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He’s staring at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted. No one has ever looked at me like that. As if I matter that much. As if I am that worthy.
He’s not going to kiss me, I realize. He’s waiting for me to kiss him. Another act of thoughtfulness, I suppose. Let me set the pace. Put me in control.
I place both hands on his thin blue shirt. It feels cool to the touch and forms perfectly to his long, sculpted torso. This space-age fabric probably cost more than my monthly rent, I think, but then I’m happy he bought it, because it feels good beneath my fingertips, as if I’m already touching bare skin.
He inhales sharply, but doesn’t move. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Exquisite waiting.
Has anyone ever waited for me before?
I have to stretch up on my toes to bridge the gap between us. I move my hands from his chest, to his shoulders, to the back of his neck. Then I bring his lips down to mine.
His fingers find my waist as our lips brush, brush again. Slowly, carefully, I explore his mouth. I taste him, feel him, let the sensations wash over me. And when no dark, ugly shadows rear in the back of my mind, I go deeper, hungrier, until I feel something ignite inside me. A spark long dead.
Maybe that girl I used to be, the one with the bright smile and cute little dresses and flirtatious glances, wasn’t so far gone after all. Because suddenly I’m pushing Keith back, till his legs hit the bed and he collapses onto the mattress. What am I doing? What is it I want?
To not think, I realize. To escape from my head, to have one moment when I’m not Flora Dane, victim-survivor-vigilante.
I don’t want to be.
I want to feel.
I pull off my gray sweatshirt. I remove my faded T-shirt. I start working the button of my cargo pants, then realize I must pause, kick off my boots.
Keith doesn’t move off the bed. He remains half reclined, watching me hungrily.
I stare him in the eye. Boots off. Outer clothes. My boring panties, workout bra. There is nothing sexy about my underwear. But the way Keith is watching me, right now, I can almost believe I’m intoxicating.
Do I look good naked? I have no idea. Once I stood in front of a mirror, admiring my summer tan, my taut stomach. Now I’m probably pale and bony, covered with fresh bruises and old scars. A past-her-prime prizefighter, who’s gone too many rounds in the ring. I should cover myself, turn off the light, something.
But I don’t move. I stand there, totally exposed, and let him see me. Let him see all of me.
He rises slowly off the bed. Ready to flee? Already changing his mind now that he’s seen the damaged goods?
His fingers find the hem of his shirt. He pulls it up over his head, then tosses it on the floor. Next, he removes his shoes, socks, pants. He does wear Calvin Kleins. I knew it. Then those are gone, too, and it’s just him and me, both completely naked, separate, waiting.
He’s beautiful. All rippling muscles, long, lean limbs. His skin is smooth, his chest paler than his arms after the past few days in the hot Georgia sun. He has a smattering of dark hair across his chest, leading to a thin line running down his stomach to where...
To where he definitely finds me as appealing as I find him.
I have a moment. Other pictures rise before my eyes. Other memories. An odious man, fat, smelly, vile. Grabbing my hair. Do this, do that. Myself, gagging, repulsed, revolted.
I shiver slightly. Close my eyes. Will the memories away.
When I open them again, Keith is still standing there, buck naked, watching, waiting.
And just like that, I’m over it. I will not be weak. I will not be a victim. I will not live in the past.
I’m alive. I’m whole. And this man... my fingers itch to drift across his bare skin. To feel the heat of him. I want to kiss his neck, drag my leg up his own. I want his hands on my body, clutching tight. I want his blue eyes black with hunger, his body wild with need.
I want to know I have that kind of power. I want to feel again.
I am Flora. He is Keith.
And I want both of us to burn.
I step forward. Lift one hand. Push him back onto the bed again. He falls willingly and I climb on top of him, my legs straddling his hips. I feel heat. So much of it. An inferno, already threatening to consume us. And damn he’s gorgeous. A perfectly sculpted male. Mine, I think, all mine. Then I find his lips and his hands grip my waist frantically, and the spark combusts.
