.
tailor-made suit. Yet he had such grace and poise. The need to piddle interrupted my reverie. Even in the most delicate of situations, some things can’t be ignored.
Actually, this gave me a few minutes to gather myself, to check my hair and makeup and to pop in my cap. I said a small thank you that I had the presence of mind to bring it. Looking in the mirror, I saw my neck had blotched and, sure enough, so had my chest. The stigma of having fair skin—it is impossible to hide a flush. It is like wearing a neon sign that flashes I’m aroused!
Pash’s well-timed detour to the loo happened while willie was being cooperative. I actually had to piss, too. I hadn’t noticed it before, what with everything else going on. Once in the room, I expected he and I would be more than a little preoccupied.
I put the condoms in my trouser pocket so they would be handy when the time came. I figured now all I needed do was let nature take its course.
Knowing it always takes a woman longer in the loo, I waited in the hall for her. When she came out, she walked right up to me and slipped her arm through mine, saying, “Shall we?”
As we went up the stairs, there was none of the twittering and fawning I had grown accustomed to in this situation. She seemed quite comfortable with the fact we were about to make love. I realized for years now that I had been bedding girls. This time I had myself a real woman.
We found room twenty-two on the second floor at the end of the hall. I had done this sort of thing before in London, but I had never felt like this. It felt very natural to be standing beside Ivan, watching him unlock the door to our room. He turned on the light as he walked in. I followed him while he waited to close the door behind me. Still with the manners, I thought as I laid my bag on the bureau.
The room had a quaint Old English feel, with a large, four-poster bed dominating the decor. Ivan walked past me, taking off his coat as he walked. His shirt looked like it needed to be wrung out. “It seems I got a bit warm again,” he said with a good-natured smile.
“Looks like you did at that,” I commented as he hung his coat on the back of a chair. My word, he looked spectacular with that shirt clinging to him. I’ve often heard how much men enjoy wet–T-shirt contests. It seems women should start a campaign for a reciprocal wet dress-shirt contest. “Do you know something?” I asked, waiting for his response.
“What?” He delivered his line brilliantly.
“I have never seen a wet shirt look so awfully good.”
I turned to see her looking at me, unabashedly admiring me. It took me a moment to recover from that one. Christ, she threw me yet again, over a damn sweaty shirt. The time had come to see if Miss Passion had been given a right proper name.
“Is that so?” I asked, pulling her up against my damp shirt.
“That is indeed so,” she replied, rubbing my chest with both of her hands.
“It seems to happen often when I am around you.”
“What, you don’t sweat when you’re alone?”
“Not like I do when I’m with you.” Still holding her tightly against me, I asked, “Now you tell me something. How the hell did you come to be named Passion?” Without taking her hands from my chest, she told me.
“According to my father, I was conceived in a moment of pure Russian passion. The day my mother delivered me, he sprinkled vodka on my head and christened me Passion, proclaiming I should grow into a beautiful Russian flower and honor my passionate soul. My mother, completely gone over this crazy Russian, agreed my name would be Passion Flower.”
While explaining my name, I could feel that now familiar ridge rising between us again. As he continued to hold me, I thought surely the heat from his body should be making that damp shirt steam. He spoke evenly and conversationally while he reached up and unzipped my dress. “I saw the F on your registration form and wondered what your middle name could possibly be. Passion Flower, huh? That is some name. Your father must be quite a character.”
“He is,” I said, trying to mimic his easy manner, even though I hardly felt calm. Since he had started to undo my dress, I started to loosen his tie.
“So have you honored your passionate soul?” he said, lowering the dress to my waist.
“I do my best,” I answered as he kissed my shoulder.
He stepped back then, leaving me standing there with my dress half on, half off. I had no idea what he was doing. He walked behind me and finished unzipping my dress, sliding it down my legs. “The zipper got stuck and I didn’t want to tear it; it’s such a beautiful dress.”
I stepped out of my shoes, and then the dress, with him still holding on to it. He took it to the cupboard and hung it up, saying, “We have to see to our clothes, considering we have to wear them home tomorrow.” I felt very exposed, standing there in my lacy slip, and very, very warm.
The look on her face when I took her dress to the cupboard should have been captured on film. I finished undoing my tie. “Could you please hand me my coat?” I wanted to see her move in that slip; it so nicely hugged her curves.
I took the coat, dropped my cuff links in the pocket and then put my coat in the cupboard beside her dress. I rather liked how they looked, hanging side by side. I just kept talking, being very concerned about the state of our clothes. I watched her upper arms turn as pink as her neck. I have seen women flush with excitement before, but not as rosy as she.
I wanted to let her simmer for a while, letting the anticipation build, so I busied myself finding the thermostat, to turn up the air. The room did seem a bit warm and promised to become warmer in just a few minutes. So, I did the gentlemanly thing, seeing to our comfort.
I also knew damn straight that I had regained the upper hand. She had no choice but to wait out my disrobing and the meticulous care of our clothes. I had also inadvertently begun a striptease for her. After the comment about my shirt, I suspected she might enjoy a little show.
After handing me my coat, she sat down on the edge of the bed. I stood facing her and, one slow button at a time, I undid my shirt. I left it open while I took off my shoes and socks. Then I disappeared into the toilet, taking a hanger with me. I explained through the door, “I best hang this wet shirt on the shower rod so it dries by morning.”
When I came out, all I had left were my trousers and my watch. I walked over to the bedside table and took off the watch, with a quick glance to check the time. Ten fifteen. I had more than an hour before they were to deliver the champagne, plenty of time for the first round.
All right, Dr. Kozak, have it your way. I sat down on the bed and waited. I saw him reset the thermostat and felt the cool air hit my back almost immediately. Bless you, I thought. Then he started with the shirt.
With each successive button, I saw more. Good God, I tried not to gape. He had the most impressive chest I had ever seen and a washboard stomach, all covered with thick, dark hair. Even with all the hair, the definition looked as though a sculptor had cut his torso from marble. Lifting all that hay, I thought as he bent to take off his shoes. He seemed to forget about me while he took care of his shirt.
I caught sight of myself in the bureau mirror, sitting on the bed, half dressed. I shivered, not knowing if the air had chilled me or if I just felt very vulnerable. Very probably, both.
Ivan finally came toward the bed, only to walk right past me and put his watch on the bedside table. Then he reached into his trousers and casually tossed some condoms by his watch. So, Dr. Kozak, you came prepared. Why should that surprise me? So did I.
I wanted him. I throbbed with wanting to touch him and be touched by him. For the last three weeks I had wanted nothing else. So my feminist nature felt indignant—she could just crack a window and get over it! I could not deny I wanted him more than I had ever wanted any other man in my life.
I remembered how I desired him in my dream, how it felt to be so close to him on Nutmeg, how he kissed me in the restaurant.