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I listen to him recount the desire to have me alone, backed up against the wall, large and masculine hands wandering, exploring the naughty panties beneath my hiked up skirt. Swallow hard, appear collected and say little to give us away. The constraints of just listening and the inability to respond with anything other than a hard swallow and nipples stiffening beneath my clothes make me ache with want and heady frustration. His gentle brand of seduction makes me close my eyes, toss my head back and sigh with pleasure. And oh the dreams: they leave me tangled in the bed sheets, breathless and reaching for him in the darkest hour of my night. The morning after taste of frustration and futility cloying to the palate, as he’s not really mine to have. I’ve laid in bed with him, sweat dripping from our bodies exhausted from making love, felt him running down the inside of my thighs. I’ve closed my eyes and imagined him towering over me, fitting his hips to mine and sliding deep inside my. I even cried a little. When it was done, I forced myself off the bed and unpacked my suitcase and garment bag, hung my two outfits in the small closet area, put my undergarments and jeans and shirts and pajamas into the dresser, and sat down with my laptop at the desk to check my email. That kept me busy until 7 o’clock. * * * * I wanted to take a shower but I put that off. The more I looked out the window, the more convinced I was that tomorrow would be a total washout. The snow was coming down faster and heavier than the snowplows could clean it away. Already, I could no longer see the curbs and the snow was halfway up the concrete base of the two visible street lamps. I could no longer spot the motel down the street, and the one across from me came and went in the intervening snow. I hadn’t seen snow like this since the twin blizzards of 2010. It was awful. Marty never should have let me come here. Resigned, I re-buttoned my shirt and tucked the shirttails into my jeans. I had.
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