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Lizzie Ashworth: Tell me how the story ends…
Thursday, May 11th, 2017

Hi Delilah Fans! Have you ever had one of those dreams where you feel like you’re so awake that when you wake up, you still think all that really happened?

That’s where this story came from. I can still see the man, still remember the magical touch of his skin. So I’m sharing it with you in hopes you can help me out. That’s because I don’t know how the story ends!

He wasn’t my type. I went for the slightly shorter, less sinewy man whereas this guy loomed several inches taller with an almost lanky frame. My tastes had ranged from blond and blue-eyed to dark and dangerous. I’d never given much consideration to men with light brown hair and eyes that were—what, amber? I stole another glance.

Damn. He noticed my brief examination. One of his eyebrows rose slightly, asking. I quickly looked down and broke out in a little sweat. Damn damn damn.

I told myself no. A chorus of reasons shouted in my head—that I didn’t know him, that we were standing in a hotel hallway waiting for an elevator. Anyone could walk up. Additional major point: accosting a stranger simply wasn’t something I would do.

The handle of my heavy briefcase itched against my sweaty palm. I could assign this momentary insanity to fatigue. Like all such conferences, this one had turned into a three-day blur of classes on everything from specialty cost coding and catastrophe adjustment to the latest on defining a collapse under a property insurance policy. But I was ready for home, a long hot soak in my tub and a mindless couch session with a bottle of wine and my cat Winston.

My body responded to his attention. There was this urge, whatever recess of hell it sprang from, that caused my thighs to clench. I licked my lips, hoping my libido would tuck its tail and slink away. Maybe if I gave myself a few more minutes and a couple of deep breaths…

Nope. Not working. Jesus, how did anyone exude such sensuality?

I couldn’t avoid another furtive glance. His lips fascinated me, halfway between full and thin, sensual with a little flare at the bow and curling upwards at the corners. Tan and weathered, his skin stretched over prominent cheekbones and a bold jaw. And his neck, which happened to be directly in my line of vision—its intriguing cords and hollows disappeared into the open throat of his white shirt.

Oh, I could almost taste the salt on his skin. Feel the pulse in his throat against my lips.

I had seen him around the hotel, once passing along the corridor when I arrived for the first day of the conference, another time on the other side of the cocktail lounge where I hid at a dark corner table and sipped my wine. He’d been alone there, and I fantasized that he would appear at my table. I would allow him to join me and we would sit smiling in the dim light to pursue witty conversation with just enough innuendo. I refused to imagine what would happen afterwards, but I dreamed about him that night and woke up wet.

What the hell was wrong with me? I’d been around. Mild wear and tear, enough to consider any potential hook-up through slightly jaded eyes. No big hope left that some special ‘one’ lurked out there for me.

Now this? I wanted to slap myself for being ridiculous.

But, damn it, here I was at the elevator feeling as if my body had disconnected from my brain and would do what it pleased no matter what I thought.

Maybe it was that we were both leaving and I’d never see him again. Really, it wasn’t a choice I made. I was standing there with my briefcase gripped in my hand and a garment bag slung over my arm, my other hand seized on the handle of my wheeled travel case. Hands sweating. Knees trembling. Wanting a stranger so much I was about to embarrass myself in public.

The elevator was taking forever. He was standing a couple of feet away, looking up to watch the elevator numbers frozen on floor twelve. He too had a garment bag over one arm and his travel case handle in his other hand, looking so incredibly fabulous in that simple white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up those tan forearms and in khaki slacks that looked a little wrinkled. I even checked out his shoes, Sixties style cordovan loafers, winey brown color, well-polished and clearly loved.

I could almost hear the switch flip in my head. Brain turned off. Instinct taking over.

I turned into him holding my gear on either side of me. He accommodated me by holding his luggage away from his body. With only a brief glance up at his face, I registered on his amusement, his welcome. As if we had known each other forever and this was going home.

I nestled my full length against him and brushed my lips against his neck, and oh god he felt good. At every point of contact, which actually was the entire front of me, he felt good. The strength of his thighs, the solid press of his loins, his hard chest—right there against me, holding his own, not backing away. And his neck—Jesus Christ, this was chocolate and musky wine and that skin, that soft velvet flesh that had served its time in the sun, warm and strong and scented with a heavenly fragrance of aftershave and soap and him.

My lips savored him in that brief moment, brushing along the column of his neck as if he was my last sip of water in a desert. In those few seconds—minutes?—that I stood there pressed against him, I had no sense of shame, no regret, no worry, no question. My mind stood still. I wanted never to move.

Millennia existed between us, former lives, lost memories. A tremor passed through him. Or maybe it was me. Nights we would hold each other. The touch of his lips against mine. Joys and agonies, the raw force of life energy surging through us.

All that could ever be existed in that moment, in us. Children. Stormy nights wrapped in his arms, soup bubbling on the stove. Old age bestowed gently as we held hands.

And then it ended. I don’t know how it ended. Maybe it was the elevator. A musical ‘ding.’ We moved apart. On the way down, I fought to overcome the searing embarrassment of what I’d done. One minute I was in full body contact with a man I didn’t know, oblivious to anything but him, and the next minute we were on opposite sides of the elevator with a crowd of people between us including two kids and a dog.

The elevator reached the lobby. People filed out and I didn’t dare look up. Mildly heartbroken, I started toward the door to hail a taxi.

He was standing there in the lobby, waiting for me as if we’d made a plan, a promise. My heart lunged against my ribs. Had we? Could it be that simple?         (to be continued?)

~~~

Dear Reader, is there more to this story? Do they say a few words then walk away? Do they ride together to the airport then wait for their flights in a quiet booth at the nearest cafe?

What would you do? Send me your idea at ashworthlizzie@gmail.com. I’ll post all replies in my next newsletter.

~~~

Lizzie Ashworth lives in the wilds of the Ozark Mountains with three cats, two hound dogs, and too many deer in her yard. She’s been writing her entire life and wants her readers to know how much she enjoys sharing her naughty stories.

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One comment to “Lizzie Ashworth: Tell me how the story ends…”

  1. Charlotte
    Comment
    1
    · May 11th, 2017 at 11:56 am · Link

    Intriguing dream.

    Loved the stories of Caerwin and Marcellus!