Page 71 of Faultlines

“Hey,” she replies with a bright smile as she closes the truck door with a soft thud.

The drive to the airport passes in a strange mixture of straightforward conversation and uncomfortable silence. I slide my hand onto her thigh while changing lanes, and she covers my hand with hers.

“We can still change our minds,” she says.

“I think we passed that exit a few miles ago.”

Seattle greets us with gray skies and the faint, earthy scent of impending rain. Brooke stops on the sidewalk outside the terminal and tilts her face toward the clouds.

“This is what I imagined.”

“Most people don’t get this excited about overcast weather.”

She turns to me with a grin. “Most people are wrong.”

Before we find a cab to the hotel, I pull her to me and kiss her hard, the rough fabric of her jacket presses against my chest. Her lips are soft against mine, and it feels good to be here.

Friday evening marks the start of conference duties: check-in, grab participant ID, and collect freebies. Technically, these are the reasons for my attendance. Tomorrow, I will feign interest through presentations on sustainable design, green infrastructure, and urban development. But tonight, I want to spend the evening with Brooke.

We find a restaurant overlooking Elliott Bay, where floor-to-ceiling windows frame the harbor. “And the kid just stared at me and said, ‘Are you a real teacher?’” Brooke is saying, but I haven’t heard the last few minutes of her story.

She catches me. “What?”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful.” Glasses clink and someone nearby laughs, yet the only thing I can focus on is her.

After dinner, I reach for her without thinking. She meets me halfway, weaving her fingers through mine as we walk back to the hotel. Our room is on the fourteenth floor, with a wall of glass overlooking the city.

She stands at the window with her back to me, still in her navy silk dress. I see her reflection in the glass—her arms crossed loosely over her chest. The champagne I ordered sits half-finished on the table beside the bed. One bed. I requested only one.

“The city is so beautiful from up here,” she says. Sounding a little lost.

I cross the room, the carpet muffling my steps, and stand behind her, close but not touching. “Yeah,” I say, my voice a little rougher than I intended. “It is.”

She turns toward me and I cup her face with my hand, feeling the pressure of her cheekbone against my palm.

“We don’t have to,” I say. I both mean it and I don’t.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

That’s all it takes. I kiss her and she tastes like wine. Her fingers curl into my shirt. I turn her to face the window, and my hands find the zipper at the back of her dress, drawing it down inch by inch. On the way down my knuckles trace her spine, and she shivers. Her silk dress falls to the floor, and she steps out of it. I can see goosebumps on her back as she unhooks her bra. She looks at me over her shoulder. She’s in just a thong, silhouetted against the night.

She faces me. “Your turn,” she says, as she pushes my jacket off my shoulders. She unknots my tie with deliberate fingers, watching my eyes as she works each button of my shirt free. I let her undress me, standing still under her inspection. Then she turns presenting her back to me, an invitation and a challenge both.

I wrap myself around her, my chest flush against her spine. My hands find her full breasts, her nipples hardening under my touch, and she makes a sound—approval, impatience, need.

“Fuck, Brooke.”

I kiss the back of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, and work her thong down and off. She exhales and shifts her stance wider. I press her upper body against the window, the cool glass a stark barrier, and kneel behind her. I find her center, and she’s already wet, slick, and eager. One swipe of my tongue from back to front, and she’s moaning my name, a drawn-out guttural sound. She yanks my hair with one hand, the sting of it sharp enough to make my eyes water while she directs my mouth where she wants it. Soon she’s trembling against the glass, her whole-body shuddering.

I pull out a condom, ripping the foil open with my teeth, and slide it down my hard length. She watches me in the reflection, her eyes dark and hungry. I press my palm flat between her shoulder blades and guide her upper body forward until her hands hit the window.

“What if someone sees?” she asks, her voice a mix of fear and excitement, but her hips are already arching back, seeking.

I put my mouth against her ear, my breath warm against her skin. “No one can see you up here.”