At That Hour by Janet Eckford

I
     
    Lauren could feel him watching her as she left the Irish Pub where she’d gone to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with some of her friends—waiting just there beyond the shadows but never actually making his presence known. There was an awareness between them that kept her attuned to his every move, like a link in some invisible chain that now bound her to him.
    Inside the stuffy confines of the pub, the feel of his gaze across the bare skin of her shoulders was like the softest of caresses. She imagined his fingertips lightly trailing along the slope of her shoulder toward the ridged lines of her collarbone and dipping down to caress the soft swell of her breasts. Shivering at the thought of such an intimate caress she headed in the direction of her apartment.
    It was a short walk to her little bit of sanctuary, but she’d had to stave off concerns about her taking the journey alone. She couldn’t have anyone else with her tonight because he would stay neatly tucked away in the shadows, never crossing her doorstep if there was another with her. That wouldn’t do because she had plans for her silent observer. Plans that involved not the caress of his eyes on her but of his hands on her body, those strongly muscled hands that could be just as cruel as they were kind. Stroking her until she purred with satisfaction and completion.
    As she moved further and further from the sounds of revelry and cheer the silence of the night seemed to engulf her. There was a stillness that only heightened her awareness that he was out there, watching and waiting, tracking her with focused intensity that caused her body to heat and liquefy into a puddle of sexual awareness. She often wondered what that focused intensity of his would be like in the confines of her room, without the distractions of the world to interrupt.
    Lauren shivered as a soft breeze whispered across her skin and she thought how nice it would be when it was his hot breath there instead. Blowing on skin cooled after the exertion of the friction their bodies would make with one another. Would he use his tongue to gently lap at the salty sweet taste of her skin or would his lips instead make promises to her flesh that his words could never express?
    She wanted to run those last few feet to her doorstep but she didn’t want the chase to end so quickly. He’d stalked her for hours and to give in so quickly wouldn’t be the proper reward for all his hard work. Instead she forced herself to go slow, to place one foot in front of the other and count the steps until she was home. It was blissfully torturous in its non-fulfillment and it made her wonder if he’d make her wait when he had her writhing beneath him begging for release, keeping her balanced on that fine edge of completion as he stroked and caressed her body relentlessly.
    The sight of her apartment almost made her cry out with joy. She was so close to coming, thinking about him doing all the naughty things she had planned. Pressing her key into the lock she paused, listening to the night sounds. She knew that he was there, silent and patient, hoping that tonight would be different, that she would finally broker a full invitation instead of her initial one given in haste.
    The thrill of her “what if” coming to life made her want to prolong the inevitable just a little more. Maybe she should let him wait in the shadows he loved so dearly and continue to watch her from afar a few seconds more. Or should she wait until he was in her bed, hot and heavy in her hand, desiring to be wrapped in the warmth of her mouth to see the limits of his patience? Would she tease him, gently stroke him with just the tips of her fingers or would she use the tip of her tongue instead? She imagined watching his body arch with unspent desire as she finally gave him what he wanted, what they both wanted. Stepping through her doorway, she knew she couldn’t tease and withhold at this point in their silent little game of cat and