What She Needs. Anne Calhoun

      

      When Jack calls and tells me to meet him at the hotel bar, I know two things: he wants to sleep with me, and I will let him.

      That’s the rule. If I meet him, I do what he asks, when he asks. I’m free to decline his invitation, but if I accept, I’ll do what I’m told.

      I always accept.

      What She Needs

      Anne Calhoun

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      What She Needs

      When Jack calls at 6:00 p.m. on a Saturday and tells me to meet him in the bar at the Embassy Suites, I know two things: he wants to fuck me, and I will let him.

      But because he knows my answer even before he calls, I make him wait. A little. I shower, locate my sexy underwear at the back of my drawer, put some effort into my makeup and hair. When I get in my car and drive downtown, the knowledge of what I’ll soon be doing, and with whom, sharpens the colors visible through the windshield, the verdant leaves vivid against black-shingled roofs and a Wedgwood-blue sky.

      As I walk through the lobby my stride must project a confidence I don’t feel; either bravado or my sheath skirt and tight sleeveless blouse have drawn attention from a cluster of loosened-ties-no-jackets businessmen waiting by the front desk. I ignore their appraising looks, pretending engrossment in the brass railings, plush patterned carpet and abundant plants working to create a tasteful atmosphere. What I’m about to do could easily take place in a rundown motel next to the interstate. Jack, however, likes comfort and couldn’t care less about the two-hundred-dollar room rate. The bar is at the back of the large atrium and the waterfall doesn’t quite mask the click of my fuck-me heels against the tile floor. He knows making this walk by myself heightens my nerves and leaves me to do it anyway.

      There is always that moment, standing in the doorway to the bar and looking for him, when I torment myself with the impossible. I imagine he’s found someone equally willing and right at hand, that he’s disappeared upstairs in the time it took me to prepare myself and come to him. But then I see him, a half-full glass of beer next to the Heineken bottle. Tonight he is wearing dark navy jeans and an olive cotton sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

      The sight of his forearms, tanned and dusted with blond hair, sends a shock of lust straight to my pussy.

      The rest of him is nothing special. Muscles don’t strain the seams of his sweater. Despite the absence of a ring, the other women in the bar don’t eye him with obvious interest. He’s of average height and build for a man, with sandy-blond hair. He doesn’t look like a man who can make a woman lose her mind.

      But he is. With a woman, on a bed stripped to the bottom sheet, when there is nothing else to do and nowhere else to be, he is gifted. That’s why I’m here.

      I stand next to him. He acknowledges my presence with a slow once-over, the kind that stays just this side of insolent. A nod indicates his approval.

      “You want a drink first?” His voice, unlike his eyes, is smooth, calm. His eyes, however, are melting, dark chocolate.

      I consider his offer, then indicate acceptance by boosting myself onto the seat next to his. When the bartender comes around he asks what he can get me.

      “White wine,” I say as he openly eyes me. I’m not wearing a ring, either, and I know from experience that despite Jack’s presence, I am fair game. Jack doesn’t stake his claim in front of the bartender, but when he leaves to pour my wine, Jack leans to whisper in my ear.

      “Nice blouse.”

      I tip my head slightly to indicate interest, but keep my eyes on the condensation sliding down the green beer bottle. I never use that color in my work. It’s too recognizable.

      “Undo one more button.”

      My breath stops in my throat at his command, but I lift one hand to the front of my blouse and flick open the button just above the swell of my breasts. This button keeps me from being slutty. Jack wants it undone. I obey him.

      That’s the rule. If I meet him, I do what he asks, when he asks. I’m free to decline his invitation. If I accept, I’ll do what I’m told.

      I always accept.

      The bartender returns with my glass of white wine and a flirtatious smile on his face. I don’t smile back. When he left my collarbone was visible, my appearance demure but appealing. Now he can see cleavage and the edge of the red lacy cups of my bra. His eyes flash to my chest, then over to Jack, who rests one arm on the back of my chair.

      I don’t need to look at Jack to know what his expression is. A grin too hard to be pleasant will tell the bartender he should look elsewhere for his night’s entertainment. That doesn’t stop the bartender from taking one last, long look before he moves away.

      I drink my wine, the slow pound of my heart making me lightheaded long before the alcohol enters my bloodstream. We sit in silence as Jack finishes his beer. Small talk is not part of this ritual. I once asked him what he was thinking about while we sipped our drinks before going upstairs.

      “Fucking you,” he’d said.

      He didn’t ask what I was thinking about.

      I replayed those two words, the tone of his voice when he said them, every day until he called me again. The next time I met him I shook my head when he asked if I wanted a drink. He escorted me to a room on the seventh floor and within five minutes of entering the hotel I was naked and under him. I wanted him badly that night. Tonight I want a glass of wine first, and Jack humors me.

      I stretch it out, because the Chardonnay is decent. The cotton of his sweater almost but not quite touches the bare skin of my shoulder, his body heat evoking the possibility of his skin in contact with mine. Without meaning to I shift ever so slightly on my stool. The movement makes the edges of my blouse gap open, revealing my breast all the way to the front clasp of my bra.

      Jack doesn’t miss this little drama playing out mere inches from him. With two long swallows he finishes the rest of his beer, pulls a bill from his pocket and tosses it on the bar, then stands. He holds out one hand to me, palm up, a command, not an invitation.

      “You’re done.”

      With those words, I am. I slide my hand into his, the tips of his fingers cold and a little damp from the condensation on his glass. In my heels I’m an inch shorter than he is. My skirt clings to my curves from hips to knees, shortening my stride. He matches my pace as we leave the bar. There’s no need to hurry.

      Because we are not boyfriend and girlfriend, as we walk through the lobby