A Stranger's Hands

He grasped me firmly, but gently, just above my elbow and guided me

into the room, his room. Then he quietly shut the door and we were alone. I blinked. I hadn't expected the room to be so small, the lights to be so bright. He approached me soundlessly, from behind, and spoke in a low, reassuring voice close to my ear. "Just relax."

I swallowed and said, "I'm trying to."

"This won't take long." His voice sounded husky.

Warmth flooded my cheeks.

Without warning, he reached down, his strong, calloused hands starting at my ankles, gently probing and moving upward along my calves, slowly but steadily—a stranger's hands.

My breath caught in my throat.

I knew I should be afraid, but somehow I didn't care what happened. I had to go through with this; there was no other way. None.

His touch was so experienced, so sure, at first I tried to do what he asked—relax. But when his hands moved up onto my thighs, I gave a shudder, and closed my eyes. My pulse suddenly began pounding like mad, my heart a hammer in my chest. Then his knowing fingers caressed my abdomen, my ribcage. And then, as he cupped my breasts in his hands, I inhaled sharply, and my stomach flipped.

Probing, searching, knowing what he wanted, he brought his hands to my shoulders, slid them down my tingling spine. Although I knew nothing about this man, I felt oddly trusting and expectant. This is a man, I thought. A man used to taking charge. A man not used to taking 'No' for an answer. A man who would tell me what he wanted. A man who had done this before—many, many times. A man who would look into my soul and say, "Okay ma'am, you can board your flight now."