Chapter 2

I stood and faced her. “Do you really have to leave so early?” I asked.

“I don’t want to wear out my welcome,” she replied.

“Don’t worry about that. The evening’s still young.”

“What do you have in mind?”

I approached her, stroked her cheek with the back of my finger and then kissed her lips. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I wasn’t expecting it, either.”

“I’m not that sort of a girl, Eric.”

“What sort of a girl are you?”

“What sort of a girl do you think I am?” she asked.

“I think you’re the sort who answers a question with another question ... the sort who drives a Nissan Leaf. I never met one of those before.”

“I’ll tell you the sort of girl I am. I’m not the sort of girl who kisses on a first date.”

“Actually, this is our second date,” I replied.

“Not on the second, either.”

“I’ll tell you the sort of guy I am. I’m the sort who would never force himself on a woman ... the sort who knows that no means no ... the sort who thinks if it isn’t consensual or mutual, it’s no fun ... the sort who wouldn’t kiss a girl on the first or second date.”

“Then why did you?” she asked.

“Helen -- I’m a creature of instinct. My instinct told me to fish for a dinner invitation and it told me to kiss you just now.”

She regarded me for a long moment, her tongue moistening her lips. I could see a pulse point in her neck begin to throb. “You have damned good instincts,” she finally replied.

“They’ve served me well. I think you’re the sort of girl who makes exceptions to the rules.”

“Yes ... under the right circumstances.” I slipped my hand behind her head and this time instead of kissing her, we kissed each other. Then, again and again. “You’re the sort of guy who knows how to kiss,” she said and we kissed again, this time lingering and touching tongues.

I led her to my sofa and held her on my lap. Running my hand along her knee I savored her cool, smooth olive skin. “It’s been a long dry spell for me,” she said. “I haven’t dated since I was in college.”

“It’s been a long dry spell for me, too,” I replied. “How far are you willing to take this?”

“You started it,” she replied. “How far do you want to take it?”

“Do you realize you just answered my question with another question?” I asked.

“Did I?” she replied, coyly.

“I want to take this as far as you’re comfortable with ... and no further.”

“Eric ... I need to know your expectations. What are you looking for? A one-night stand? Booty calls? Or something more permanent?”

“Not a one-night stand, and I don’t do booty calls. I don’t have a little black book or whatever the smart-phone equivalent is these days. My instinct tells me you’re ... the sort of girl who’s the one for me.”

“Your instinct again.”

“I’m not fucking with your mind, Helen. I mean it. There’s something about you that resonates in me.”

“I feel that resonance, too,” she replied. “Otherwise I’d be out of here.”

“I have protection. I believe it’s the man’s responsibility to protect the woman.”

“So do I,” she replied. “I have an IUD. I got it when I started dating my previous boyfriend. It’s good for a dozen years and about halfway through its life so I’m sure it still works. And -- I’m allergic to latex.”

“We can take this as fast or as slow as you wish. You’re in the driver’s seat.” I could see the pulse point in her neck begin to throb again. “So -- are you game? It’s okay with me if you’re not.”

“Maybe if I had a drink to calm my nerves.”

“How about if I make you the most delicious Manhattan you’ve ever tasted?”

“I love Manhattans,” she replied, “second only to dry but not too dry martinis.”

Helen accompanied me to my bar cabinet. “I think you’re the sort of girl who likes real drinks, not trendy, fruity sweet ones.”

“That is the sort of girl I am,” she replied. “I learned to appreciate classic cocktails from my dad.” I took ice from the mini-fridge’s freezer and dropped it into a cocktail shaker. Then I reached for a bottle of rye. “You don’t make them with bourbon?”

“I don’t care for bourbon. There’s a sweetness to it I don’t like. I make my Manhattans with half rye and half cognac.”

“That’s one I haven’t seen,” she replied.

I added some French sweet vermouth and a dash of bitters. After a brisk shaking and straining into cocktail glasses I added maraschino cherries. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she replied and sipped from her glass. “Oh, Eric -- this is really good. I get the peppery note of the rye but the cognac smoothes it out. It’s so smooth and it goes down without any fire. How did you come up with this?”

“I have a book on classic cocktails,” I replied. “Classic being from the mid nineteenth century up to prohibition. This mix also make for a spectacular mint julep.”

“I’ll bet it does.” Helen took the cherry from her glass. Holding the stem she plucked the fruit from it with her teeth. “I’ll show you a trick,” she said and popped the stem in her mouth. Her eyes rolled upward and I could see she was working her tongue.

She opened her mouth and I could see she tied a knot in the stem. “That’s something,” I remarked. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“It’s a little trick I learned as a kid.”

We drained our glasses and returned to my sofa. She sat beside me and I resumed caressing her leg. “Nerves settled?” I asked.

“Almost. I am feeling the drink. Feels really good, Eric.”

“Would you like another?”

“Two would be too much for me.”

“How about I make one more and we split it?”

“Perfect.”

Helen stood by me as I mixed another Manhattan. I strained the drink into our glasses and plopped cherries into each. “I don’t need another cherry,” she said.

“I want to see you do that thing with the stem again,” I replied.

She sipped from her glass. “I still can’t believe how good this tastes.”

“It’s like yin and yang. You have a muscular rye mated with a soft cognac. It’s a pairing made in heaven.”

She emptied her glass, ate her cherry and then popped the stem in her mouth. A few manipulations with her tongue and she removed it, knotted.

I stood and faced her. “Mmm...” she said. “I’m really feeling the drink, now. Feels really good.”

“Nerves settled?” I asked.

“Yeah...”

I embraced her and as we kissed I caressed her back and shoulder blades. “You feel really good in my arms,” I said.

“Feels good to me, too.”

I pointed to my eyes. “Do you really need...”

Helen removed her glasses. “Only if I want to see.”

“You have pretty eyes. Too bad they’re behind those thick lenses. Did you ever try contacts?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t manage them.”

“What about laser surgery?”

“I’m too scared of that,” she said.

“I had laser surgery about five years ago. My glasses weren’t quite as thick as yours, but I got tired of depending on them. I had no luck with contacts, either. The surgery went fine. Now I’m getting a bit far-sighted, even. I need mild reading glasses when I’m working with instruments at the hospital.”

“I don’t know -- I’m pretty chicken when comes to that sort of thing.”

“You don’t wear eye makeup,” I remarked.

“I don’t wear any makeup. What you see is what you get.”

“I like what I see -- a natural girl.” Helen slipped her glasses on. “I do think those wire frames are part of the look.” We kissed again, this time with her tongue exploring my mouth. “I think that tongue of yours was trying to tie a knot in mine.”

Helen made a little giggle. I unbuttoned her top and slid it off her shoulders. Underneath she wore a black tube-top, a bandeau over her breasts. I regarded her shoulders and arms. I could see a trace of a vein running along her left biceps. “You have a nice body,” I remarked. “I love your complexion. You look like you have some Mediterranean influence.”

“My mom is Spanish,” she replied.

“From Spain?” I asked. “Are you bilingual?”

“Si,” she replied.

“I envy you. I wish I was.”

“My dad has British heritage,” she added.

“It mixed nicely in you with your light olive skin, brown hair and gray eyes.”

She unbuttoned my polo shirt and I slipped it over my head. “You have a nice build, too,” she said, running her hands along my shoulders and arms. “Do you work out?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t care for exercise, although I don’t mind physical activity if it accomplishes something.” I glanced toward the staircase. “Shall we go upstairs?”

We locked fingers and headed to the master bedroom. I turned the nightstand lamp on low and then faced her. I unfastened the waistband of her shorts and slid them down her slender legs. She stepped from them and I saw that underneath she wore a pair of black briefs. The fabric was sheer enough that I could discern the shadow of a natural bush.

While she slipped out of her shoes I stripped to my briefs. Then, facing her I grasped her bandeau and lifted it over her outstretched arms. I scanned her up and down. “Sensational,” I remarked as I regarded her figure. Her breasts were A-cup sized and perfectly formed, perfectly proportioned and perfectly symmetrical. Each held a deeply pigmented areola the size of a half-dollar and a small nipple. “I love those compact breasts.”

“Compact is the word for these mosquito-bumps of boobs,” she replied. “One of these days I’m going to have implants.”

I sat on the bed and held her on my lap. “Don’t do that, Helen. Your breasts are a perfect fit for your frame and your personality.”

She laughed. “Don’t tell me personalities have bras sizes. I just want to know what it’s like to show some cleavage.”

“Implants never look natural and they never feel natural,” I replied. “We frequently see women come into the hospital having problems with them.” I shook my head. “Helen -- you need to be who you are -- a lovely, natural woman.”

“With a thirty-four A sized chest and personality,” she replied. “Eric -- I think you’re a world-class bullshitter. But I also feel the truth in everything you say.” We embraced and kissed again. I caressed her back, this time skin on skin. I ran my hand lower and caressing her taut buttocks I discovered her briefs were really a thong. “I’m falling in love with you, Eric,” she said. “I can’t believe it -- I’m in this heady, early love phase, and I love it.”