He stood behind me at the mirror as I blew dry my hair, his hands resting on my hips and I felt him slide inside me once again. I was still wet, and I had a feeling it would be a perpetual condition as long as I was in his presence. I watched him in the mirror. Did I expect him at any moment to turn into a frog? Most of them would. He never did. That dark, sexy look just became even more of an obsession.
He removed the blow dryer from my hand and bent me over the oval black sink, cupping my fingers around the scalloped porcelain edges, he pumped into me again and again. I stared into the mirror, watching him--watching us--the mews of pleasure erupting from between my lips as I climaxed once again.
Finally sated for the moment, when I returned to the bedroom I saw his discarded jacket. Dropping the thick white towel I carried, I padded across the room and picked it up from the floor.
I remembered how he looked in it sitting across from me at the meeting. I lifted it, pressed it to my face and inhaled. I could smell him on the jacket. His scent overrode that of the foreignness of the expensive material. I felt its rough texture against my skin. Black cashmere. It reminded me of him. Of the closed, enigmatic nature. I wondered if I now carried his scent like the jacket did? Did I wear it well?
He reached around me and withdrew the jacket from my hands. I turned to look up at him. I liked looking at him. I loved his scent. So male. Clean and yet earthy.
Months of negotiation and yet today marked our first sexual encounter. I expect it to be our only one. That's the way it usually went.
His blue eyes questioned me, his head tilted, a gleaming damp blue-black wave unfurled from the fold of rich locks. I reached up to brush it back, my fingers lingering to fondle the rogue silky strands. His warm hand wrapped around my fingers, drawing my hand down, placing my palm over his beating heart.
How long had we been here? I couldn't recall. What I did remember was watching him across the conference room table. Of admiring his sharp mind, of the wolf-wary look on his face. The way he held his body. Of wanting to stroke the black silk shirt beneath the cashmere jacket.
I remember at one point reaching across the table to pour a glass of water. Of his larger, tanned left hand covering mine. I remember the sleeve of his jacket exposing a length of thick wrist decorated with a heavy gold chain.
I remember there was no ring. No tan line. No wife.
I couldn't wait for the meeting to end.