-tuning sometimes… can be a little temperamental. But when you play her well… she can really sing.” I smiled at this metaphor. He had me, and he knew it.
“Sam…” wanting to and not wanting to break the spell. “Where is this going?” I asked hesitantly.
“You tell me,” he whispered, his brushing my earlobe.
“I’m afraid.”
“If you’re afraid, we’ll stop. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
He moved so that he was kneeling in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. “You’re so beautiful. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think you were… absolutely amazing… really… I hope you know that.” I knew what it sounded like, but at 2 a.m., with a little bit of alcohol in me, and an ego that felt reduced to the size of a pea, I wanted to believe him and I did.
“I’m afraid,” I repeated, my voice and chin trembling. He kissed the tears on my eyelids.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of doing this,” I replied. “And…” I hung my head to hide my eyes, speaking softly. “And I’m afraid of regretting it if I don’t.”
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.” I didn’t know if I should believe him, but I did because I needed to. It felt incredible to have someone want me, his mouth, his hands telling me with every movement that he wanted me.
“Why are we doing this?” I asked breathlessly into his neck, his weight on me like a blanket, safe and warm.
“I want to make you feel good.” He pulled up my shirt inch by inch, following each tug with a kiss. “Making you feel good will make me feel good. What’s the harm in that?”
“Nothing.” I concentrated on his mouth moving its way across the flesh of my breasts above my bra. “Nothing, I guess.” Thinking: everything, but I don’t want to stop.
“You… are… beautiful,” he whispered, enunciating each word as he undressed, and the sight of him filled me with an incredible longing. When he was on me, long and lean, but oh, so solid, I held onto him as if I were drowning, and I was, drowning in the feelings coursing through me, conflicting at every moment. He kissed me, a long, deep kiss like I’d never been kissed before. I felt sixteen again when he led my hand down between his legs, and what I found there made me gasp in surprise. He was so large and so hard that at first, I was really afraid, but watching his face as I touched him, his eyes half closed, his breathing ragged, I gradually grew empowered.
The difference was startling-his touch, his kiss, the size and shift and feel of him, all so incredibly different and new. I’d never been with another man except my husband.
I’d never even entertained the idea. Yet here he was, and he was everywhere, consuming me. My own need began to frighten me.
“Sam, stop,” I begged breathlessly, unable to dislodge him with a push. “I can’t do this.”
“What do you think we’ve been doing?” He shifted his weight to look at me. In the moonlight his jawline was strong and firm. I tentatively ran a finger along it and he turned and kissed my hand.
“I know. I don’t mean to tease you, but…. I’m just so scared.” I was. I was fluttering, trembling.
“Shh.” He leaned down to my ear and nuzzled my neck. He needed a shave and his whiskers scraped deliciously along my throat. “Let me take care of you. I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, unable to sort out my feelings. Things were happening too fast. I felt it, and yet I was lying there completely dressed, yes, my summer skirt riding up over my hips, my t-shirt pulled up to expose my bra, but still in a state of not-quite-beyond. Part of me ached to feel the length of him against me. The other part of me wanted to straighten, rearrange, and make for my room in the basement. What in the world was I thinking of doing?
“What will happen if you don’t do this?” He propped up on his elbow to look at me. “How will you feel?”
“You know,” I said after a moment.
“Yeah, but do you?”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes as his hand slid down my side. “You want me to say it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he breathed, shifting back on top of me, and it was like coming home.
“I want to,” I whispered, opening my eyes to see his face, his eyes bright as black glass in the moonlight. “I want you.”
There were no more words then. He wanted to guide me and I let him. He undressed me quickly, no fumbling with bra straps or struggling with zippers. My panties were gone in a whisper. And I was there beside him, completely naked and exposed to a man for the first time since I married my husband. Shyness overwhelmed me for a moment, and I was thankful for the darkness to cover the heated flush of my cheeks. I wasn’t one of the tall, thin, beach girls he was used to. His wife had never even been pregnant. His hands kneaded my breasts and then my belly, generous and too soft and plaited with striae.
“Stretch marks,” I apologized as he kissed around my navel. He shook his head, breathing in deep.
“Beautiful,” was all he said. It completely filled me.
He took his time, slow and easy, but I was so far gone already that I was aching for him. His hands and mouth explored the entire length of me, his breath hot on the smooth, freckled skin of my shoulders, my soft and ample breasts, my generous belly, my full thighs. His breath tickled the dark red, wiry wedge of my pubic hair.