Nora
I’m lying in bed, trying to read a book to distract myself, but I can’t focus on the words. When I catch myself about to reread the same sentence for the third time, I decide enough is enough. This isn’t working. Ever since the incident, I’ve been restless all day. I can no longer ignore my discomfort. I gently toss my book onto the floor, lie flat on my back, and stare at the ceiling.
I think about Andreas and the deal I let slip away today. This afternoon, I was so furious with him, but as time passed, the anger faded and was replaced by a nagging feeling. Now, looking at the facts from a distance, I realize I might have overreacted. What he did wasn’t exactly kind, of course. Andreas is a jerk, no doubt about that, but letting a deal like that fall through might have been too high a price for my pride. In exchange for tens of thousands of euros in commission, I could have been a little less sensitive. I spent the entire day trying to justify my behavior, searching for some kind of internal peace, but I realize now that won’t work. It’s not like he deliberately tried to humiliate me or was otherwise disrespectful. I have to acknowledge my part in the failed deal and need to find a solution.
This is what I’ve done my whole life: finding solutions and tackling my problems head-on. If I don’t act, no one will, so my decision is made. Tomorrow, I’ll contact Bertrand or Andreas to pick up where we left off. I haven’t decided which one yet, but I do know I want to give the agreement another chance. With renewed determination and a clear goal in mind, I manage to fall asleep surprisingly quickly.
* * *
I’m standing naked in a large, overgrown garden. I feel the warm breeze caressing my skin, gently guiding me toward the pool. The pool is filled with crystal-clear water, a stark contrast to the wild weeds growing a meter high around it. A small path of stepping stones leads me to the edge of the pool, and all I want now is to be embraced by the refreshing water. I don’t think. Everything happens instinctively, and my mind is in a state of complete calm. This is where I need to be.
I place my foot on the first step into the water, and immediately cold shivers spread through my body. Slowly, I descend step by step to acclimate to the temperature. The sensation is exquisite, especially when the water surface reaches my breasts. My nipples are stiff from the cold and the anticipation of being submerged. My body is hypersensitive. I pay no attention to the thick, black smoke drifting over the garden, carrying tiny flakes of ash. Even as the ash settles on my hair and shoulders, I remain entirely at peace. I take a deep breath and dive underwater. I feel free swimming with open eyes from one end of the pool to the other.
When it’s time to swim up and take a breath above the surface, I realize I can’t. It’s as if my body has suddenly grown impossibly heavy, sinking like a pile of stones to the bottom of the pool. No matter how hard I try to swim up, I can’t reach the surface. Frantic flailing does nothing. Panic sets in as I try to make sense of what’s happening. I know I don’t have much time left before I drown. My instinctive gasps for air are mercilessly punished, and I inhale a mouthful of water. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, I suddenly feel a shift in the water behind me.
The next moment, a strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me upward. The strength radiating from the body holding me is undeniable. Breaking the surface, I gasp for air, my lungs greedily filling as I cough violently, expelling the water. For minutes, I’m overcome with racking coughs, trying to stabilize my breathing and calm down. Physically drained, I surrender to my rescuer. With one hand under my chest and the other on the edge, he tries to guide us toward the steps. He sits down on a step and positions me between his legs. The rough, wet denim of his jeans rubs against my bare body. Encircled by his strong arms, I feel safe, sheltered. I can feel his chest rising and falling, his breathing heavy from the effort he just exerted. Each steady breath of his anchors me, gradually pulling me back to a sense of security.
“Nora, what the hell were you doing in this pool? The house is on fire, we need to get out of here now!” My savior can speak. I know him.
His words gradually sink in. What? I look back and see the beautiful million-euro villa engulfed in flames. The intense heat radiates against my skin, and for the first time, I notice how thick and dangerous the air I’m breathing feels. The brightness of the fire hurts my eyes, forcing me to look away. I turn my attention back to the man holding me.
“Andreas?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Of course, who else?” His grip tightens.
Instead of fleeing from the flames, I feel light and blissful. I don’t need to be anywhere else. I shift closer to him, resting the back of my head against his chest. Taking his hands in mine, I guide them towards my breasts. Andreas gets the message, his rough hands caressing them with an eager, deliberate touch. One hand kneads the nipple of my left breast, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. His touch ignites a deep warmth in my core, and I sigh with relief. His other hand glides down my belly, every nerve ending tingling as it maps the path of his fingers. My hips are submerged, and his fingertips tease through my damp curls before continuing their exploration. When he finds my clit, he begins to stroke it in a rhythmic, gentle motion. Instinctively, I part my legs for him, pressing into his hand. The tension builds rapidly. I moan softly, teetering on the edge of release. He knows exactly how to push me toward my climax. Grasping his thighs with both hands, I dig my fingers in harder as the wave approaches.
I startle and am completely confused. Is the fire alarm going off? Do I need to flee? I sit up straight and look around. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my pajamas cling to my damp skin. It takes a few seconds for reality to catch up. My alarm is blaring; it was just a dream.
I turn off the alarm and let myself fall back with a heavy sigh. I can’t recall ever having such an arousing dream. I feel utterly unsatisfied, the tension and anticipation still simmering low in my body. I briefly consider reaching for my trusty bedside companion to take care of the lingering frustration. But the thought of climaxing with Andreas still fresh in my mind is unbearable. This is ridiculous, why did I dream this now? The most logical explanation is that I’m stressed about the day ahead. After all, I need to convince Andreas to give me a second chance. I do hope I haven’t completely burned my bridges. Freud, however, would probably have a very different theory.
The unsatisfied feeling between my legs hasn’t disappeared, even after a refreshing shower. On the contrary, the spray of water and the friction of the washcloth only heightened the sensitivity. I know the unfulfilled feeling all too well from my time with David. He often initiated sex but rarely finished it—for me, at least. Once David had reached his climax, there wasn’t much energy left for me, and it usually became harder for me to get there myself. I’ve always assumed that I just can’t always climax quickly enough. The fact that a dream could evoke this same frustrating feeling is new. Pathetic, really—this might have been the most erotic experience of my life, and it wasn’t even real.
I try to focus on the multitude of tasks waiting for me today instead of dwelling on last night. I grab my breakfast and take it to my desk, a bad habit I just can’t seem to break. Today isn’t going to be the day I manage it, either. I settle in, start my computer, and dive into work. Listing two houses online, answering emails, giving a tour for a promising potential sale, and, most importantly, trying to call Andreas. That is, once I figure out how to get his number. I could reach out to Bertrand, but I’ve decided against it. I don’t feel like explaining what happened yesterday. I’m worried it wouldn’t reflect well on me, and I’d like to keep the door open for future collaborations with him and his clients. I assume I can find Andreas’s business and contact information with a quick online search. I decide to save that task for this afternoon, hoping I can shake him out of my system by then. I clench my legs, ignore my body, and get back to work.
It’s noon, and just as my stomach starts to growl, Ella from the sandwich shop around the corner appears, handing me a delicious martino sandwich. Ella makes the best sandwiches in the entire city, and by some divine stroke of luck, she lives just a few doors down from me. Usually, I pop in for a sandwich or salad, and we chat about this and that, but on busy days like today, it’s very convenient that she also offers delivery. I’ve known her since I opened my office here a few months ago, and we clicked right away. Two ambitious, single women—there’s an unspoken understanding.
“Oh, thank you, Ella! Thanks for taking my order!”
“For you always, Nora, no problem. Sold any houses today?”
“Maybe one this afternoon, keep your fingers crossed for me!”
“I’ll definitely do that, see you tomorrow maybe.”
“See you tomorrow!” I call out.
I open the bag, clear some space on my desk, and sink my teeth into the heavenly sandwich. I try not to make a mess, but everyone knows that’s not my strong suit. At least I’m not wearing a white blouse today—that one’s in the laundry basket, soaked in yesterday’s cold sweat—but light blue isn’t much safer.
Suddenly, I hear the doorbell ring and look up. If my mouth hadn’t been full of my martino sandwich, it would have dropped open. Andreas walks in and within seconds, he’s standing directly in front of my desk. His eyes, my God, his eyes, they pierce right through me. I immediately feel the nerves churning in my stomach. He’s dressed impeccably again, this time in a dark green tailored suit. The color suits him perfectly. His hair is much shorter than yesterday, but still slightly tousled in that effortless, devil-may-care way. The cut makes him look younger, fresher—even more attractive, if that’s possible. How old is he, anyway? And how insane is it that his mere presence can completely shift the atmosphere of this room? I do my best to finish my bite as elegantly as possible without spilling. Holding a napkin to my mouth, I meet his gaze. Thankfully, the fact that I’m eating gives me an excuse not to speak first.
“Good afternoon, Nora. Enjoy your meal,” he says. I spot a nervous smile.
I nod and mumble “hmhm,” that’s all I can manage. Could this be any more awkward? Why do these things always happen to me?
“I wanted to personally apologize for yesterday.” He hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his otherwise confident demeanor. “In hindsight, I should have handled the situation better. I’m sorry for putting you in an awkward position. I hope you can accept my apologies?”
I quickly swallow the last bite of my sandwich, grateful for the few seconds to gather my thoughts. I appreciate his apology. It sounds sincere, and not many people would have the guts to come and offer it in person. His directness is refreshing, even admirable. I stand up and meet his gaze.
