Perfect Stranger

A chill fog rolls through San Francisco, but across the bay the sun is hot. There’s an Italian restaurant near the water, with fans buffeting the warm aromas of brown butter and herbs in eddies within its three walls. 

I’m at a table alone, sipping wine and narrowing my eyes at an ostentatious car and the musclebound twentysomething struggling to park it on the street outside. I’m distracted, baffled that anyone would purchase a Ferrari in blue, and that’s why it takes a moment before I notice her.

She’s tall, with long legs and long hair, pulled back to keep it off of her neck. Her dress is one of those gauzy-white summer things that looks modest until the light hits just so or the breeze blows across her, when I can see every contour of her body beneath. 

She’s taking off her sunglasses and asking for a table and being told that no, regretfully, they’re full at the moment. Yes, even at the bar. As pleasant as it would be to watch her walk away, the wine and my scorn for the flashy, febrile impulses of younger men are making me yearn for proper boldness. I lift my hand to signal to the server.

The server listens and nods and then goes to murmur something to the host, who relays it to the woman. Then she’s looking at me straight on, with jewel-blue eyes and a blush pink mouth, and I raise my glass, an invitation. I can see her tactful assessment, and then she’s nodding and being escorted to my table and sitting in the chair opposite me.

She gives her name and I mine, and the abominable Ferrari is forgotten as I call for another glass and ask if I can pour for her. She accepts and sips and the sun glances off the white tablecloth and makes her downturned face glow as she studies her menu.

“Do you come here frequently?” I ask.

“When I can,” she replies. “You?”

The playful corner of her mouth turns up when she smiles, and I see the creasing there that speaks to maturity, to some experience. That’s what I like to see; I’ve long since lost interest in women who don’t yet know themselves. I can see that she has tales to tell and destinations in mind, her own plans and timelines. As we talk, I wonder if I might work my way into any of those.

Our easy flow of conversation is punctuated by courses, crusty bread with herbed olive oil and salads with soft white cheeses and pasta dishes with flavors delicate and bold intertwined. She isn’t shy about eating, and god it’s appealing. 

She drinks her wine by lush mouthfuls and is unafraid to tear and dip her bread, and if a forkful of pasta leaves sauce on her mouth, her tongue will reach to taste it before her napkin swipes it away. This restaurant serves decadence, and we both take our fill.

Our meal ends and then we’re on the sidewalk, light painting the buildings around us in pinks as a ferry pulls out from the dock across the street, bound for the city. I offer to walk with her, and she accepts. Her hotel is near, she says, just down the street, but she’d appreciate the company. We walk and we talk and too soon we’re by her door, where conversation fails.

“There’s a rooftop bar,” she says, “if you’d like to join me for a drink. The view is stunning.”

I smile. “Okay.”

The view of rosy-hulled sailboats in rows at their docks and the hills stacked beyond is nothing against the easy way she moves around me, moves into my orbit, lays a hand on my arm as she laughs. The drink is a ritual, a formality, and once I’ve laid cash to spare on the bar we both leave our glasses unfinished.

“My room is this one,” she explains as we draw near. “Would you like to come in?”

I meet her eyes to show her how much I mean it. “Yes.”

She opens the door and turns to face me, her beckoning hand bringing me across the threshold. It’s a wide, airy room, one I’m sure is full of sunlight in the daytime. Right now it’s filled with the cool blue light of evening and the appealing warmth of lamplight. That’s all the assessment I need, because then she’s stepping in close, and the palpable attraction I’ve felt since spotting her in the restaurant is about to spill over, to become something for us to share.

Her hand comes to my cheek as she gives me a soft kiss, a prelude, and this close I catch her fragrance, something spicy and promising. She steps back and laces our fingers together, kicking her shoes to the side, and I follow suit as she pulls me to her balcony.

The sun has fallen farther now, enough that the streetlights are glowing and the sky is transitioning from pink to dark blue. She stands at her railing, arms spread along it, and I come up behind her, my fingertips leaving goosebumps where they trail from her wrist to her shoulder. 

There I lift her silky hair out of the way so my mouth can taste the back of her neck, the soft skin that makes her gasp as my lips graze it. My nose nudges behind her ear as my hand strokes a sure path up from her hip, along her side.

She guides my hand to the zip under her arm, where a slow drag parts the fabric for my touch to slip beneath. I can pull her back against myself then, bring our bodies flush as I savor the smoothness of the skin from her ribcage to her hip. Her whole body seeks and shivers under my touch as my other hand cups her jaw and I look into her eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

“You’re not bad,” she replies, and I can hear the tease and the challenge there, feel my blood jumping to show her how not bad I can be.

I kiss her hard, my hands on her taking charge, my hips pressing against her as I lick into her mouth and feel her melt at the taste. The sounds she makes for my touch and my kiss make me hungry and urgent, make me want more than I can take like this, even as my hands wander to map out her body. I’m stirring for her, ready to drink in each look and each movement and all the ways she can come apart, but as much of a thrill as it is out here, in the breeze and the growing dark, just above the street and the people who could look up at any moment and see, I want her to be all mine tonight, to give and take in a way that’s only ours.

I turn her to face me, taking her by the hips as her hands come to my shoulders.

“Inside,” I explain, with my voice dark and low.

“Yes,” she breathes, needing it just the same.

Stepping back is like a dance, my hands inviting her along as the breeze ripples the curtains in waves around us and she backs me up to her bed. I’m grateful for the lamplight, the warm glow that lets me watch the way she works some magic with her dress, shrugging her shoulders out of the way to let it fall like a cascade of water down her body to pool at her ankles. 

My tongue traces my lip as I open my belt and drink her in. She’s wearing barely-there lingerie, just dark enough for me to see the contrast of it against her skin. It leaves nothing to the imagination, serving as mere adornment to the swells and curves and planes her body provides. I reach for her as she’s coming to me, pressing against me again, and I’m about to catch her lips against mine when her hands start to graze down my chest and she sinks to her knees in front of me.

All my years of experience can’t hide the breath that punches out of me, rooted in the deep reaction I always have when a woman gives to me like this, unasked for. She knows the way, is deft and sure as she unzips my trousers and finds me with her hands. There’s a moment when she falters as her hand strokes, feeling my length and girth under her touch, and yeah, I preen a little. She looks into my eyes then, and I don’t need words to read the hunger there.

Her eyes stay on mine and my hand strokes her delicate cheek. I let wonder and raw arousal show on my face as her lips part, as her tongue traces the ridge of my velvety head. With a sucking kiss she pulls me in, and I surrender, letting her orchestrate the warm, slick sinking of my cock into her mouth.

A sound like “oh” from my throat, and a sound like “mmmm” from hers, and she sets a rhythm I’d like to get lost in, sinking down and pulling up, stroking over the rest of me with her hand while the tight heat of her mouth coaxes pleasure from me that begins to spread through my entire body. I let her take everything she wants, keeping myself in check. This is the appetizer of a meal that has barely begun, and I plan to savor every taste.

It’s gorgeous and decadent, watching her get lost in giving to me. Her moaning grows more frequent, her pulls against me stronger and more insistent, and my hand strokes along her jaw again, stopping her gently, letting her pull off of me.

“You’re incredible,” I say, helping her to her feet, eyes caught on the way her lips are flushed with use.

“I try,” she says with a smile, reaching up to undo the elastic that’s kept her hair back, letting it fall down over her shoulders.

Inside of me hunger is rising like a tide, and I unbutton my shirt in a hurry, tossing it aside. A shove at my pants and I’m naked before her, taking her into my arms, taking her down beneath me onto the bed. I need to see her there, see her spread out and wanting me, see how her hair fans out over the pillow and how her hips seek up for mine.

Everything now is need, the way I find and unfasten her bra so I can get a better view, the way my hands tease over her breasts as I dip down to kiss her. The way I mouth down her neck to the center of her chest and the gasp that comes when I flick my tongue at her nipple, delighting in her sensitivity, all of it is essential. Her hand laces into my hair, fingernails grazing my scalp, and I moan and suck her between my lips.

The way she arches and responds drives me wild, and I go until there’s an edge to her moans, a restlessness that says she needs more. I let my mouth wander down further then, over her ribcage and across to her hip, where my fingertips join my lips and play at the edge of her underwear.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Yes,” she begs.

I strip them from her and bring a hand under her bent knee, kiss along her upper thigh as my fingertips stroke low along her abdomen. She’s writhing and twisting in response and I’m dying to taste her, so I do just that, following the opening of her legs as I bring my mouth close, her scent surrounding me as I lick inside.

The drawn out whine she releases as my tongue slips between her folds and sweeps up to her clit makes my cock throb hard, and I draw wet circles there, relishing the way she trembles and cries out. Her taste on my tongue is everything I’d imagined, a perfect complement to the salty breeze that floats in off the bay, the memories of liquor and wine that linger in our mouths, the velvety darkness that’s falling outside as the Sausalito sun sinks in the west at last. In my mind I can see the stars wink into view one by one, summoned by her little halting pleas, by the way goosebumps rise on my skin when her fingers wind through my hair and draw me tighter against her.

I give as she asks for it, long swipes of my tongue making her rock against me, alternating with my lips closing in sweet sucks over her clit. Her knees draw up toward her chest, and I stroke my hands over her thighs, bringing her legs to rest over my shoulders as I plunge my tongue inside of her. 

Fucking her with my mouth is decadent sin, and I put my whole face into it, nosing against her sweetest places while my tongue licks against her walls. I can feel her slick running down onto my face, feel how it makes me ache even harder for her, and I pitch my voice in a low moan, vibrating against her. 

She tenses harder than I thought possible, her breath rushing in through her mouth, and I give warm, pulsing sucks to her clit until she’s crying out my name, grasping at my hair like it’s a lifeline, convulsing and coming apart beneath me. I lick her steadily through it, head spinning with the thrill of making her come on my tongue and the desperation of my own need.

When her movements finally calm, I seek out her mouth with mine, feeling an electric tingle everywhere my skin touches hers. My hands run up her body, caressing her sides, cupping and stroking over her breasts, my fingers finally intertwining with hers as I lick into her mouth and feel her moan to taste herself there. Our kiss is delicious enough to get lost in, but my body is demanding more, and I pull away to look down at her.

The breeze caresses our skin, ruffling the ends of her hair as it passes over and between us, mingling with our breaths. Her eyes are hazy and still full of heat, and I’m not sure I’ve ever needed anything the way I need her right now. I take her decisively in my hands, lifting her hips to where I’m poised to sink inside, noting her shuddering gasp and the way she moves to meet me.

“You want it?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Please,” she whines, begging for me with her whole body, and I couldn’t possibly say no.

I roll my hips, delve into her warmth, and feel her open and give way to me as she wraps her legs around my waist. It feels impossible that she was a perfect stranger mere hours ago, with the way her body seems to know mine, as though we were crafted to come together like this. It’s a privilege to find something this intimate and intuitive in a chance meeting, and I relish it, pressing in impossibly deeper as she asks for everything I can give.

I find a steady cadence then, one that she matches, that has her breathless and panting along with me. Our mouths collide in hungry, desperate kisses as our bodies build a quickening charge between us that’s fated to reach an electric peak. 

Every thrust tells a story of sun and rippling heat, of lapping salt waves and golden hour sunlight, of food and drink and shared company and glorious spontaneous connection that arises from nothing in the space between beams of late sunshine and the early rays of moonlight. We push and pull and give and take and weave our brief story into something that burns bright and hot, something we can each carry with us to remember in colder, darker times.

My pleasure builds incessantly, seems to draw together inside of me until I know I won’t hold it back much longer. That’s when I find her eyes, slow my thrusts until they’re deep and strong, until I can feel every quiver of her walls around me. 

I reach down, thumbing in soft circles over her clit, and watching her eyes for the telltale signs of her climax. I’m hovering so close that when I see them beginning, it’s easy to let myself go, to tip over into the primal rush of orgasm with her as my only lifeline. I can feel myself tense and spill, feel her grasping at my shoulders and clenching around me, hear both of us crying out with it, flashing bright and fading down into a soft, caressing glow.

When I blink back to life, I’m in her arms, and the breeze and the lamplight are all still there. The crease her smile makes on her cheek is as enticing as ever, and I reach to touch it, lingering with her in that moment.

“I’m glad the restaurant was full,” she says.

“Me too,” I say as she sits up, turning the delightful shape of her back to me.

“Will you stay?” she asks without looking.

“I will.” I keep my smile a secret.

In the morning the sun will flit through the curtains, warm my face gently, paint the room a bright, light gold. My eyes will flutter open as I smell fresh espresso, as I watch her come to sit at the edge of the bed and hand me a cup, her form draped in my dress shirt. She’ll let me take it off and take her down again, give her something more by which to remember me. Then we’ll dress and we’ll kiss, and we’ll bid farewell at her door.