Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(41)

My skirt is around my waist; I feel the tight twist of my hair loosen. I grasp his sculpted arms, press my breasts against his hard chest. He’s so strong, this man-child of mine. He’s built like an athlete. Like a runner.

We roll over the hard floor and I pull desperately at his belt. Nothing can separate us. I want to be connected to him in every way. I need to take him inside of me, inside where he can feel safe.

His pants come off. He’s ready for me, needing me. I feel his erection pressed against my hip as his mouth continues to explore mine as if he’s never kissed me before, as if each kiss is fulfilling a dream.

And when he enters me I’m the one who cries out. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this. How much I’ve been wanting to make love to this man, Robert, the man Mr. Dade never lets anyone see.

I feel his lips on my neck now; his touch is so warm, his heartbeat so strong, as strong as mine. The rhythm pounds together in an enthralling and discordant beat.

And then he stops; still inside me he puts his hand gently against my face and looks down into my eyes, his own gray eyes wide in wonderment, like he can’t believe he’s here, with me, making love to me without his mask, without my shield.

And the love I feel pouring out of him . . . it makes me cry and then laugh as he imitates my earlier actions, kissing away my tears.

And he moves again, moving his hips in circular motions, hitting every spot as he holds me. We’re so quiet now. No one standing outside the door would be able to hear. This moment is private, special, and so earth-shatteringly beautiful.

I squeeze my thighs together so that I can tighten myself around him, feel every ridge, savor the friction. He turns us on our sides and I intertwine my legs with his. Our bodies are clasped together like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. He presses inside me, grinding against me, our arms are wrapped around each other. Lightly, I run my nails down his back and he kisses my cheek, my forehead, my hair.

My head is buried in his neck as the orgasm comes, rolling through me like a slow wave. Yes, I’m the ocean again but this is not a hurricane. This is the wave that beckons. I arch my back, shuddering as I give in to it.

In that moment, as he comes inside of me, whispering my name, showering me with loving kisses, I feel the culmination of our devotion pounding through me. I feel him collapse against me, his passion finally spent.

And in that moment I wonder, is this yet another beginning?

The thought should scare me but it doesn’t. Nothing could scare me right now. Not now as I hold Robert in my arms, feeling his warm, uneven breathing against my skin. No, there’s nothing to be afraid of here. Here, in this moment, there is nothing to run from.

And we stay like that for what seems like forever but is probably only minutes. Just the two of us, holding each other in tender silence.

It’s not until I hear Barbara return, hear her drop something on her desk, hear her chair screech across the floor unceremoniously, that the moment begins to fade. The golden hue dissipates. The hard floor begins to feel uncomfortable against my back.

And something in Robert changes, too. He stiffens and without his moving a muscle I feel it. I feel him pulling away.

I don’t say anything when he gets up. I don’t speak as he pulls on his clothes, tosses mine to me.

He won’t meet my eyes.

“You should tell Mr. Costin you’re not quitting after all,” he says. “He won’t give you a hard time about it. I’ll see to that.”

His words are mechanical but that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that the things he’s saying . . . it’s as if the whole conversation that led up to us naked on the floor, making love, it’s as if he’s erased that whole conversation from his mind. Or perhaps more accurately, it’s that he’s letting me know he will never acknowledge it again. He’s telling me that any moments of truth, any glimpses I may get of the man underneath the ambition, will never be more than that: moments and glimpses. They will never last. They will never influence the greater narrative.

I pull on my shirt. I’m so tired, so incredibly sad. “I’m leaving this job, Robert.” I’m still sitting on the floor. I look up at him. He stands above me, once again taking on the posture of a king. “I’m taking a new path,” I remind him. And then I add, with just a spark of hope, a dose of pleading, “Will you come with me?”

He looks down at me but he doesn’t meet my eyes. It’s so odd because just minutes ago he looked so young and now he looks so very old. “Do what you need to do,” he says, his voice heavy, despondent. “You’ll land on your feet, you always do. You are one of the few who can take any path and still lead the race. But me? I’m not so versatile.”