All
* * *
The date begins unexpectedly—with a stunning view. Of Lina’s naked body, bent over our hotel room desk, her hair gripped in my hand and her head wrenched back as I fuck into her from behind, a sprawling view of the Brooklyn Bridge and Lower Manhattan in the window in front of her.
This was an unplanned yet very pleasant addendum.
True to her word, Lina showed up to our room wearing only a long coat and a pair of stilettos. She dropped the coat as soon as the door closed, and I had her up against it within seconds, stiletto clad legs wrapped around my waist, then bent over the desk within minutes. I didn’t even manage to get any of my clothes off.
We’re loud when we’re not at home, I think vaguely, through the banging of the desk against the wall and the jangling of my belt and her moaning half-screams and my guttural caveman grunts punctuated with the disrespectful filth she begs me to mutter into her ear.
Half out of my mind, I grip her hair tighter and yank her head back even further and take in the view one more time, as the tight silk of her pussy squeezes around me as she comes, and I empty into her body.
I carry both our corpses over to the bed, tossing the condom to the ground, and try to catch my breath, as if I’m not a totally out of shape middle aged man who only has time to run once or twice a week.
Lina is grinning, stretching like a cat, the one that ate the cream. Except she didn’t (not this time). It’s all in the condom on the floor this time. “Was that okay for you?” she asks.
I pointedly look down at my dick, which is quite happily still half-hard yet flopped over onto my thigh.
She laughs. “I mean, everything we’re trying. The hair pulling and the dirty talking and the roughness. I just want to check in.”
I shove my sweaty hair away from my face. “I’m so fucking into it, it’s insane. I can’t tell you how worked up I get when I tell you to choke on it. Or when you actually do,” I say with a grin. “But if I feel uncomfortable with something, I won’t do it.”
“Wow. Tell me you love me without telling me you love me.”
I pull her close and celebrate the win.
* * *
It is an exercise in self-restraint once I see her all dolled up for dinner. She’s wearing this red, form-fitting, strapless dress that goes down to her shins and leaves nothing to the imagination, because it’s practically pasted onto every single curve of her body. This, with the makeup and the hair and the heels?
“We’re going to be late for dinner,” Lina tells me with that devious grin on her face, and I realize I’ve been staring at her for the span of several seconds, raking my hand over my open mouth. “We have all night.”
We can be a little late, right?
No, because I had to pull a bunch of strings tonight to get tonight to work. Every single bit of it.
Although, knowing Lauryn Hill, she’ll probably come on one to three hours late, anyway. Which means that maybe I could push dinner a little later…
No, considering the game of telephone I had to play to get in touch with the owner of this place.
I sigh very dramatically, like this is the biggest hardship. “Let’s go,” I say, forlorn.
It turns out to be worth it.
Dinner’s at this newish restaurant in Brooklyn Heights that was practically handed two Michelin stars at opening. It’s been open for just over a year, and it’s still impossible to get reservations. That is, unless you know that the owner is the sister-in-law of a friend of the CEO of my manufacturing company.
The food is fucking fantastic, well deserving of its stars, actually, and the wine list is impeccable. The company—flawless. That feeling arises again, that one from the beach, of pure, unadulterated, unencumbered joy. Of youth, of freedom, of unfettered laughter with a fierce, intelligent, beautiful woman. A little bit tipsy, talking about everything and giggling about nothing. Flirting, little touches, holding hands, stroking fingers. Being in love.
Continuing in the cab, continuing all the way to the Barclay’s Center.
Lina turns to me, eyes wide and glowing under the bright lights of the entrance. “No,” she says.
“Yes,” I respond, before she leaps into my arms. Well, as best she can in that dress and in those heels, at least.
Lauryn Hill is only an hour late, and she clearly didn’t participate in any sort of soundcheck, but the floating feeling is still there, especially when Lina’s in my arms, her back to my front, her arms reaching up to wrap around the back of my neck, giving me unlimited access to the curves of her sides. My chin against her temple, her hair in my mouth as we belt out every word to every one of Lauryn Hill’s songs, whispering love songs to one another, ‘can’t take my eyes off of you’ and ‘I love you, baby’. And then The Fugees show up, making a surprise appearance, and I’m pretty sure Lina cries tears of happiness, and we forget all about the fact that you can’t quite hear Lauryn’s voice over her band.
It’s all an impenetrable force of perfection, this feeling.
