I suspect I am stuck here for the night. Although, I am unable to see outside from the windowless bar, I do have a clear view of the hotel lobby. People are still arriving, stomping their shoes on the mat, shaking out their coats, trying to rid themselves of the thick wet snow.
It’s the first big storm of the winter and I’m stuck on my way home from a conference. My lay-over should have been two hours; it may well turn out to be two days. I watch as irate would-be travelers try to persuade the beleaguered desk clerk to provide rooms he no longer has available. One man appears to be imminent danger of suffering an aneurism, his face is purple, his arms wave wildly as he berates the poor clerk. I, on the other hand, am quite relaxed. Maybe it’s the martini, or maybe it’s because I don’t have anyone or anything to rush back to, but it’s most likely to be the fact I have a warm, dry room ready and waiting for me upstairs.
My bags have already been deposited, I’m showered, fed and have nothing to do until the storm passes. It’s a nice feeling, to have no where to be, no responsibilities. Forced to do nothing, I settle back into my seat, take another sip of my drink and pick up the pencil to take another stab at the crossword.
The arrival of the hotel manager a few minutes later is a welcome distraction. As it turns out, I’m not so good at crosswords. The manager is apparently offering aneurism-man a workable compromise as his face pales from purple to red. Aneurism-man moves to the other side of the lobby to convey whatever the plan is to his traveling companions.
One of them looks vaguely familiar. I know I should know him, but I can’t place his name, he’s out of context and my brain is being asked to make connections it would rather not. The martini isn’t helping. He leans over to pick up his carry-on bag. Then it hits me. We work in the same building, not for the same company but I have seen him in the elevator and once or twice in the coffee shop on the first floor. He’s has a very nice smile and a fine ass. I can’t help it, I notice these things… I’m a sucker for a fine ass.
I can quit racking my brain for his name; I never knew it to begin with. He looks over and catches me watching him. Caught looking, fairly obviously I must add, at his rear, I wave and smile. No point in hiding it. He gives a half wave back before being drawn into conversation again with aneurism-man. I try to re-focus on the crossword, but only end up re-giving up.
The trashy romance novel I picked up at the airport is the next source of amusement, it’s that or the television and I’m ashamed to say I have yet to figure out how to change the channel of the hotel set. The book will have to suffice. I pick it up and am immediately sucked into a totally unbelievable but highly entertaining account of a man carrying off the heroine to have his wicked way with her in the hay loft. I’ve always had a soft spot for hay lofts, they bring back fond memories of my one and only summer working at a summer ranch camp.
Half an hour later I’m in a state of mixed agitation; half annoyed by the heroines distinct lack of gumption, half turned on by the hero’s over abundance of the same quality. Honestly, if women would just tell men what they want without playing coy or trying to manipulate, life would be so much easier.
The arrival of another martini is a welcome distraction, especially as it is delivered by Mr. Fine Ass.
“Five across is ‘vacuous’.” he says sliding into the booth opposite me. I glance at the paper on the table, looking for five across and silently curse myself for being ... well so vacuous really. “Do you mind?” he continues, picking up my pencil and the half completed puzzle.
“Go ahead.” I say hoping he won’t have to do much erasing. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes. It’s a companionable silence, I guess. If you discount the fact, I’m uncomfortably aroused by my stupid book and he’s cute.
“My name is Miss. Jones.” I tell him reaching out to shake his hand.
“Miss Jones? No first name?”
“Just Miss Jones. What’s your name?”
“Mr. Sinatra.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I smile, so he has a sense of humor too. Cute, fine ass, sense of humor and knows what vacuous means. Practically perfect.
“Thanks for the martini.”
“You’re welcome. You’re a few ahead of me so drink slowly while I catch up.”
I raise an eyebrow. He’s planning on sticking around for a little while at least. This pleases me. Company is welcome; cute smart and funny company is doubly so.
A couple of hours later I have noticed several things, when he talks he waves his hands around. He has musician’s hands; I imagine he plays guitar or maybe piano or both. His fingers are long and I can all too readily imagine them stroking the skin on my arm or stomach or… damn that book!
Other things I have noticed or learned about him, he watches your face when he is talking to you. It’s a direct gaze which is simultaneously slightly uncomfortable yet compelling. Amusement and intelligence are evident in his blue eyes. He isn’t enormously tall but is well built; broad shoulders narrow hips and the fine ass I have mentioned several times before.
We are on our third martini, he caught up very quickly, and I’m getting a little tipsy. I wish I could handle my liquor better than this but what can I say, I’m a cheap date. My next drink needs to be a soda or maybe coffee. We have finished the crossword, talked about life, politics, religion, and many other topics you are supposed to avoid in polite company. Sometime in the last hour I moved to sit next to him. Ostensibly to make working on the crossword easier but it has allowed me close enough to smell him. He smells clean, like soap and shaving cream only. No cologne.
Under the table, our knees have bumped or brushed against each other several times. Each time I am very aware of his physical presence. And each time the ‘bump’ lasts a little longer. I know by now I’d like to kiss him; maybe more, but a kiss is a good place to start. But I work in the same building as this man, I’m not sure it would be wise to hit on him. Kissing may well lead to groping which may well lead to clothing removal and then to fucking.
The visual of us fucking pops into my head and I’m sure my cheeks color. Not from embarrassment, after all fucking is good fun and nothing to be embarrassed about; no, the color comes from the hot flash which accompanied the vision. My skin prickles, my heart rate jumps and I’m suddenly aware of my underwear and how it’s touching the more sensitive parts of my body. I can’t believe I’m being turned on by my own underwear. Apparently I’m a cheap and easy date!
The direct approach is usually the one I take and I tend to tell the truth always. I figure, if I want to kiss him I should ask if he had any objections. But what to say? Can I kiss you? Would you like to kiss me? Fancy a snog, mate?
While I’m thinking, he runs his forefinger along my arm, across my hand to trace the length of my fingers. His touch is electric. My mind is immediately made up. If touching my arm has made my pulse jump, I need to know what it would feel like if he touched my neck, my face, if he ran his hands over my hips or through my hair, if his long fingers played over my breasts and between my legs.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“At the hotel across the street.”
I take a deep breath, the worst he can do is say ‘no’. Or maybe laugh until he snorts martini out of his nose… and then say ‘no’. Although that might be worth watching. I bet it would sting!
“Do you want to stay here with me?” I ask as casually as I can muster.
He looks at me with slightly narrowed eyes. “Maybe.” he says finally.
“Maybe?” I roll my eyes then lean over to kiss him on the lips. A soft lips-closed kiss. A sensual are-you-sure-you-don’t-want-to-rethink-that-‘maybe’ kind of kiss.
“I’m going to settle the bill.” I whisper in his ear, “You think about my offer while I’m gone.” For good measure I add a few of my ‘favorite things’, then I slide out of the booth, grab my purse and make my way to the bar, hoping he is watching my fine ass as I walk away. I’m a soft, round woman with plenty of curves, most of which are still in the right places. I trust he is enjoying the view and the visual my parting words conjured.
After settling the tab, I linger for a moment chatting with the bar tender about the weather. It turns out there is another storm on the heels of this one. If we aren’t in the air by four tomorrow we can count on at least another night in the hotel. I cross to the reception desk and book my room for two extra nights just in case. When I get back to the table Mr. Sinatra is sitting where I left him.
“So?” I ask him.
“So…. I think we can go upstairs.” He has a small smirk on his face but mostly I am relieved there is no laughter or snorting of vodka martini. “I’d like to try favorite thing number three.” I grin. I would too.
Taking his hand I lead the way to the elevator. Once inside I hit the 9th floor button and turn to him.
It occurs to me, it’s a damn shame modern elevators are so fast or we could have a Fatal Attraction elevator moment right here, right now... Only without all the weirdness and dead rabbits afterwards.
If I am honest, I have often fantasized about ‘Mr. Sinatra’, there is something undeniably attractive about him. The air between us is fairly crackling with tension. At least I think it is. Who knows what he is thinking!
Which one of us will make the first move?
Me apparently. I take hold of his belt buckle and pull him towards me until we are standing face to face. We kiss. It starts as a soft gentle kiss, his lips barely brushing mine. There is a hint of alcohol on his breath, which I find enticing.
I put one hand on the side of his face and run my thumb over the scruff his chin. The bristles of his goatee tickle both my thumb and my lips. He kisses my lower lip, lingering for a second or two, teasing me. I love it. Excitement and anticipation run through my body.
My tongue traces the inside line of his lips, they part so I deepen the kiss. His hands find my ass, pulling my hips into his. He isn’t hard yet; at least I hope he isn’t hard as I can’t feel a damn thing through his pants! Making a man hard is one of my favorite things and I look forward to getting Mr. Sinatra fully erect.
He slides his over my hips and down my thighs, lingering at my stocking tops. I feel him smile as he kisses me.
Just as his finger tips reach the hem of my skirt, the elevator dings. We have reached the 9th floor. The doors open and we spring apart, startled. I laugh at myself. An older couple are standing waiting to get into the elevator, I feel a little like a teenager caught necking in the back seat of my parents car. But I tell myself I’m a grown woman with every right to be seducing another grown adult. I smile at the couple, wish them a good evening and slip past them, leading the way to my room.
Once inside my room, I close the door behind us and turn to face him. Elements of doubt suddenly creep into my mind; not doubts about what am I doing, I am more than sure I want to take this man to bed, but more along the lines of what do I do next?
