Three to Come Page 7

  Wrapped in the warmth of two male bodies, I slept until the ring of a telephone woke me.

  Larry rolled away from me and picked it up.

  “Yo?” He listened, then dropped it back into the cradle without speaking. “Wake up call,” he said. “It’s seven. Time to move.”

  He disappeared into the bathroom, naked as the day he was born. I couldn’t help but admire his lithe body.

  What on earth am I doing here? was my next thought.

  “Your luggage is in the closet,” Pete said as he, too, rolled out of bed. “I had the hotel move it.” He headed to the living room. Seconds later I heard the door of the other bedroom close. I was alone, in an enormous bed that still smelled of a night of passion.

  Larry emerged from the bathroom. “It’s all yours,” he told me. “I’ll shower in the other one. Shall I order breakfast?”

  How could he be so matter-of-fact? Didn’t last night mean anything to him? To Pete, who’d walked away from me without a backward glance?

  I quashed the thought and merely said, “Yes, please. I’m starved.”

  “...there’s no ahead to go to.” Larry’s words came back to me. Of course they’d walked away. Our idyll was finished. We had to go back to the real world. Larry and Pete were wise enough to realize that we’d never be able to work together if we didn’t put last night completely behind us.

  Could I convince myself they were right?

  The question plagued me as I showered away the smells of sex, the lingering aromas of semen and sweat and musky secretions.

  I emerged into a bedroom from which all trace of our wild night had been erased. The bed was made, the empty glasses and bottles were gone. As I replaced my cosmetic bag in my suitcase, I wondered why they had done it.

  Oh, don’t be dense, Cilla. Last night never happened. It was a fantasy. A dream.

  I had to believe that.

  Zipping everything together, I stacked my briefcase on top of the suitcase and pulled it behind me as I went into the living room. Larry was standing by the window, coffee cup in hand. He wore a dark blue-and-red tweed sweater, the usual rumpled Dockers, and ragg socks with his Birkenstocks. His long, dark hair was neatly combed into a short pony tail that was tied with a leather thong.

  “Coffee?”

  I turned to see Pete standing by a room service cart that sat beside the credenza. He was holding a silver coffee carafe and one eyebrow was raised in polite inquiry.

  “Please,” I said. I could play it as cool as they. I would. But I couldn’t help but think how different Pete had looked last night, his magnificent body unconcealed. What a shame he had to wear clothing.

  We discussed this morning’s tasks as we ate. Gradually I adjusted to the situation, thankful in a way that the strong sexual tension that had existed between us before was no longer there. It had been replaced by a comfortable familiarity, much like that shared by members of a close family.

  We were no longer strangers. I knew what it was like to go to bed with them, and they knew my body intimately. There was no more mystery. No more anticipation.

  I was free to go home to Bill, whom I loved in a way I could never love another man. We’ve weathered years together, and I’ll willingly—happily—stay with him, even if we never make love again.

  But now I have memories to take with me through the future, incredible memories that I can take out sometimes and cherish.

  If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget a single moment of last night. Other women have fantasies.

  I have memories.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Annice Dare started collecting erotica a long time ago, when Santa Claus brought her a very thick book titled Erotic Poetry. Intrigued, she went looking for more of the same, and discovered Victorian erotica, popular in England during that very prudish period. Although she still collects erotica, she would rather write her own, sharing some of her fantasies with her readers. Visit her website, www.annicedare.com to share them.

  Annice lives in the Pacific Northwest with the man of her dreams. Their small house is filled with overflowing bookcases, more paintings than wall space, and as many glass paperweights as she can afford.