Page 41 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
And right then I wonder, what the point of being an artist is if you don’t have messy experiences.
I can feel that I’m justifying. I want to do this. I want to do him.
Before I can rethink it, we’re leaving. I’m in the back of his shiny town car, and he drags his finger along the line of my jaw, down to the center of my chin.“Dragostea mea.”
I don’t know what that means, but I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to break the spell.
Then he kisses me. His lips are hot and hard on mine. I’ve been kissed before. I can’t remember those times. Because this is something entirely different. The way his mouth was over mine. The way he claims me. His lips, his teeth, his tongue.
I am trembling. I want him so badly I’m ready to tear his clothes off in the back of this car. Ready to tear my own clothes off. I realize then that I didn’t even look to see if there was a barrier between ourselves and the driver. I’m having a hard time caring.
We separate, and I look up at him, my heart pounding so hard it’s all I can hear in my ears. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“What is there to understand?” He pushes his hands through my hair, and I shiver. “This is the most honest thing there is. The most real thing. When two people want one another.”
So I give in. I throw myself at him. I kiss him. The town car stops, and we’re ushered into a beautiful building, whisked to the top floor.
Once we get inside, he closes the door. We’re alone.
It’s spare. There are no artifacts that point to who he is, but I wonder if that’s information all on its own. Everything is black. Polished.
There is a large couch in the living area, a massive window that offers a view of the city below.
He moves toward me, and kisses me. I realize I don’t know his name. He doesn’t know mine. Does it matter? Do I want to do anything to break the fantasy, or do I want to live in it? Live in this.
I don’t want to stop and talk; that much I know.
He’ll be gone by the morning. Or rather, the truth is, he’ll throw me right out into the night, I’m sure.
Why exchange names? He kisses me down my neck, down the edge of my rather respectable neckline. Then he takes hold of the front of my dress with both hands and tears it. Well, he isn’t going to throw me out on the street in this same dress, that’s for sure.
He peels it away from my body, and I’m in nothing but the black bra and underwear that I put on this morning. I’m breathing hard, trembling.
He kisses me, smooths his thumb over my bottom lip, then dips it into my mouth. I bite him. And he growls. I don’t know where that instinct came from, only that it was strong and powerful. That with him, all I can do is follow my instinct, because it’s all I have.
He kisses down my body, holding me firm, holding me steady as he trails a line of hot open-mouthed kisses over my skin.
He bites my hip, pulls my panties down. I’m only wearing a bra and my black high heeled shoes.
Then he pushes me against the wall, and begins to lick me there at the center of my thighs. I’m shocked. Motionless. And yet, I’m also prisoner to the pleasure that he creates inside of me.
He’s relentless, merciless. And I like it.
Then he pushes two fingers through my slick folds, thrusting them deep into me, and I gasp at the unfamiliar invasion.
He continues to move his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves there, and I shudder. Then I wish I knew his name because I would call it out like a prayer. Instead, I just cling to his shoulders, digging my nails into his skin.
Then he rises back up, rips my bra away and kisses me hungrily. He’s still fully clothed.
My legs are shaking. He takes me to the couch, lowers me down onto it and then sits beside me, running his fingertips along my thigh, lifting my foot up into his lap, where he slowly begins to unbuckle the ankle strap on one of my high heels.
Then he turns his attention to the other one. The movement is so civilized, so careful, and in contrast with everything else, so delicate it makes my heart ache.
The intent expression on his face does something to me.
I am in another world. I’m outside my body, and yet somehow more fully inhabiting it than I ever have.
I move my hands up because I want to take his tie off; I want to take his clothes off. He reaches up and grips my wrist, pulls it away, his hold iron. “No,” he says, pushing his forefinger up against my mouth. “You are not in charge.”
