me anything, you know. We’re just making small talk.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Catherine asked. “I was rather hoping it was something a bit more.”
Jan stared at her lips as she spoke, concentrating more on how they looked than what they were saying. They were luscious lips and she watched them curl into a smile
“Tell me what you think we’re doing,” Catherine said. She reached over to take Jan’s hand.
“A second ago I would have said we were talking. Now I’d say we’re playing with fire.” Jan wrapped her thumb around the top of Catherine’s hand and lightly rubbed; she could see the little hitch in her breath. Catherine’s eyes glittered as she leaned closer to Jan.
“Because I’m technically your boss? I think Americans are much more hung up on what two consenting adults do than even the British. If we were in France, our clothes would already be off.”
Jan looked around the room. “Well, I’m not French. But I’m not concerned about you being my boss either. Not if you’re not. Anyway, you live in London, right?”
“Yes.” Catherine now had a hand on Jan’s thigh, matching the rubbing motion Jan was making on her other hand. It had taken nothing more than the sight of Catherine to flip the switch on Jan’s libido and start the march of caution out the door. Now she was unbelievably turned on. All that rubbing
“So you’ll be gone soon and we can’t really get into too much trouble.”
“Well, I’d like to get into a little trouble,” Catherine said.
Catherine leaned in for a kiss. As Jan met her lips her thinking stopped, mercifully, and her tongue found Catherine’s. A first kiss was often such an awkward thing. When teeth clanked and heads moved the wrong way and tongues felt more at war than love, Jan often felt her desire slip away. But Catherine’s mouth pressed into hers as if precision fit for it; the kiss felt like the flame of a match strike—instantly flaring and white hot. When Jan pulled away at last, she kept Catherine’s face in her hands and whispered, “My car. Your hotel.”
“Yes. And quickly.”
*
Catherine was staying at the Ritz-Carlton, an uber-luxury hotel in the heart of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Jan fought her way through the Friday night traffic on Michigan Avenue, trying to concentrate while Catherine’s hand moved up and down her thigh.
“We’ll get in an accident if you keep that up.”
Catherine’s laugh was musical, like her voice. The cello, the bow, the thrum. Jan began to turn left on Pearson Street, completely missing the sign warning that left turns were on the arrow only. Pedestrians poured into the Pearson crosswalk, stranding her in the intersection as a cavalry of cars barreled toward them on Michigan. Horns erupted as she blocked their passage.
Catherine removed her hand. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll restrain myself.”
The Ritz valet took her keys and Jan followed Catherine through one lobby, up an elevator, through another enormous and lavish lobby and up a second elevator. She trailed her silently down a long hall. The journey seemed to take forever. Her mind sagged into the certainty that the excitement of what was happening now would soon be replaced with sorrow when Catherine backed away. Not tonight, necessarily, but as soon as she found that Jan was…what? That Jan was Jan. Or that Jan wasn’t Jan. She’d always assumed that letting anyone know she wasn’t Jan would be a surefire end to any relationship, budding or otherwise. But being Jan seemed to do the trick all on its own.
The hotel room looked directly east over Lake Michigan, the carnival lights of Navy Pier drawing Jan’s eye from the dark, endless water. As she stood at the window, Catherine approached her from behind and wrapped her arms around her waist.
“I fear you’ve gone from feeling to thinking,” she said. “I can see it in your forehead. No good comes from thinking in these situations, you know.”
She
“Is that what we’re doing?” Catherine asked. “I was rather hoping it was something a bit more.”
Jan stared at her lips as she spoke, concentrating more on how they looked than what they were saying. They were luscious lips and she watched them curl into a smile
“Tell me what you think we’re doing,” Catherine said. She reached over to take Jan’s hand.
“A second ago I would have said we were talking. Now I’d say we’re playing with fire.” Jan wrapped her thumb around the top of Catherine’s hand and lightly rubbed; she could see the little hitch in her breath. Catherine’s eyes glittered as she leaned closer to Jan.
“Because I’m technically your boss? I think Americans are much more hung up on what two consenting adults do than even the British. If we were in France, our clothes would already be off.”
Jan looked around the room. “Well, I’m not French. But I’m not concerned about you being my boss either. Not if you’re not. Anyway, you live in London, right?”
“Yes.” Catherine now had a hand on Jan’s thigh, matching the rubbing motion Jan was making on her other hand. It had taken nothing more than the sight of Catherine to flip the switch on Jan’s libido and start the march of caution out the door. Now she was unbelievably turned on. All that rubbing
“So you’ll be gone soon and we can’t really get into too much trouble.”
“Well, I’d like to get into a little trouble,” Catherine said.
Catherine leaned in for a kiss. As Jan met her lips her thinking stopped, mercifully, and her tongue found Catherine’s. A first kiss was often such an awkward thing. When teeth clanked and heads moved the wrong way and tongues felt more at war than love, Jan often felt her desire slip away. But Catherine’s mouth pressed into hers as if precision fit for it; the kiss felt like the flame of a match strike—instantly flaring and white hot. When Jan pulled away at last, she kept Catherine’s face in her hands and whispered, “My car. Your hotel.”
“Yes. And quickly.”
*
Catherine was staying at the Ritz-Carlton, an uber-luxury hotel in the heart of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Jan fought her way through the Friday night traffic on Michigan Avenue, trying to concentrate while Catherine’s hand moved up and down her thigh.
“We’ll get in an accident if you keep that up.”
Catherine’s laugh was musical, like her voice. The cello, the bow, the thrum. Jan began to turn left on Pearson Street, completely missing the sign warning that left turns were on the arrow only. Pedestrians poured into the Pearson crosswalk, stranding her in the intersection as a cavalry of cars barreled toward them on Michigan. Horns erupted as she blocked their passage.
Catherine removed her hand. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll restrain myself.”
The Ritz valet took her keys and Jan followed Catherine through one lobby, up an elevator, through another enormous and lavish lobby and up a second elevator. She trailed her silently down a long hall. The journey seemed to take forever. Her mind sagged into the certainty that the excitement of what was happening now would soon be replaced with sorrow when Catherine backed away. Not tonight, necessarily, but as soon as she found that Jan was…what? That Jan was Jan. Or that Jan wasn’t Jan. She’d always assumed that letting anyone know she wasn’t Jan would be a surefire end to any relationship, budding or otherwise. But being Jan seemed to do the trick all on its own.
The hotel room looked directly east over Lake Michigan, the carnival lights of Navy Pier drawing Jan’s eye from the dark, endless water. As she stood at the window, Catherine approached her from behind and wrapped her arms around her waist.
“I fear you’ve gone from feeling to thinking,” she said. “I can see it in your forehead. No good comes from thinking in these situations, you know.”
She
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