Eric Finch buttoned the cuffs on his best dress shirt, then paused. Maybe I should wear the cuff links. He turned his head toward the closet where the freshly pressed dress shirts hung stiff and expectant. This is the third date, but we are not yet past the period of first impressions. He unbuttoned the cuff and let the shirt slide off his arm. Delia is impressed with power and status, and power is implied by wealth, and wealth means cuff links. He hung up the shirt and pulled down the finest one, the one with no buttons on the cuffs, then tugged gently on the sleeve, careful not to create even the tiniest wrinkle in the crisp white linen. He stepped over to his bureau. On top of the smooth walnut lay the hinged casket his wife had bought him as a wedding gift some fifteen years ago. Inside, his watch, his cuff links...his wedding band. He buttoned the shirt under his chin, following the buttons down his chest to the long tails that hung over his crotch. Cynthia is dead, he reminded himself. He lifted his gold watch, his twenty-year watch, and slipped it over his knuckles, fastening it carefully. Then pinched the cuffs and reached for the links. At least the links give the appearance of wealth. The links are all about perception of value. I will have to demonstrate my worth to her. Prove it to her.
Third date. The last time they went out, she had looked at him with soft blue eyes, blinking, her dark lashes floating up and down. He could not stop looking at her eyes. Maybe that meant she was ready, maybe it didn't. For two weeks he had gone over that last date in his mind, reviewing and analyzing every nuance of movement, every word, every sigh. It is my job. I know how to read people. Suspects, perpetrators, criminals. He fastened the links and reached for the second pair. But she puzzles me. Some of the signals were there, the soft eyes, the gentle smile...but behind the eyes, ice. Behind the smile, fangs. He shook his head. She is a Party member, a scientist. And she is a woman. He buttoned the collar and tucked in his shirttails. I have been working too hard. I have been seeing criminals in everyone.
When he had taken her to her door that Saturday night, she had paused, her hand on the knob. He watched her think about it. He watched her face in the glow of the streetlamp as she considered asking him in. It was up to her. But the pause had stretched out uncomfortably long, so he had made a little bow as he took a step back, making it easier for her to say goodnight. No pressure. No expectations. She had turned to him, and before she could put on the "thank you for a wonderful evening" face, he saw it. It was a twitch, an edge, a desperate look in her eye. She did want to ask him in. But she was afraid. Eric buckled his belt. I know what I saw. This is like a game of chess, and at stake is some kind of emotional refuge.
He had waited the obligatory 24 hours before ringing her up and making light conversation. A man has to do that to reassure the woman that he is still interested. Then he waited the proper three days to ask her out again. Not too eager, yet not so long as to make her feel she is not important or that he has stopped thinking about her. There was the usual checking of diaries to find a day they both were free...and now, tonight, the third date. That night on her stoop...if she had not wanted to sleep with me she would have found an excuse to not see me tonight. Her diary would have been full. A month of appointments, and I would have known what that meant. We both would have known what that meant.
He looked in the mirror than hung over his bureau and fluffed his hair a bit with his fingers. He considered parting his hair and combing it to the side. No. The formal dinner jacket and cuff links will say I am a man of means, the casual hair will say I want her tonight. She can read signals too. He combed his dark curls straight back and let them fall where they may. He didn't put anything on them to tame them. He quirked his mouth, looking at himself. I am not too old for this. I can do this. She did smile at me. She did. She touched my hand at dinner, she leaned forward. She wore the red dress, décolleté. Those were her signals. Eric brushed the dinner jacket and put it on. Tonight then.
She looked gorgeous at dinner. A white dress this time. Red last time meant available. White now...what is she saying? Not virginal...no, this one is strapless and chiffon, cleavage accentuated with the drop necklace, like a finger pointing down between her breasts. No, not virginal. First time? Yes. I think so. That's it. She is wearing her hair swept up and twisted. Virginal would have been down on her shoulders, like a school girl. Black would have been too suggestive. She is saying, yes, I am available, but not easy. He watched her sip her wine, careful not to smear her lipstick or print the glass. She is a lady. She is warning me to treat her like a lady. I will.
"Delia," he kept his voice soft, respectful. "How is the wine? Do you like it? Would you prefer white?" She is a princess, this is what she wants.
She smiled, nodded. "The red is perfect, thank you."
"Good." He tried to think of what else one would say to a princess, caught himself frowning a bit as he pondered his next sentence. No frowning. He tried to make up for it with a slight smile, but smiles came hard for him and he feared it might look more like a grimace. He deflected any attention to his discomfiture by tapping the table between them and saying, "And the appetizer? Did you like the soup?"
"Yes. The soup was delicious." She smiled again and tilted her head.
She is not wearing a tiara, but I can see that she moves her head like there are diamonds in her hair. The waiter appeared suddenly at his elbow and presented her entrée with a flourish. Eric's plate came down from on high as well. The waiter bowed and left; Eric refilled her glass. He lifted his and said, "To beauty." He was pleased when she blushed. I am doing this right. She works all day in a lab, among others in lab coats with syringes and computers. She wants to be reminded she is a woman. A desirable woman. They clinked glasses. He sipped his wine. It was probably delicious, but he was thinking too hard to taste it.
After an awkward pause, he said, "The mussels were a good choice. I should have ordered them." He looked down at his filet mignon. The two medallions were tiny, but he knew every bite would choke him. I should have ordered something easier to eat. She will watch me saw through them with my knife, then chew. What was I thinking? He picked up his knife and tried to smile again, aware that she was watching him. Please, he begged her silently, say something.
She did. She lifted her fork gracefully. "I was told that the mussels were first rate here. Perhaps you should order them next time."
Next time. Marvelous. Eric tried not to show how excited her words made him feel. He hoped the warmth he felt in his chest did not mean his face had flushed. He cut a tiny piece of filet and put it in his mouth. They ate in silence for a while, listening to the clink of glasses and the soft music from the quartet in the corner. Eric touched his napkin to his lips, tried to make polite conversation. "I hear it is going well at the Lab."
That might not have been the right thing to say, for she paled, even turned a little grey around the mouth. Eric thought fast, "Creedy tells me that your paper was well-received by Lancet." Good call. The paper was a great triumph for her. But I wonder what is wrong at the Lab?
"Yes. My colleagues were important contributors. I hope Peter mentioned them as well." She took a sip of her wine as the color returned to her cheeks.
Creedy had not. Eric smiled reassuringly, changed the subject. "Would you like to order dessert?"
"No. This is an excellent meal. I would prefer that instead of dessert, we could have coffee at my place."
Eric felt his cheek twitch. He tried to hide it by using his napkin again. He deliberately set his knife down with a hard thump to draw her eyes away. It worked. Her eyes followed the knife and missed the twitch. He tapped his fingers to delay their return to his face as he carefully maintained his Inspector façade. "That sounds charming, Delia."
Coffee was served on a fashionable silver tray, no surprises there. She had obviously planned this well in advance, for the elegant petit fours and tiny sugar wafers were hard to come by and not likely to be in her cupboard for everyday tea. Eric lifted one to his lips and followed it with a sip of his coffee. It was her turn to be nervous. Her hand trembled as she poured and he noticed a tightness around her mouth that had not been there in the restaurant. He sat back in the soft chair and held his cup on the saucer, hoping to appear more relaxed than he felt. I am on her turf. She will call the shots now.
"How are things at the Yard?" She sat across from him, her knees pressed together beneath the white gown, her saucer balanced daintily on top.
"Doing very well. I have a new assistant. He seems to be learning very quickly, he's very bright. Eager even. I think he has an excellent future as an investigator." Eric sipped his coffee, then set it carefully down on the saucer.
Delia continued, "I am glad to know that. I was very sorry to hear about your last partner. His widow is well cared for, I presume?"
Eric didn't try to hide the flinch that rattled his coffee cup on the saucer. I walked right into that. It's my fault. I brought up the new partner.
"Oh, no. Eric. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It was a foolish thing to say, and I spoke without thinking. Please. I'm sorry." She set her saucer on the tray and leaned forward, taking his cup. "I should have known that six months is not long enough."
Eric tried to respond, but while his brain had come up with the proper social response, his body was not cooperating. His throat felt too tight to speak and he feared he had lost all the forward momentum he had so arduously developed this evening.
Then she surprised him. She came off her chair with a smooth grace and knelt at his feet. "I heard what happened. They told us at the Lab. I sent a card..."
Eric managed a stiff reply, "Yes..." Her face had lost its hardness; her eyes were expressive and sad. She put her hand on his knee.
"It must have been very hard on you."
"It was." Eric said softly.
"And you had no one."
"No."
"Oh, how horrible."
Eric saw tears well up in he blue eyes and immediately leaned forward to brush the away with a finger. I hate it when women cry. He stared at his thick finger, her tear made a glistening track over his knuckle. His hand felt rough against the pale softness of her cheek, and he felt like a huge bear bending over a doe. This is not right. She is not for me.
"Eric. Please. Please forgive me. I was so worried about tonight...and then I go and ruin it like this..."
"Delia..." He stroked her hair, unsure if that was the right thing to do. Her hair was soft. It felt good. Unbidden, his fingers tugged gently at the pins that held the chignon together. When the golden strands felt to her shoulders she sighed and leaned into his lap. Maybe she is. Eric stood and lifted her to her feet. "Delia..."
She slipped off her pumps. "Come with me, Eric"
He followed her, stumbling a little as he allowed her to lead him down the hall with her delicate hand clutching two of his fingers. She didn't turn on the light as she steered him to her bed. Eric sat where she placed him, watching silently as she turned on the stereo, pulled the bedspread back with the blankets and then fumbled with the catch on her dress. He stood up and helped her unfasten first her necklace, then the white dress. He lifted his chin as she tugged at his tie. When she got to his cuffs, she paused. "Lovely cuff links, Eric. Let's make sure you don't lose these." She unfastened them like she knew what she was doing and laid them carefully on the lamp table beside her bed.
She was smooth. Her skin was soft and pliable; she made no sounds as he lay her down and touched her body. His hands made circles in her flesh, feeling her, squeezing her legs and arms. Somehow he needed to convince himself she was real. He bent over her, hanging his head inches from her breasts as his big hands enveloped them, encasing them with his fingers. He felt her fingers in his curls. Eric smiled, enjoying the sensation, the little tugs, the strokes over his ears. She was encouraging him. He touched his mouth to a nipple, delighted when she squirmed beneath his hands.
Eric felt a rise of satisfaction as his own body responded to her pleasure. The room was dimly lit, and he found that he avoided looking at her face. He did not want to ponder the reason why, for her body was open to him, asking to be explored. He used his hands to investigate the bone structure of her hips, the junction where a leg joined the pelvis. She invited him in, opening the door and beckoning with the scent of warm temptation. He grew harder, and was pleased. Briefly, he analyzed the probability that he would perform well, that he may actually cause this woman to achieve an orgasm.
Earlier that day he had taken himself in the shower, knowing that emptying himself into his hand now would prolong his erection later. He had leaned heavily against the tile, allowing the hot water to run down his body making rivulets in the dark hair of his chest. He had thought about Delia and her long legs, her soft eyes. His hand moved over the hard muscles of his abdomen and found his thickening erection. He lifted his chin to the water and pulled, thinking about Delia. He had thought of her white skin against the sheets of his bed, her legs apart, her mouth asking for him. He pulled on himself until his thighs began to tremble. The water had run over his face and down his chest, cooled by the time it coursed over his hand and doused the fire that erupted as he came powerfully into his fist. He had stood there in the water, panting a little afterwards. Ready now. The second time he would last much longer. Long enough to please a woman and not just himself.
Eric pressed his face into the soft hollow of the woman's belly and nibbled here and there, moving slowly toward the tuft of blonde curls that continued to beckon him with musky perfumes. He was testing her, wordlessly asking if she might allow him to taste her. He waited, feeling her muscles tighten beneath his chin, listening to her shallow breathing. Yes. There were no signals to stop. No flinching, no evasions or attempts to escape his mouth. He moved on the bed and felt her fingers leave his hair. She made a little sound of regret, and tugged at one last curl before he put her knees around his ears. She responded to his mouth with wiggles and sighs. Eric went to work, exploring with his tongue what his hands had done with her body. He placed his hands on her hips, testing for her responses, listening to her voice, tasting her readiness. She came almost immediately, surprising him. He had meant only to arouse her and make her eager to accept his body inside hers. But her short gasps ended with a muffled squeak and a shuddering groan. He pulled his face away from her, his erection rock hard and eager. Will she still take me? He hazarded a look at her face, aware his eyes would ask the question for him. Her pupils were dilated with serotonin. She would not be thinking too clearly just yet, I should give her at least a full minute. He waited, squeezed her thigh when she appeared to drift off. She responded then, lifting her hips in answer. He nodded, crawling up from between her legs to poise himself over her, guiding himself inside her, meeting no resistance, only the welcoming gush of slick fluids. He bent his head to the task, savoring the warmth and the slippery sensation of a woman who has been satisfied. There is a difference. Will she come twice? A challenge or a curiosity? He tried to stop thinking and start feeling, but it was difficult to turn his mind off. Even the slickery sounds as he moved in and out of her body could not distract him from analyzing his performance. There will be time for deconstruction later, he reminded himself. Be here now. His body was prepared to go the distance, he had prepared it for the long haul. He had planned a spectacular vaginal orgasm for this woman, yet he feared she looked bored already.
Eric closed his eyes, tried to accelerate the finish by thinking of breasts and nipples and labia. He arched his back and drove himself deeper inside her, increasing the friction and insisting his body respond. But no. His body was settling in for a long night of love-making. He opened his eyes again, looked to her face for clues. The woman had lost interest, her face was slack, her eyes dead. Eric slowed then stopped, pressed up inside and regretting his earlier adventure in the shower. But I would have come as soon as I entered her if I hadn't done that. I had to. It has been too long. He considered starting up again, finishing inside her while she patiently waited. No. She blinked at him, puzzled that he had stopped. It is what she expects. She expects me to pound her until I am satisfied. No, I can't. She isn't interested anymore.
Eric sat back, his erection slid out of the woman but it continued to point proudly at the ceiling. She lifted her head and saw it. At least she knows this is not about me. Her eyes asked him what was wrong. Eric shook his head slightly. I can't make love to a woman who just needs to be fucked. He backed off the bed and reached for his trousers which were hanging over a chair. Delia rolled to her side, watching him, her face now showing some concern, even hurt. Eric regretted that. He glanced down at her as he put his arm through his shirt.
"I'm sorry, Delia." He grabbed his tie but didn't put it on. He picked up his shoes and socks and tucked them under his arm, his watch he slipped into his pocket. He didn't look back as he left the room. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder as he walked out the front door. He was in his car pulling up to his garage when he realized he had left the cuff links beside her bed.