One man, three women, tangled in a game of seduction.
No rules, only pleasure.
Extract from Send:
"Now boarding rows twenty-three and up." The announcement rouses me from my thoughts.
I should never have worn these pants. Linen—I'm sure to be a wrinkled mess by the time we land. Ahead of me, I notice a rather attractive man checking his ticket. He glances my way but doesn't look back; another side effect of closing in on middle-age. There was a time when the male attention I received on a daily basis was more than I could stand. Somewhere along the way, I started to spurn their advances, or perhaps I simply took it for granted. Now the part of the conservative, practical attorney has become the only role I seem to remember how to play and lusty eyes don't pass in my direction anymore.
Ah, there he is again. I check the ticket and as luck would have it, I'm to sit next to that piece of eye candy that caught my eye on line.
It's a short flight from Atlanta and the mid-sized jet has us in a row of two. He politely stands to allow me access to the window seat I'm thankful to have been assigned.
"Excuse me." The tight quarters have me scraping by him with a few accidental sweeps against his slim torso. My supple curves make it impossible for any other result.
He doesn't respond, but it's made my face flush a bit to feel his belt pass against my rear end, and I try to think when the last time was that Lance and I made love. I'm not sure I even remember. Now seated, I retrieve a magazine from my bag and try to relax.
I expect the flight attendant to begin her safety spiel, but she has something else to say instead. "I'm sorry to announce a mechanical difficulty with one of the stowage doors below. We expect about a thirty-minute delay while the issue is corrected." My exasperated sigh is as loud as the rest, but there's nothing to do but wait.
Next to me, the man has turned on his cell phone and is making a call. So are many others, but me, I still avoid contacting Lance. I've left the car at the airport garage and don't exactly expect him to be waiting on the edge of his seat for me to return anyway.
"Tell me how you're doing," the man next to me says into the sleek sliver phone. His tone is not particularly soft, but smoldering nonetheless. "Very nice. How many times has he called you? Eleven? My sweet Noemi, you are a goddess, do you know that? One of these days you'll tell me exactly what you do to these guys." The voice on the other line says something that makes him laugh. "I was out of town on business, but I'm on my way back … I know, can I help you celebrate now?"
I'm steadily turning the pages in my magazine and trying not to eavesdrop so obviously. He's taken one of his long slender fingers and is tracing little circles on his knee as his words become more colorful. "Spread your legs and tell me when you're ready."
I can't help a quick glance in his direction, a reflexive reaction, questioning if I've heard correctly.
The man is not daunted. "I'm going take my time to give every inch of you the attention you're due." He smiles at her response and eases back into the seat with his eyes closed. "You've come to me nude, in your most perfect form, smelling sweet; the scent beckons me. In your presence I feel my senses ignite, making me want to experience your body in every form of the word."
I'm taken aback to say the least. The conversation he's having is certainly a private one, absolutely none of my business. But he makes no attempt to speak any more softly when I conspicuously clear my throat.
"I want to touch you. Do you grant me permission?" A moment later he says, "Thank you. My fingers can't get enough of your skin. It's so soft, so warm. As you stand in front of me, I slide them slowly over your collarbone, just my fingertips sweeping softly over your delicate frame. Your graceful neck extends in response to my touch and I can't wait to run my tongue over the path where my fingers have already been. But not yet. I first must give the rest of you the proper consideration. The sight of you, Noemi, makes my mind go blank of anything else."
How easily he winds his words around his tongue. The woman on the other end of them must be beside herself, wishing he was there with her. The velvety tone of his voice only adds to the effect and though it's not directed at me, I find my own temperature rising from his efforts.
"Onto the soft curve of your shoulder and round to your full breasts, where your nipples respond to a slow caress of my finger. I see you shiver a little. It makes me happy to please you. Are you pleased?" he asks.
I hear a throaty "Yes", and I'm shocked to know that he's put his call on speaker, the volume just loud enough for my ears to decipher the word among the background noise of the plane. Mortified, I'm not sure what to do. Looking up from my magazine, I find him looking right back at me with serious eyes and only the beginnings of a dimple forming in his olive-skinned cheek.
"You are the most beautiful," he breathes into the mouthpiece, his eyes locked onto mine. "I see many beautiful women every day, but you, Noemi, are the most beautiful, because I cannot have you."
The things he's saying are making me uncomfortable, but not for the reasons I purport with an indignant sigh. This complete stranger is intentionally taunting me with every sentence, and it's working.
It's not his audacity that has my blood boiling; it's the uncanny way that he has me wanting to be that girl on the other end of the phone. I don't need a high priced therapist to tell me that I only want the things that aren't easy to get, and that I'm easily bored once I have them. It’s the reason I am so successful in my career and such a miserable failure at relationships.
This man isn't speaking to me, he's speaking for me; tapping into my most secret flaw—I love to want so much more than I like to have. There's no getting up and switching seats; the plane is full. Yet there's no denying that I am riveted by his every word and there's no escaping my elevated heartbeat or the sudden quaking between my legs.
