But then he pulled away and regarded her, his breath on her damp nipples exquisite torture.
“Oh no, please, more,” she whispered, but he merely covered one breast with his hand, almost tenderly, and cupped her chin so she looked at his face.
“I want to be inside you,” he muttered. His gaze held her own, his eyes clouded with desire. She could not look away, no matter how exposed she was. Words were out of the question. Lauren nodded, drawing a shaky breath.
Rafi slid his hands around her waist, found the clasp of her skirt, and loosened it. Lauren eased her hips off the seat, and he slid the skirt down, but this time he did not take care to fold it. He tossed it over the seat and Lauren forgot it as he eased between her legs.
She felt the fevered length of him against her thigh through the soft gray fabric of his trousers. She wanted him closer, she wanted to touch him, take him. Lauren pressed against him, rocked his shaft against her cleft.
Rafi moaned and a shudder coursed through his body. Lauren could feel the vibration against her.
She
had done that to him. She caught her breath at this new discovery, her own power.
Emboldened, she took him in her palm through the fabric. She had not held a man this way before. But she wanted to touch Rafi. Wanted to encircle him with her hands, get the feel of him, remember it forever.
But he took her hands away. Gently, but firmly, he folded them together and held them up, behind her, and examined her length, and she could feel his hungry stare tracing her breasts, the soft curve of her belly, the damp patch of silk clinging to the folds of her mound. Lauren knew that her thighs were flattened against the seat, that her breasts lay slack, and she longed to cover herself. Trapped in his hands, unable to move, her skin flamed under his unhurried assessment, and she pressed her thighs together.
“No, no,” Rafi whispered, and he eased his free hand between her knees, drew it up to caress her thighs, cupping the flesh and gently drawing them apart. “Don’t hide yourself, Lauren. I want to look at you. I want to see all of you.”
Quickly, he loosened his trousers. When he let go of her hands to remove his boxers, she didn’t immediately reclaim them. Instead she glanced down, and then her eyes went wide at the beauty of him.
Rafi’s skin was gorgeous, coffee lightened with cream, and here at the most intimate part of him, it deepened to a burnished bronze.
Then he lowered himself against her and she felt him press against damp silk, then slowly, almost gently, rub against her. She ached to take him inside her, but he was in no hurry. He found the top of her panties with his fingers and pushed them down a bit until his thumb circled the tiny nub. As sensation rocketed through her, he bent to kiss her, and this time she echoed his gentle thrusting with her tongue.
Rafi rubbed slowly, rocking against her, until Lauren felt she would lose her mind with desire. She felt herself come close to the edge of a precipice only to fall back again as Rafi’s exquisite touch eased and played with her. She cried out against him, felt tears at her eyes.
Frantic with desire, Lauren circled her arms around Rafi’s taut, muscular hips, and levered herself against his touch. Rafi breathed a low rumble of amusement, only to gasp as Lauren stretched her legs and wrapped them around him.
She had to have him inside her. Everything else faded away, the car, the filtered sunlight, even the tortuous explorations of his fingertips.
“Lauren, I think you are ready,” Rafi muttered, but now it was his voice that shook as he joined her own hands in pulling the thin silk panties out of the way. Lauren lowered her legs only long enough to wrestle the wisp of silk off, letting it fall to the floor, and when Rafi hesitated she found herself chanting, “Yes, now, yes,” and then she felt the velvet heat of the head of his shaft nestle into her own silken wet desire.
Lauren arched to take him inside, and Rafi did not stop her this time. He eased his way slowly until his entire length filled her, and she cried out. She had never been taken so completely, and yet it wasn’t enough, could never be enough, and she rocked against him and felt his control slipping, heard his own struggle in his labored breathing.
“Lauren,” he gasped, “You are—”
“Rafi, please, now,” Lauren breathed, and then shut her eyes as he finally complied, finally let loose the rhythm she hungered for. As he plunged against her, resting at the hilt for only a fraction of a second before drawing back again, she met his thrusts with her own.
As his breathing crested, his whispers turning to moans, Lauren tried to hold on. She tried to wait for him, but she couldn’t, as every thrust went deeper and every moan wrenched a cry from inside her. She felt herself fall apart and gave in to the explosion of pleasure, and Rafi cupped her hips in his hands and held her there, held her and didn’t let her go even as wave after wave of crashing pleasure writhed through her body.
Not even when her last cry finally died away did he loosen his hold. He arched into her and found his rhythm once again as she melted against him, and when he thrust against her one final time, she thrilled to hear her name on his lips.
They rested together for what seemed like hours. Rafi did not pull out of her, and she felt the slowing of their breathing, the return of their bodies to rest.
“I feel—”
“Did you—”
When they both spoke in unison, Lauren could not stifle her smile; nothing could intrude on the pleasure of resting in Rafi’s arms, utterly spent.
“You first, Lauren,” Rafi murmured against her ear, his voice rusty and deep.
“I just, I feel better than I have…I feel wonderful,” Lauren finished simply.
Even to her own ears, her words sounded naïve, but somehow she knew she could trust him to understand. In making love to her, he had given her a gift; she felt desired, and desirable, for the first time in ages. Shyly, she nestled closer into his neck.
“Thank you.”
Rafi didn’t speak for a moment, but instead traced patterns with his fingertips on her back.
“It is I who should thank you,” he finally said. “You are an incredible woman, Lauren. A woman of passion.”
Lauren closed her eyes and let his words echo in her ears.
But she knew she was no woman of passion. No, she was only a lonely middle-aged woman who had somehow had the incredible luck to share some stolen moments with the kind of gorgeous young lover most women only dream about.
It couldn’t last, of course. He gently eased her from his embrace, and began gathering their things from where they’d been tossed. Self-consciously, Lauren busied herself with her clothes, aware that Rafi watched as he dressed. She wished he would look away. The car seemed suddenly public, dangerous even, and she forced herself to put aside the memory of what had just happened between them to focus on returning to her world.
She glanced at her watch, as much to avoid looking at Rafi as anything; she didn’t even register the numbers on the dial.
But Rafi took note.
“And now,” he said, slipping into his place behind the wheel, “we must get you to the airport, so you can work well this week, Lauren, and be ready for me when I come for you next Monday.”
As he eased the car out of their private bower, back toward the city, Lauren gazed out the window. They passed joggers, mothers pushing baby strollers, men and women in suits flagging down taxis.
Astonishing, thought Lauren, that the city should be unchanged, when her own world had just turned upside down.
#
Thursday. One more day to get through until she could go home.
Four more long days and even longer nights until she would see him again.
Lauren groaned and rolled over, the knotted twist of sheets around her legs proof of her sleeplessness. She squinted at the red numerals on the bedside clock. One a.m. Well, there was still hope, then. As long as she could coax sleep soon, she might be able to get through tomorrow’s meetings.
Monday night she’d been up until nearly dawn, replaying the morning’s loving in slow, exquisite detail in her mind. It had been like some crazy dream, a dream more real than her life felt now. She remembered each touch, each caress, and ran her fingers over her skin as though searching for some evidence that it had really happened. Tuesday she’d lost her place during a presentation, stumbling through her slide presentation while her face burned with thoughts of Rafi.
Last night on the way back to the hotel she’d stopped in an all-night grocery for a carton of juice and a sandwich, tired of room service. As she paid, she idly scanned the rows of brightly-colored packs of cigarettes. And then she’d spotted it: the drab brown wrapper of his European brand, the pack that rested always on his console, though he never smoked in her presence.
“I’ll take those,” she’d said, pointing, before she could change her mind.
She hadn’t lit a cigarette since high school. But tonight, as Lauren watched the red numerals marching slowly through the misery of waiting, she rose and pulled back the heavy drapes, and the room was lit with the glow of middle-of-the-night Manhattan, dozens of floors below. She found her purse and dug out the pack of cigarettes, the book of matches. Fingers trembling, she broke the cellophane and tore the paper. The cigarette felt as foreign to her fingers as it looked, flecked and slim.
She lit it closed her eyes and let the smoke rise to her nostrils, and instantly it was as though he was there in the room with her. The rich, earthy tobacco was only one note of his complex scent, but it was enough. She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled, once, holding the smoke as long as she could. She stubbed the barely spent cigarette out and slipped gratefully back into her bed, suddenly exhausted beyond measure, but also at peace.
The shred of a memory of Rafi was enough, and Lauren slept dreamlessly until morning.
CHAPTER THREE
Rafi nodded his thanks as the plate slid down the counter in his direction, Odette already turning to some other customer. Five-thirty in the morning was a surprisingly busy time in this diner, tucked under the elevated trains not far from Rafi’s apartment.
He came here several times a week and had gradually become a part of the pre-dawn brotherhood. Early on he’d polished his English, joining the motley assembly for discussions of Chicago sports and politics. Later he’d made some good friends. Jake, who traded warrants on the Tokyo exchange, and was wearily on his way home when Rafi was on his way out. Paul, a first-shift nurse at the county hospital.
Odette, in her seventies, who mothered him. Hell, he welcomed it; it had been a long time since anyone had much cared about his welfare.
Rafi regarded his breakfast: two eggs sunny-side up, a biscuit, and sausage. Jimmy Dean sausage, as American as meat got. In this diner, Rafi didn’t feel like a foreigner. Even on days when he didn’t see anyone he knew, he felt at home.
Not today though. He set his fork down, took a long swallow of orange juice. No appetite. Or rather, no appetite for food.
But Lauren was another story. He was ravenous for another taste of her love. For seven days he’d dreamed of her during his long hours on the streets of Chicago, letting his practiced fingers guide the wheel on his familiar routes, speaking absent greetings to his steady customers.
In an hour he would see her again. And he was ready. God, he was ready, every nerve in his body anxious to drink her in again.
She’d have him, Rafi was almost certain. He was well trained in the feminine lexicon of desire and he had read the fevered longing in her eyes as they parted. She would be catching the later flight again today.
But doubts nagged at him nevertheless. He couldn’t quite put his finger on their source. He was no stranger to a women’s desire; he’d found himself in their sights since boyhood.
And then he realized what it was.
Since he’d first made love, at the age of fifteen, he’d realized he had a talent for communicating in the sensual language of love, the teasing give-and-take, the courting, the sly entendres. He took deep pleasure in bringing his lovers to ecstasy, second only to his satisfaction in keeping their interest with his library of techniques. He nurtured his sexual prowess as a museum curator might tend a beloved collection of antiquities, adding to it when something new and worthy caught his attention, revisiting old favorites frequently.
Young women didn't often appreciate the care he took. They wanted to rush. Or to try things they'd seen on the internet, as though he was some sort of convenient sex toy. Rafi resented their carelessness; he wanted to put his skills and passion to use with a worthy woman. But with Lauren, the planning, the control, the mastery had vanished.
From the moment her eyes fluttered shut as she met his kiss, he had not been the leader. Nor the follower. Lauren was not a virgin, not a shy and inexperienced lover; nor was she like the aggressive American performers he saw on television, revealing their flesh without revealing any part of their soul. Some other current carried her, and he’d gone with her willingly, and the reward had astonished him.
But it was different to be out of control. Different and, Rafi had to admit as he stared into his coffee cup, incredibly frightening.
But nothing was going to scare him out of Lauren’s arms. Rafi tossed a handful of bills next to his plate and went to meet her.
#
“Where to?”
Lauren flushed, the pleasure of his voice warming her even as she shivered in her long coat, the sight of him standing by the open door of the car weakening her knees. Rafi’s smile tipped up slightly higher on one side, and his eyes, even in the cold light of early dawn, burned dark and hot.
She slipped into his embrace before she had a chance to register what she was doing. He stepped aside slightly as though to usher her inside the car, but when she came near he put a hand to her waist and then the rest just sort of happened; whether she’d melted against him or he’d gathered her into his arms she would never know.
He kissed her, his lips warm and full against her chilled skin, and held her tighter. Lauren had a sudden crazy memory of a scene in a movie, an old movie where lovers are reunited at a train station after a heartbreaking separation.