Thirty - Jill Emerson [22]
“Jan.”
I look up. It is Eric.
“You are ready, aren’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“I have been watching you. You’re ready now.”
“For what?”
“To be yourself.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
The power of his eyes, his voice. He draws me and mesmerizes me.
“Come with me.”
I stand, put coins on the table, grab up my purse and book. He takes my arm. We walk through slushy gray afternoon streets. He strides. I have to walk very quickly to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?”
“My apartment.”
He lives south and west on a block I don’t know. His building is drab brick. It looks dismal. He unlocks doors and I follow him inside, up one flight of stairs. He unlocks a door. We walk into another world, a complete departure from the neighborhood, the buildings, the stairway, the hall.
Extreme modern furnishings, but with everything exquisitely selected. No straight lines. Everything curved, flowing. Everything perfectly rounded. Bold colors, black and white and a deep red. A black, high-pile fur rug on the parquet floor. A massive white couch, white velvet. Scarlet draperies.
“How beautiful!”
“I’m comfortable here.”
“I’ve never been anyplace like this.”
“You are going to go to many places you have never been.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m—”
“Yes?”
“Afraid.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Yes. Twenty-nine years in the bud. And now you are going to open yourself up. You are going to become a flower.”
“Who are you?”
“Eric.”
“I mean, oh, what do you do?”
A rich smile. “You’ll see.”
He leaves me momentarily, brings two glasses of a dark red liquid that matches the drapes. I take a glass. The scent is of rose petals.
“What is it?”
“Drink it.”
The taste is sweet-and-sour, not unpleasant but quite unusual. There does not seem to be any alcohol in it. I am aware that the drink probably contains a drug. But it does not occur to me to refuse.
There is music, something faintly Oriental. There is the aroma of rose petals lingering after the drinks are gone. He touches my shoulder. I look into his eyes. They have infinite depth. One could drown in them.
We kiss. His hands are firm, gripping my shoulders, drawing me close. His mouth is hard against mine. I open to him entirely and his tongue is deep in my mouth, searing me, shooting flames. I am alive in every part of my body. I can feel his legs against mine, his chest against my breasts, his hands on me, his mouth on mine. I feel everything at once and am aware of everything at once, the taste of him, the feel of him, the music, the rose scent, everything.
In his bedroom he tells me to take off my clothing. I undress artlessly as in a dream, taking things off, dropping them. His bed is huge. It fills the room.
His eyes are on me as I undress. I can feel his gaze. There is warmth in it, as if a beam from his eye touches me. I feel his gaze on my breasts and their tips quiver and grow warm. I feel his eyes stroke my belly and thighs like fiery hands, like tongues of flame.
I have no will, I have no will at all.
He strips swiftly. I watch him. His body is beautiful, he is as all men should be, big in the chest, flat in the stomach, sloping shoulders, no fat anywhere, just enough hard muscle. His penis is huge, fully erect, a column of ivory topped with a fiery red sphere.
He crosses the room to me. He takes me in his arms. He puts me on the bed.
His hands are everywhere, touching me, preparing me. He strokes my shoulders and my breasts, runs his hands down to my thighs, opens me. He handles all the parts of my sex and his fingers start little fires wherever they touch me. My head is floating, my whole body is floating, my flesh is melting, I am alive for the first time, I am dying, I am everything at once.
He positions himself over me. The tip of his penis is poised at my entrance. I