“Scotch and soda?”
He smiles at my unexpected contribution to his monologue.
“I don’t know that scotch and soda actually cause a chemical reaction.”
“Maybe not,” I admit. But now I’m thinking about the cool, mild sting of the scotch when he had dabbed it between my legs, I remember the taste of it on his tongue.
Chemistry.
“I love him,” I say again. The sun is getting higher in the sky. I feel it beating on my shoulders. A small bead of sweat rolls down from my hairline. It’s the sun I’m reacting to. I say the words to myself. It’s the sun . . . not the heat.
“I almost believe you,” he says. For a moment I think he’s hearing my thoughts as well as my words.
“You should believe me.” I brace myself, find my courage, and tear my eyes away from the horizon to meet his. “I have never lied to you.”
“But you lie to him.”
“I love him,” I explain. “Everyone lies to the people they love. They’re the only ones worth the effort.”
“Then you must love yourself very much.”
Something catches in my throat. I don’t know if it’s a giggle or a scream.
“Does Dave love this freckle as much as I do?” He stands again, puts his finger on the freckle that rests above the scoop neckline of my shirt, right where my breast begins to swell.
“Do you shiver when his hands slide to your waist, when his hands slip underneath the silky fabric of your top?” His hands are on my waist; his thumbs slide underneath the bottom of my shirt so that they now press into my flesh.
“Does he make you tremble when he pulls you to him.” His hands move to the small of my back and apply just enough pressure to move me forward, into him. “When he lifts you up.” I’m in his arms; my feet are lifted from the ground as I cling to him. “When he takes you—” He’s carrying me down into the cabin, through a kitchen, a living room, into a bedroom. . . .
And just as he predicted, I shiver.
He has left his words on the deck of his yacht. In the cabin there is just the sound of each one of our breaths mingling together to create a pressing but jagged rhythm. As he lowers me onto the bed, I forget. Dave, my work, my ideals . . .
. . . and I remember . . . the kisses, the taste of him, the feeling of him inside me.
I exhale as my shirt falls to the floor; my bra isn’t far behind. I gather the blankets beneath me into my fist as he grazes his teeth over one nipple, then the next.
Some feelings are almost too strong. They can’t be harnessed. Some desires can do nothing short of overwhelm.
I arch my back as his hand slides up the inside of my thigh.
I can’t think. . . . I won’t think. . . . Just the quiet scent of his aftershave screams seduction to me now.
My pants are still on but they might as well not be. They offer no protection from the heat of his touch as he presses his hand into me.
His radio is on, playing softly through the speakers—classic rock; the genre fits him. He’s the grit of Jimmy Hendrix and the eerie mystery of Pink Floyd and the groovy elegance of the Doors.
He has the top button of my waistband undone; I feel my pants loosen as he pulls the zipper down and the air on my thighs as he pulls them off of me.
“Stairway to Heaven” is fading into something else . . . ah yes the Rolling Stones. It’s “Ruby Tuesday.”
Rubies.
My eyes open and suddenly I can see, not just the room around me but the path I’m on. I reach down and cover his hand with mine just as he’s about to pull my panties off of me.
He pauses, hoping that the gesture isn’t the stop sign he senses it is. But I keep his hand still, gripping it firmly, not with passion, but with resolve.
“Kasie,” he says, looking into my eyes.
“I love him,” I say. The boat sways ever so slightly; Mick Jagger croons good-bye to “Ruby Tuesday.” “I love him . . . and that’s not just a feeling, it’s a decision.”
“You’re choosing prison over the unknown.”
“We’re all in some kind of prison,” I point out. “But I can pick my cage, and the cage I’ll live in with Dave is gilded.”
And with that, I pull away, sit up, and reach for my bra, the remnants of his touch still warm on my breast, my body still aching for him; my devil is still pulling me toward him. . . .
But I’ve made my decision. This is not my place. Robert is right; he is the unknown. And I reject the adventure of discovery. Maybe my life with Dave really will be a sort of prison but it’s the Ritz-Carlton compared to the dingy prison of my guilt.
“Don’t go,” he says.
I whirl around. I’m still wearing nothing but my undergarments but I feel an invisible armor building up around me, shielding me from the attacks of temptation. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why me? Is it that you want what you can’t have?”