Tattoo

They were still laughing about it as she slipped the key in her room. Everyone else was still off doing their own thing and wouldn’t be expecting them to show up for another few hours. Somewhere during lunch over gourmet burgers, between the first beer and the third, they had agreed that a fake tattoo was a good idea. Given that several in the crew had real ones, maybe no one would be as surprised as the two of them imagined they would be, two beers into the discussion. But they’d managed to find a place that did pretty nice faux artwork after lunch, and she’d promised him honors of getting the first photo before the nights festivities and the good chance that it might wear off quickly.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, and she tucked a few of the other packages she’d grabbed along the way. A few beers had a nice way of numbing men’s intolerance for shopping, and she’d grabbed a couple souvenirs and gifts on the way back from lunch with little protest. She was tucking the last item in her suitcase when he came out of the bathroom, and she giggled when she looked up.

“I know it’s stupid but I totally have this ‘naughty schoolteacher’ feeling now . . . my 7th graders would die if they knew I had something like this!”

“No worries,” he said. “It will wear off in a couple days and you’ll be back to Miss Prim and Proper . . . they won’t even know the difference. Of course, I still haven’t seen evidence of just how ‘naughty schoolteacher’ you got . . . and I think you still owe me the exclusive photo op, don’t you?”

She felt herself flush, a little, hesitating. The room felt incrementally smaller, even though he was still standing in the same place. “Of course . . . has to be someone I trust. You have the camera?”

He held it up for her to see. “You still didn’t tell me where it is or what you got. Butterfly on your shoulder? ‘I heart Mom’ on your arm? Aces on your butt cheek?” He stood, smirking, waiting for her.

She laughed. “Aces on my butt cheek . . . nice. I’m sure there is a pun in there somewhere about aces getting cracked . . . but beer and burgers are making me fuzzy and I don’t have it ready for you.” She laughed again, and he laughed with her. “No silly . . . I got . . . well . . . I got a tramp stamp.”

His eyebrow arched, and maybe his smile faltered for just a second, but then he grinned. “What’s it say?”

For something silly and temporary, she’d actually debated quite a bit. Thought about getting the name of some hair metal band, to be funny. Or something equally stupid, like “Princess” or “Juicy” stamped low on her back. In the end, she’d opted for something aesthetically pleasing, with classical scrolls and loops that tapered downward in a delicate triangle. Even with a pair of low slung jeans, only a hint was visible, and was covered by her long fitted shirt.

“You have to come see . . . but over here, by the window. Lighting is better for pictures.” He walked around the other side of the bed, to the sitting area by the window. She stood next to one of the chairs, fidgeting a bit. “You ready?”

He nodded, and she turned around, lifting her shirt up in back, exposing her waist and lower back. “I only see a couple bits . . . your jeans cover most of it.” She looked back, and sure enough, it wasn’t possible to see much of the design at all. She bent over slightly, feeling a little silly, and he said “That’s a little better . . . but you’re not going to get much in the picture, you know.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Photographer genius?” she asked, straightening back up.

“Unbutton your jeans,” he responded, very matter-of-factly. Stared her straight in the eye, waiting to see if she’d flinch. She raised an eyebrow, and felt compelled to swallow. “Unbutton your jeans, so there is a little more flexibility, then lean over the chair with your back arched. That should let them slide enough to show the whole thing off.”

Her fingers went instinctively to the button on her jeans and paused; her mind went, unbidden, to another brief series of thoughts that had nothing to do with the current situation or any known reality, except that he was standing only a couple steps from her. She glanced at him again, and saw him swallow now, almost as if he’d read her mind for that nanosecond.

She undid the button, and turned around, leaning down and resting on the chair. She reached back to settle her jeans a little lower on her hips, nearly down to the lacy line of the low rise panties she wore. “Better?” she asked, looking back at him. He was staring, his breathing shallow, one hand holding the camera casually. He reached out with his right hand, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern, burning their own pattern in her skin. “Nice,” he whispered. She felt the gooseflesh start to rise.

His fingers hooked her waistband, tugging another half inch, and her skin kept the memory a few seconds longer. He positioned the camera and snapped a few shots; he’d look at the camera now and then, make a quick adjustment, and shoot again. “There,” he said, his voice softer.

She stood up, buttoning the jeans again, a leftover warmth on her skin where his fingers had brushed lightly. She exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath the whole time, which made her a little light-headed. When she turned around, he glanced up from the camera screen to her face, and she noticed a little color had crept into his face. “Very nice,” he chuckled. “Want to see?”

She moved close to him, leaning over his shoulder to view the small LCD screen. This close, she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, smell the hotel soap he’d used to shower with, mixed with the warm, yeasty smell of beer from lunch. She took a deep breath, smelling more, and reached over with one hand to tilt the camera so she could see better. She touched his fingers in the process; he didn’t move them.

He flipped through the shots, pausing to show her, and she realized he had a good eye for lighting and framing, capturing the curve of the small of her back, the intricacies of the temporary design. One particularly good shot seemed just perfect, and she exclaimed “That’s nice!” as she turned to face him. He turned at the exact same moment, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, their breaths swirling together in the small space. Until she stopped breathing, waiting. Feeling the electricity crackle, the small hairs on her neck at full attention.

He closed gap, brushing his lips against hers, testing, and her mouth responded without hesitation, brushing back, opening slightly, his top lip fitted between her own. A small noise startled her, until she realized it came from her own throat; his response was muffled as he fit his mouth tightly against hers, his arm coming up to pull her body against him. She let herself meld to his chest, let his tongue explore her mouth.

The knock on the door and the muffled “housekeeping” made them both jump and pull away. His lips were flushed against his pale skin and she had a hard time pulling her eyes away from his face. She turned and went to the door, cracking it slightly to send the hotel staff away. Certain they could hear her heart beating. She closed the door, leaning against it, watching him across the room. Waiting for the next step.

Sweet Dreams

I stepped out of the cab, and saw him standing in the lobby, the suit traded in for slacks and a sweater, topped by a leather jacket. He smiled, and I joined him at the concierge desk.

“It’s just us – he bowed out. Work to do,” I shrugged. He glanced down at my briefcase; I hadn’t had enough time to stop by my own hotel.

“Do you want to leave that here? We’re going to walk to the restaurant.” I nodded, and he said “We can put it in my room.” He turned and motioned me toward the elevator. I paused only for a second, a small nagging feeling, and then felt a little silly. Particularly when he opened the door unceremoniously, waited for me to drop it inside the door, then pulled the door shut behind us as we stepped into the hallway.

We talked about work and life as we walked, our breath making little white puffs in the night air. He’d chosen a small Italian restaurant. “It’s two now, not three,” he said to the hostess, who led us back to a small table for two against the wall. We caught up on stories; meeting his wife, dumping my crazy ex-boyfriend, living in Australia, our kids, his career, my new role. The waitress came by, decanted the wine, and proceeded to make sure we never saw the bottom of the glass until they cleared away the last of the pasta and salmon and crusted bread. We ordered coffee, unwilling to stop the conversation, and they cleared the tables and closed down the restaurant around us.

The conversation on the way back turned silly, and we laughed, over and over. I swayed in my heels, caught one on a cobblestone, and almost fell against him, catching myself at the last minute, which made me giggle more. We walked back to the lobby and as I followed him to the elevator, I had a sudden rush of heat. He pressed the elevator button and turned back to smile at me, finishing an anecdote from our previous exchange. Oh my god, I thought to myself, he looks really good. I could feel my face flush; I hoped he thought it was the wine or the flush from the cold outside. The most ridiculous thought entered my head; I hope his doesn’t try to kiss me, because I think I’d have to kiss back. Although every so often the words got scrambled in my brain, and came out ‘I hope he tries to kiss me’ in my imagination. I tried to silence the thoughts as we approached his door; he was focused on the key.

He opened the door and walked in, leaving it open for me. I tried to keep my focus, and reached for the briefcase, near the door. “So taxi down front?” I asked, pausing inside the doorway. This was it, I thought; I am helpless and can only respond to whatever he does next. Hope he doesn’t kiss me. Or that he does.

He smiled. “I’ll walk down with you.” Maybe it was just him being polite. Maybe he knew that was the safest way to spend a few more minutes together. We walked back to the elevator, and I felt slightly relieved, but disappointed, and still on edge. He walked me to the entrance, asked the bell captain to call a cab. When the cab arrived, he leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, his skin soft and warm, smelling faintly like soap. My head was still swimming as I sank into the cab, smiling up at him and waving. Closed my eyes while I gave the cabbie directions.

I don’t remember breathing until I lay on my bed in my room; a huge exhale of relief or missed opportunity, or wine and gnocchi settling in my stomach. I logged onto my email and ripped off a quick thank you. In minutes, his response came back, polite and appropriate, but signed “Sweet dreams.”

You have no idea, I thought. You have no idea.