Kira

I'm Kira. I worked at the campus coffee shop where Alistair got his morning cuppa.

He worked in the literature department as a teacher's aide or something along those lines. So every weekday morning he would show up at the coffee shop and ask for a bone-dry cappuccino and a pastry.

I remember how all the girls working there would smile and act all flustered when he came in. They would flirt with him and argue about whose turn it was to make his coffee.

I wasn't too interested in him. Yes, he did look quite dashing in that black-and-white movie star way. He was of average height, lean, and had longish black hair. His nose was on the hawkish side. His lips were thinner than should have been attractive. His eyes were too bright. And yet every time he opened the shop's door, every pair of eyes, male and female, would turn to look at him. He carried himself in that certain way, as if he owned the shop and we were nothing more than his very fortunate guests.

But I wasn't like the other girls with their silly crushes. I never fought for the chance to give him his coffee or tally up his bill at the register. So it was a bit surprising to wake up in my bed all rumpled and sore that morning two years ago.

It was spring. Almost summer. May. I had the morning shift. The sky was just starting to lighten as I arrived at work.

There stood Alistair, shivering in a short-sleeved shirt. He looked surprised to see me.

"Hi," I said pulling the shop keys from my pocket.

"Good morning," he smiled. "Opening later today?"

"No, seven o'clock like always."

He frowned at that and started fumbling in his pockets. Out emerged, of all things, a silver pocket-watch. He opened it and studied it for a long moment. "And you're about to tell me that it isn't seven thirty … two right now?"

I shook my head. The man's watch was running fast. For some reason, it made me smile. "How long have you been waiting here?" I asked.

"Thirty two minutes."

"In the cold?"

"In, as you say, the cold." He gave me a rueful smile. "And I imagine I will spend the next twenty eight in the cold as well."

I unlocked the door and held it open for him. "You can wait inside. Just don't tell my boss."

"I'll take it to the grave."

He walked in, collapsed theatrically into a leather chair, and pulled out a book.

I went about my business of getting the store ready to open but I felt his eyes on me. As if he was studying me rather than the book. I made his coffee and brought the cup to him. His eyes looked up at me, his eyebrows lifted with the pretense of surprise. His fingers brushed mine as he took the cup and I tried my hardest not to blush.

"Thank you," he said with a smile.

I smiled in return. "I won't have any pastries ready for a while. But at least you can get warmed up." I don't know why, but I felt the need to linger there for another moment. "What are you reading?"

"Neruda."

It must have been the way he said it. The slightly rolled r. The hint of a Castilian lisp. A warmth settled over my skin. I loved Neruda. I owned a first-edition of Los Versos del Capitan. I told him as much.

His eyes glowed as he said, "I would like to see that."

A word of consent or rejection hovered on my lips, I don't remember which, but stayed unsaid as the shop's door opened and the first real customer came in.

I spent the rest of my shift pulling shots and blending drinks. By the time three o'clock rolled around I was exhausted. I grabbed my things, headed for the front door, and stopped. There stood Alistair, waiting for me.

"You mentioned a certain first edition," he said.

"So I did."

He followed me home, like a lost puppy trailing me through the streets of barely-leafed trees and pock-marked pavement. As we walked he kept asking me questions, about what I was studying at the university, how I liked Boston, whether I had any plans for the summer. I was actually surprised at how quickly we were at my door and inside my flat.

I pulled out the thin volume and carefully gave it to him to hold. He leafed through it, his long fingers gingerly handling the pages as if they were fragile butterfly wings and not paper. He handed it back to me, open to a familiar page.

Bella. I read silently.

"Bella," he recited from memory, standing behind me. "Como en la piedra fresca del manantial, el agua abre un ancho relámpago de espuma…"

...así es la sonrisa en tu rostro,bella.

"Bella, de finas manos y delgados piescomo un caballito de plata…"

...andando, flor del mundo, así te veo, bella.

"Bella, con un nido de oro enmarañado en tu cabeza, un nido color de miel sombría donde mi corazón arde y reposa, bella."

He had changed the words. Hair of gold not copper. Hair that was the same color as mine. I glanced over my shoulder and into those shining eyes of his. I felt a pang of something in my heart but I didn't care to examine it too closely at that moment.

He gently closed the book and laid it on the shelf. His arms turned me towards him and my lips felt the lightest of kisses.

I was stunned into returning his kiss.

His arms pulled me flush against him, his hard body tight against mine. His fingers went into my hair and tugged, sending bolts of electricity through me. I love it when guys pull on my hair and somehow he knew that.

We just stood there for a while. Him with his mouth pressed against mine. Me blissed out from the feel of those gentle fingers combing through my wavy strands. Strands of tangled gold.

I pushed away from him and let him follow me to my bedroom. I faced him as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and tossed it to the floor. I stripped off my jeans, my socks, and my bra. And then I was standing there in just my far too wet panties while he was still fully dressed. I ducked my head as a creeping mist of embarrassment began to gather in my stomach.

Something made me look up and I saw those expressive eyes watching me. Admiring me. Devouring me with a hungry gaze.

I am not nearly so delusional as to think myself beautiful, but for those hours that I spent with him, I was.

I threw my shoulders back and let my lips curl into a smile. I walked to him, imagining myself a goddess descending from her celestial home. I let my hands leisurely explore his body. His shirt came off. His pants came off along with his shoes. I pulled him onto my unmade bed and he landed beside me, his breathing fast and his eyes nearly black with want.

We let our limbs tangle together. He kissed my body, lingering to lick a hot trail between my breasts and to rasp his teeth against a nipple. My hands were clutching at the sheets, my knuckles white, when I felt him pause. I looked down and found him looking up at me from between my legs.

"You're incredible," he told me, rubbing his hand against the front of my panties.

"Thank you," I replied.

He pulled my underwear down past my knees and then off. And then I cried out as his tongue pressed against the concentrated source of my desire.

No man had ever done that to me. I might not be nearly as worldly as other girls my age, but I have had my occasional bed-top adventure. And yet to man had ever done that.

I shut my eyes in ecstasy as his lips and tongue played over my center. It was like lying on a sun-warmed beach with the waves beating against that hot tender spot. I felt his finger press into me and my body pressed around him. He continued licking me and stroking deep inside me. I arched against him, trying to draw more pleasure from that talented mouth. His free hand pressed me against the bed as he quickened his movements. He suckled against the quivering nub of nerves at the top of my core and I came, my lips opening on a moan of desperate pleasure.

In a smooth motion he moved over my body. I felt him hard against my entrance, pushing slowly but insistently into my body. My still spasming channel clutching at him. He pulled out of me and then back in a rough stroke that made my hips jerk against him. His hands framed my face and as he moved above me he watched my face.

His panting was punctuated with deep groans and I could see every little utterance tremble inside his throat. We were so close, so close we were intermeshed. I focused on that nexus between us. How good he felt as he pumped inside me. How good I must feel stretched hot and wet around him. The thought had sensation surging through me and I came again, pulsing on his erection. I saw his eyes squeeze shut and felt his body shudder against mine.

When his eyes opened again we were still connected. He kissed me and then rolled onto his back beside me. We lay there for a while, feeling the air brush over cooling skin. There was nothing to say and I didn't feel like talking quite yet. The bed creaked as he got up and headed towards the bathroom.

I heard the flush of the toilet and the faucet running. Panic rushed through me and I sat up. The ripped foil square lying on the rumpled sheets quelled some of the panic. I didn't remember him putting on the condom. For that matter, I didn't remember him taking of his boxers. And yet, here was the evidence.

The bed creaked again as he sat down on the bed. He reached over to play with my hair, smiling.

"You want to get dinner?" he asked.

We did go to dinner. Then back to my apartment. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. But there was a single red rose on my rose and a note on my bed stand. The note read "Thank you. Jack R. Alistair."

The next time I saw him at the coffee shop, I was among the girls arguing for the chance to serve him.