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“All right.” I shrugged, waving my hand. “I accept … the whatever. The Step.”
“You accept?”
“Sure, why not? What do I do now? Am I supposed to go upstairs and put on some lingerie? Or should we just do it back here?”
His mouth fell open. I could hear Julius in my head: Why do you have to be like this, Solange? Can’t you turn off the defensiveness? Can’t you just relax and be a woman?
“We could do it here if … you want …” he said, casting his eyes around the yard, thinking. “But I should take a shower first.”
“Okay. Yes. Fine. Good idea. I’ll show you where it is. Follow me,” I said, about as seductively as a librarian taking someone to a stack of books.
He stood behind me as I tried to unlock the back door, the keys shaking in my hand. Covering my trembling fingers with his, he turned my whole body so I was facing him and pressed my back firmly against the siding.
“Solange,” he said, looking at me sternly.
“Uh … ye-yes,” I stammered, swallowing hard. I looked over his shoulder at the backyard.
“If you want me to, and only if you want me to, I’m gonna do some things to you,” he whispered, boxing me in with his hands, his eyes taking in my body.
I could feel his breath on my clavicle, my back growing warm against the hot siding.
“At first these things I’m gonna do to you might feel … awkward. But then I think it’s gonna start to feel really … good.”
I nodded nervously.
“That’s what I’m here for, to make you feel good. That is all I’m here to do. That’s my job.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Dominic,” he said.
“Where are you from, Dominic?”
“Tyler, Texas. My parents are from Colombia.”
“I knew it!”
“Knew what?”
“Your accent … forget it.” I giggled. Nerves again. Solange, relax, just let him do his job. He’s been good at it so far. Don’t kill the moment with your brain.
He stopped my nervous laugh by pressing his lips to mine, waiting a second to part them with his tongue. He kissed with the depth and flourish of someone who knew what he was doing. He kissed older, like a more experienced man. He kissed well. He kissed like he wanted this. Really wanted this. This kiss was going a long way towards convincing me that this was the right thing for me to be doing right now.
His hands grasped my rib cage, a thumb boldly traveling over my nipple, which was hardening through the silk, his mouth moving from my mouth to my ear. He smelled like a man—musky, woodsy, soapy. When was the last time I smelled this smell, this glorious man-smell?
He pulled his lips away from mine and commanded me, quietly in my ear, “Gimme the keys.”
I dropped them in his hand and he leaned across me, unlocking the door. The house was bracing cold. I had left the air conditioning on again. He dropped the keys back into my hand.
“Brrr. I hate when I forget to shut off the air,” I said, rolling away from his body into the house, feeling dizzy. I walked over to the thermostat, moved the needle from 67 to 71 degrees.
“If it were up to me,” I said, “I would just get rid of the air con—”
When I turned around, Dominic was gone. The kitchen and dining area were empty. A few seconds later, I heard the hiss of water through pipes. He was upstairs filling the bathtub! Oh jeez. It dawned on me: this was happening exactly the way I had outlined it three weeks ago as I sat at this very kitchen table. After that weird and wonderful day at that mansion on Third Street, Matilda had told me to write them down, all of them, every sexual fantasy I’d ever entertained, all the things I’d like a man to do to and for me but was afraid to ask.
For one of my fantasies, I wrote: I would like to come home and just for once have all those gnawing little tasks and chores taken care of, by someone sexy … who has also drawn a bath for me. I wrote that in the little folder they gave me. And even while I was filling it out, I had my doubts. I still thought: This is crazy, this is a joke. These things don’t happen. And they don’t happen to forty-one-year-old workaholic moms.
“Solange! Where do you keep your towels?”
