Chapter 2

I change into my best outfit. The black skirt shows off my legs, and I wear a gauzy blouse over a camisole. It’s a costume, I suppose. Or maybe it’s more like the plumage of birds when they’re looking for a mate.

The mating dance between humans is more stylized now. We socialize without the benefit of a few cocktails to ease conversation. There’s always talk about jobs, sometimes families. None of us have hobbies that we’re willing to share or favored sports teams to argue over.

Sports don’t exist anymore. The concept of a winner and a loser is anathema.

Even music is antiseptic, toneless melody designed to soothe rather than evoke stronger emotion. I trudge the few blocks to the socialization center, then stand in line to wait my turn to get inside.

There are a few young women at the front of the line. They giggle and whisper behind their hands as they peer inside. When their turn comes, they race in all different directions, their excitement palpable as they search out a partner for the night.

They’re young enough to enjoy the charade. Those women will all find someone who they will later pretend not to know. Maybe it isn’t such a pretense. Who really knows anyone?

When I’m allowed inside, I sit at the bar and accept my tonic water. It’s bitter enough to allow me to pretend it has vodka in it.

I secretly enjoy the mandatory socialization. Purely from an academic standpoint, of course. I make up stories in my head sometimes.

The woman in the pink blouse is looking for true love. She has an unrequited crush on the man in the blue shirt and tan shorts across from me. He doesn’t know she exists, and she’s too shy to approach him.

The bold woman with the short, tight curls is after the same thing, but her target is the man next to me. He’s talking to his friends, but gives her a look out of the corner of his eye.

To my surprise, it happens just as I imagine it, and the couple disappears into a dark corner to complete their assignation. I want to laugh about it, but I settle for taking another sip of my drink.

“You can always tell which ones are going to hook up and which ones are going to go home to take care of matters themselves,” a man whispers in my ear.

I flinch and set my drink down with a clatter. He’s surprised me. Turning to face him, I say, “Sometimes.”

I have to look up to meet his gaze. He’s handsome, dark and slightly unkempt in a way that makes something thrum in my core. He has dark hair and whiskey brown eyes, and is very tall. I’ve never seen him before, and wonder if he’s come to socialize on an unscheduled evening.

Unscheduled socialization isn’t prohibited, but it’s unusual enough to be noteworthy.

He traces the back of my hand with a soft fingertip. The touch sends electricity down my spine. “Are you looking?” he asks.

“Maybe.” I take another sip of my drink, meeting his eyes over the rim of my glass. I’m more than interested. He looks like he works outside, muscular and browned by the sun, even though his hands are well groomed with neatly trimmed nails and cuticles. He’s dressed like everyone else; casually in a dark t-shirt and shorts, yet he looks somehow more put-together than the other men in the socialization center. He looks ... masculine.

It’s a look that went out of fashion years ago, and I wonder what the scruff on his jaw will feel like between my legs.

He wraps a large hand around my drink, caging my fingers against the damp glass, then takes a deep drink. It’s an intimate gesture, like sharing a kiss. My throat goes dry and I swallow.

Setting the glass aside, he brings my hand to his lips, then kisses away the droplets of condensation. I want to touch his face to see if his beard scruff will feel as scratchy as I think, but he doesn’t let me go.

I jerk my head toward the darkened alcoves set aside for trysts and he nods.

We don’t touch as we make our way to the seclusion at the back of the socialization center. It’s dimly lit, revealing several bowls of condoms scattered amongst the couches and rugs strewn around the room. There is no conversation in this place. The only sound I hear is the harsh breaths of couples enjoying themselves.

Hopeful, I grab a few condoms from a large bowl as we pass by.

The room smells like sex. I wonder if the management has augmented the fragrance to make it more compelling. I shake my head and tell myself to stop thinking so hard. I’ve found a partner for the evening, one who, for once, has caught my interest.

I follow him to an unused couch in a corner, surprised that there’s a private spot left. He sits, then tugs me into his lap. I try to fall with some modicum of grace, but fail. Laughing, I straddle his hips and indulge my curiosity about the stubble on his face.

It feels sandpapery, deliciously abrasive. I lower my lips to his jaw, wanting to know what it feels like on more sensitive skin. Each of those bristly hairs is an electrode, shooting little sparks of sensation zinging down to my clit.

Letting out a low growl that makes me shiver, he puts his hands on my hips and drags me toward him, lodging the thick bulge of his cock between my thighs. Despite my position of superiority and the knowledge that I can get up and leave at any time, I feel like he’s caged me. I’ve never felt anything like it.

He moves a hand up my back and sinks it into my pony tail, then tugs gently, forcing me to lift my head. I whine, wanting to feel more of that wonderful stubble.

Chuckling softly, he nips the skin over my collarbone. It stings, and that shot of delicious pain makes me shudder and press my core against the fly of his shorts. I can feel wet heat trickle over my pussy, dampening my panties. I sink into his embrace as he trails hot kisses over my throat.

His breath tickles my ear as he nuzzles me, rasping that scruff across the sensitive skin of my jaw. Tightening his grip on my hair, he holds me still to kiss me.

He tastes good, fresh and clean, like mint toothpaste, but spicy, too. His tongue prods at my lips, demanding entry, though he doesn’t force it. A part of me wishes he would.