Page 90 of David's Chase

I couldn’t not inhale and exhale deeply as the lit windows scattered around town hinted at the stories of the people who were just like me, a nobody one day and then a queen or a kind for a night or a fleeting second.

That night, everything was perfect.

He took my hand, walked me to the bed, and peeled my dress off while covering me in kisses.

Every inch of my skin reacted to him with tingles and goosebumps, and I pulled back and sought the comfort of the pillows while he took off his clothes.

He didn’t let me languish on the cold sheets, stretching his hand out, pulling me up, and bringing me to the glass wall.

I knew about that scene, and he knew I was aware of it. We didn’t lie to ourselves.

In a way, Rain’s book had been the outline of our story, the morsel of inspiration that put the idea of him into my head.

I couldn’t be mad at her or him because they had that moment back in time.

He had no idea that many years later, he’d lift a young woman up, push her back into the glass wall, enter her to the hilt, and then plunge into her, feeling more than sexual attraction for her.

Rain was afraid––she’d always suffered from acrophobia, a debilitating fear of heights––but I wasn’t because, unlike her, I knew a whole lot more about David.

She also didn’t benefit from experiencing the warm, human side of him, which he was willing to show me that night.

We kissed while we fucked, and the transition was smooth and easy, from doing naughty things in the bar to me being astonished by his place to him wrapping his arms around me and taking me to the climax again, this time making sure we were experiencing it simultaneously.

I loved how he helped me teeter on the edge before my body gave in, and I enjoyed the delicious trembling that made me a loyal fan of him forever.

We didn’t sleep there that night.

But he fucked again after a brief shower.

I loved to roll with him over the cold sheets and get from him more with each stroke.

More attention, more delight.

He loved topping me, entering me, and listening to the short gasps leaving my lips.

He loved seeing me happy, and in return, I loved seeing him satisfied, too.

A long breath enters my lungs as I let that memory drift away and shift my eyes to my phone.

I push up and send him the pictures that I’ve taken.

Nudes, my hair, my lips.

But never a photograph of my entire body.

I know how these things work.

It’s better not to make a name for myself on the Internet in my birthday suit.

You never know when something goes wrong, and my snapshots get into the wrong hands.

You look beautiful, Elizabeth.

The man kills me with his words.

I finish sending him the pictures, envisioning him at the other end of the line, receiving them, and checking them under the table.

Mr. David Moore.

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