“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Dorian said as he unlocked the door to his apartment and held it open as Claire passed. “I rarely entertain.”


If by “mess” he meant the small stack of magazines atop his coffee table, then yes, his place was a train wreck. Claire surveyed the otherwise immaculate space. This guy was anal. It was like stepping inside of a model home; everything in its place, all surfaces sparkled and shined, all cushions fluffed, void of any smell, and not a dust bunny in sight. His place made hers look like a rubbish heap and suddenly she was relieved that she hadn’t invited him upstairs when he came to pick her up.


“Please make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” He switched on the television and excused himself.


“Take your time.” Claire sat on the sofa and flipped through the channels—still checking out her surroundings. There were no obvious signs of a girlfriend: no pictures, no female items of any sort, there were two rather proud looking fichus trees but those could hardly be considered red flags—they were easy to maintain. A chimp could grow one.


Claire spent the entire day replaying the events from their impromptu date over and over again. And given her track record with men, this was no easy feat. Most of the men she’d encountered fit into one or more categories: Married, possessive, emotionally unavailable, or sacless. Emotionally unavailable she could work with but sacless was where she drew the line. There was Felix and his impenetrable shell. She’d wasted two years of her life trying to crack this man only to be left with the feeling that she was the problem, not the fact that he was a closeted homosexual.


There was Ron whose marital status only became a bone of contention when she, six months in, found out that he was married. Again, somehow, she was the problem. Then there was a short stream of sacless wonders that rolled over, fetched and barked on her command. Boring.


Then there was Dorian. And while not an official boyfriend he did have the potential to be. His attention to her made her feel special—more special than she’d felt in years. He was kind but far from a pushover and his sense of humor mirrored hers. Claire never felt the need to mind her tongue with him. And those eyes—those haunting eyes stripped her raw and naked of all pretense. He saw her. And in some ways this frightened her.



Dorian made a quick call to Gabriel assuring him that his task was complete, and then headed for the bathroom to tidy up. He examined his freshly washed face in the mirror. He was his father’s son. The same chiseled features. The same whiskey colored hair. The same intense eyes and, sadly, hunger. He was far from his father’s level of depravity but he was no angel. The signal for change came after fucking a woman a few hours after meeting her in a pub. Almost two years had passed since then; however, he could recall the event with equal parts clarity and repulsion.


They’d met at a pub in Blackpool. She wanted to have sex and at the time there was nothing he wanted more. They went to her place where he senselessly and quite rudely pounded her from behind with his right hand on her hip and his left hand over her mouth. She moaned and bucked and he drilled her harder.


The air was pungent with sex. Sex, that’s all it was, nothing more. He remembered the excitement of screwing a woman he’d known for hours, her tightness stroking his condom clad cock, and the encroaching sense of guilt made it difficult to breathe. By now his blood was overheating; he didn’t last long. His release came like a geyser … and with it his last conquest. It was time to end the madness. He wanted something tangible and real. It was time to change.


And so he did. He began craving a normal life for himself in the hopes of one day finding someone special to share it with. Was that person Claire? Dorian couldn’t say but she was as close to perfection as he dared to imagine. She was nice but light-years from being called sweet and carefree and she was never childish. He saw in her a woman in the making, bound to sort out the pieces of herself not already in place—on her terms. She wasn’t looking for anyone else to do it for her. In this, they were kindred spirits.


Dorian emerged from his bedroom dressed in a navy University of Michigan T-shirt and lounge pants. Claire looked him up and down and sarcastically said, “You look comfortable.”


“Comfortable is the theme of this evening. After a day of riding, I'm sure you'd like to freshen up.” He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Go on. Get changed. I left you something to wear in the bathroom.”



What he gave her was a matching UM T-shirt that probably fit his six-four frame to a tee but standing only five-seven it erased any semblance of her sex appeal and femininity. Seriously, did he like her or not?! Her disappointed brown eyes stared back at her from the mirror. Her hair, her crowning glory piled atop her head, sprung to her shoulders when she released it from their confines. The steam from a shower would be hell on her press and curl. Damn him for not having a shower cap. She reached into the bag of toiletries he’d given her. It was full of travel soaps, shampoo, toothbrushes emblazoned with the logos and names of hotels from around the world. If nothing else he was well traveled and judging by their sheer quantity of items he didn’t sit still very long.


Still, no shower cap.


After brushing her teeth, curiosity got the better of her. She sneaked into the walk-in closet just off the bathroom. As suspected, it was neat and orderly, in stark contrast to her huddled mass of clothes thrown about her closet. Spit shined loafers lined the far wall. She ran her hands across the starched shirts and jackets hanging from their wooden hangers. She pressed her nose to one of his many dark sports coats and inhaled a lung full of his scent. Slight as it was, it was there—the smell of clean. He was always clean.


“Found what you’re looking for?” Dorian asked from behind.


Instead of turning a startled face to him, Claire took in the rest of her surroundings—he was beginning to fascinate her. She circled the room until it led back to him standing in the doorway. “Yes,” she said seductively. “I think I’ve found exactly what I’m looking for.” She kissed his lips and slipped past him without making any excuses for her boldness.


He raised an eyebrow, determinedly forcing his brain from where it was headed. He circled and traced her steps out of the bedroom. She sat on the sofa with her feet curled under her. “Dinner should be here shortly. I don’t cook.” He sat beside her.


“Really?” she said astonishingly. “But you have a kitchen full of cookware.”


Dorian turned and grinned. “Did you scope out my entire apartment while I was gone?”


“Yes. Are you always so …”


“Anal.” He cut her off. “Yes, I am. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.”


“You shouldn’t change. I like it, actually. It says a lot about who you are.”


His brow furrowed. “What does it say about me?”


“Well,” Claire rested her leg in his lap. “… it says you’re either habitual by nature or choice. You may be compensating for something, some slight or childhood trauma. You insist on structure and order because chaos scares you.”


Um, pop psychology but pretty much right on the money, he thought. The doorbell rang. Saved!


Over dinner Claire further dug her lady-claws into Dorian’s brain; she wooed him with her fanatical, yes fanatical, knowledge of theoretical physics. Oh, he could’ve blown a load—he could’ve grabbed her by the back of her nerdy head and open mouthed kissed her. His penis tapped at his cotton briefs—obviously, his penis thought this was some kind of new foreplay where putting up with absurd banter might result in him getting sucked.


He was wrong. Dorian had no plans on falling back into his old habits. Slow, comfortable and steady was the theme, and he wasn’t about to change it.


Claire relished Dorian’s interest in her. Her va-jay-jay, on the other hand, was a bit confused. Why wasn’t he attacking her with his tongue? her va-jay-jay thought. Claire was clearly not seeing the big picture—the broader scope of the evening where hot and horny won and a good tongue-lashing began. Why was Claire still talking about stupid shit? Her va-jay-jay definitely felt like she had a legitimate grievance.


Claire wasn’t going to make the first move. Or was she?


                                      ******


After dinner they returned to the living room and talked some more. This time Claire was nearly sitting in Dorian's lap.


“What?” he asked pushing one of her pesky curls away from her face.


“Nothing. Thanks for dinner.” She moved closer to study the details of his face. Her fingertips delicately archived each feature as though she were reading brail—her hands were the tools of her trade. His lids closed over his haunting, almost unearthly eyes. Her fingers moved down the slope of his nose and traced the masculine lines of his jaw. She paid careful attention to his lips—she watched her fingers tap them lightly.


Dorian opened his eyes and watched her intently. Even in her boldness there was innocence. He’d expected her to be reserved even edgy. But she wasn’t. She was as curious about him as he was about her. Without warning, she kissed him. This wasn’t a quick passing peck—it was soft and passionate, unhurried and studied, it was, in fact, the physical manifestation of what he’d felt for her over the past months. Her hands explored his shoulders, his arms, his side, his chest. His followed suit yet didn’t venture to touch her breasts though they both yearned for it. Again, slow, comfortable and steady was the theme of the evening. His mouth dipped to her neck. His hand slowly found her upper thigh but went no further.


She could’ve cum from his touch alone; she’d dreamt of it … though in her dreams it was normally followed by him worshipping her body with kisses then lapping feverously between her thighs. Nothing in her fantasies could compare or prepare her for the gentleness he lavished on her. Her head tilted back, inviting him to devour her neck. She gave a feral moan when his lips found her spot. “Oh God.” She was no longer in the ephemeral pleasured guise of masturbation—this was real—he was real—finally she’d seize what she sought. Him.


“I’ve wanted you for so long.” His voice was heavy with sincerity against her lips. Dorian reclaimed her tongue and she quivered.


Claire finessed her hand into Dorian’s pants and stroked his cock gently to his pleasure. She’d seen her share of cocks—from the embarrassingly modest to some that looked like cupcakes on popsicles—both left her unsatisfied. But Dorian’s cock was beautiful, chiseled from a slab of flawless marble, it was.


That’s more like it! Their reproductive organs acknowledged on cue, not realizing they were stuck in a sexless vortex, and about to suffer the worse case of blue-balls ever.


Dorian pulled away but held her head in his hands. “We have to stop.”


Claire seethed in frustration. “But we’ve come this far,” Claire protested between kisses. “Can’t we just … a little … bit more?”


The tip of his tongue teased her bottom lip as he guided her hand to his erection. “Claire, there’s nothing ‘little’ about me. If we don’t stop there’s a very good chance I’ll cripple you.”


She sighed, disappointed.


“I understand you’re upset. And I wouldn’t blame you if you left … but I wish you’d stay.”


Claire smiled for although his expression was calm she felt his heart racing. He was in earnest. She climbed on top of him, straddling his lap and asked cautiously, “Do you want me?”


“You know I do.”


“Do you really want me? Not just sexually.”


He pulled her lips to his. “More than anything.” His honesty made it easier for Claire to swallow her annoyance.


“Then I can wait.” She stood and walk to his bedroom.


“Where are you going?” he asked after her.


“I’m going to take the longest coldest shower of my life!” She laughed but soon he heard the shower spring to life.


She might be the one. He sighed.