The Final Arrangement - Sex Stories

The Final Arrangement

... same."

After pausing again he continues, "I think we have a lot to talk about. How about we go somewhere a little more private to catch up?"

"Go where?"

"Perhaps my hotel?" he ventures. Then, spotting my wry smile quickly adds, "Don't worry, they have a big lounge area next to the lobby. Big picture windows overlooking the sea: sofas, dusty fake plants - you know the sort of thing."

We chuckle together, gather our belongings and leave.

It's still pouring. We hug together under my umbrella. His arm around me feels strong, firm, yet friendly, not possessive. Away from the coffee-infused cafe air and tucked in close, I catch the scent of something. He's wearing John's cologne. That's thoughtful of him.

It's a short walk through torrential, blustery rain to his boutique hotel on the seafront. As we approach the foot of the steps something compels me to stop. I stare up at the heavy, panelled door framed by ornate carved stone columns. Looking up, the building's Georgian facade looms under scudding dark grey rain clouds. Second thoughts course through my mind.

"Is something wrong?" He asks, clearly concerned.

"No... It's just..."

Patiently, he asks, "Would you prefer we go back to the cafe?"

"No. No, I..."

He turns to face me, his expression a curious mix of empathy and a little mischief. Holding my fingers gently - not my hand, just my fingertips - he takes a step backward toward the door, out of the shelter of the umbrella into the pouring rain. ...

... His arm is outstretched inviting me to follow. "Come inside and let's make those sofas in the lobby wet," he smiles. His hold on my fingertips is so weak that I could just shake him off and be free to turn and walk away, walk back to the bus, home and John. But I don't. There's something compelling about that delicate connection, his empathy, his sincerity to offer that choice. Almost without being aware of the decision I grip his hand and we hurry up the steps together and through the heavy door.

I sit on a large Chesterfield sofa in the lounge bar, surrounded by pots of those dusty plastic plants and muted decor hues. Cheesy bossa nova jazz quietly drifts in the warm air adding to the cliche'd environment. Blustery raindrops rattle across the bay window through which I stare, watching surging storm waves crashing over the beach.

Bringing two more coffees from the bar, he sits next to me and asks, "Don't you want to take that soaking coat off?"

I shake my head.

"Oh." He looks concerned. "Keeping your options open for a quick escape, I suppose."

He's right, in a way. That's partially true. But he's not aware of my secret immodesty. I feel a warm flush cross my face and another flutter in my chest, suddenly very self-conscious. But dressing as I have is the only way of ensuring that, if I choose to, my commitment would be decisive and clear with no risk of second thoughts.

We sit in an awkward silence for a moment, sipping the hot coffee. It's terrible. But ...