A Taste of Pleasure by Antoinette

home safely, and she was not alone. She unlocked the door and headed straight for the laundry room. He followed behind.
    â€œWe’ll fix up that gash in just a minute. First, let’s get out of these clothes.” She peeled off her soaking-wet jacket and suit as he looked on. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he said as he flashed a complimentary grin. He caught himself and felt a tad bit guilty for thinking this way at this moment. He stripped away his wet garments too. He was built like a lumberjack, with broad shoulders and abs of steel, humbled only by his tousled, wavy blond hair that hung just above his piercing blue eyes. Even though he wasn’t her usual delicacy, just the sight of himhad her steamy already. Her flame was rekindled—just that quickly—and she recalled just what it was she had seen in him so many years ago. She tossed their clothes into the dryer and threw on a robe, handing one to him with his wallet and keys, and ordering him toward the bathroom with a smile.
    She sat him down in the chair at the dressing table in the bathroom and retrieved her first-aid kit. She pulled up a chair in front of him and nursed his wound. He groaned and winced a bit. She giggled and teased him as he flinched, but she took her time, gently stroking as she cleansed the skin around his cut. He wriggled around at her touch, their robes sliding back and their bare legs brushing against each other’s. His breathing became a little quicker, and his eyes sparkled at her. She applied the bandage with a little pressure and sealed the moment with a small peck of a kiss on his cheek. He smiled and she knew he was captivated all over again. So was she.
    â€œNow that you’re all patched up, how about some coffee?” she asked.
    â€œThank you, and yes, that sounds great.”
    They headed down to the basement to the soda bar. She giggled as she pointed to the reproduction rotary dial pay phone that hung from the wall.
    â€œYou can call from there while I make our drinks. You don’t need coins for it. It only looks like a pay phone.”
    â€œThanks.” He chuckled back. He pulled up a stool and took out his wallet. He dialed each number and waited as the dial rotated, eyeing her with one eyebrow cocked and a smile. She fired up the espresso machine and began whipping up two hot caramel mocha lattés. As Max sat on hold with roadside assistance, he checked out the surroundings. The room had a 1950s theme, with red shiny seats on the stools that lined the old-fashioned soda shop counter. Three gooseneck chrome-plated handles for the soda bar shimmered, accenting the historical Coca-Cola signs and matching metal chairs adorned with the logo at four small round tables positioned around the center of the room. The floor was black-and-white checkered tile to complement the tiled backsplash on the wall behind the counter that outlined a huge mirror.
    The entire room reflected in the mirror, and he could see numerous photos of classic cars hanging from the walls, and Betty Boop smiling down above him. Beside him was a vintage jukebox loaded with 45 rpm records offering a trip down memory lane with an assortment of melancholy music to choose from, mostly from Grams’s musical archives. He leaned against the machine, making arrangements to have his truck towed.
    â€œIt’s all set. They will get to it as soon as they can, but the driver said it could be a while as they’ve had a lot of calls tonight,” he explained as he made his way over to the counter, watching her putting the finishing touches on their lattés. “They’ll take my truck to a nearby garage about three miles away, and I can just get a cab home soon.”
    â€œOr you could stay, and call one in the morning after the storm clears,” London said as she handed him his coffee.
    He smiled. “Sure, that would be great. I just don’t want to impose on you any more.”
    â€œMax,