All This From Across A Room

Alone, she drives;

Hot, sweaty, already exhausted

Even though it’s only nine in the morning.

Her special destination?

The third floor of the city library

Where the quiet and solitude match her nun-like existence of late.

Her car is one of three in the parking lot.

Today will be a good day to work, undisturbed;

Unhindered by conversation or expectation.

She walks into the lobby,

Then towards the spiral staircase

Leading up to the dusty third floor stacks.

A cooling shaft of air,

A surprise from a hidden ventilator

Billows her skirt as its cool fingers caress her legs.

It’s then a husky, masculine voice caresses her hearing.

“I’ll bet that felt good,” he drawls.

She looks down the staircase into a pair of whiskey-brown eyes, alight with sensual amusement.

His gaze draws slowly away from hers,

His eyes appreciatively following those breezy fingers

Of air as they send a delightful coolness up to her silk panties.

A barely perceptible groan accompanies the faint smile

That spreads across his ruggedly handsome face

As her cheeks flame in delightful embarrassment.

My God, she quakes.

He can see straight through to Paris!

Their heated gazes entwine once more.

She raises one hand to her heart,

As if to stop its pounding.

There are no words from across the room … yet.

His smile is one of yearning.

“I bet you enjoyed the cool air coming from that vent

Almost as much as I did.”

His eyes hold hers in gallant constraint,

As he watches her cheeks warmly infuse with a glowing pink.

A very nice match to the panties innocently displayed, he muses.

This woman is breathtaking, He reflects!

She breaks eye contact with him, turns, and continues up the staircase.

He cannot help but follow.

Her every step is a gentle hip sway,

as if to music playing

that neither he nor she can hear.

His heart thuds

With each step upward he takes to the third floor.

A blonde-haired beauty with flashing blue eyes.

She glances behind her,

Knows he is following.

“The cool air is¬ a nice relief from the heat,” she responds.

Her voice – velvety soft.

Reminds him of a purring kitten he’d love to pet.

“May I join you in the loft?”

She inhales a steadying breath.

Then continues up the stairs, nodding her consent

As the man follows closely behind.

She enters the library’s third-floor haven,

Keenly aware of the spicy, bucolic scent of his after shave.

She seats herself at one of the long tables.

From across the room, he strides towards her.

Though there are other empty tables to choose from,

He seats himself next to her.

She breathes in his bold scent.

He is a centerfold of virile maleness:

Tall, well-built, wearing snug fitting jeans and a ten-gallon hat.

He removes his hat, placing it on the table between them.

Her imagination conjures an image of what he’d look like without a shirt, as well.

A real Oklahoma cowboy, she thinks.

She decides to ignore him, but finds that resolution a moot point

As a wave of warmth slowly spreads in the heart of her abdomen.

She tries to rope in her rampant thoughts - which are surely mirrored in her eyes.

She steals a glance in his direction only to

See the feverish gleam of enticement in his eyes.

Her concentration flags.

This man is too sensual for the library, she muses.

Her thoughts betray an attempted calm demeanor,

Traitor to her self-imposed ‘no men’ existence of late.

She rises from the table in pursuit of research materials for her thesis.

Palms sweating, her fingertips graze over several volumes

Before choosing two on Freudian psychology.

From across the third-floor room, she covertly glances

At the all-too animalistic man seated at the table -

The one meeting her gaze so attentively. She feels sweetly tormented.

He watches, as if in a dream, her walk towards him from across the room.

A vision of feminine loveliness

That infuses his empty heart with a searing desire.

“Allow me,” he offers, pulling out a chair in one fluid motion,

Then sits back down

With the graceful ease of a tiger on the prowl.

She sits, heart palpitating,

Butterflies doing somersaults up and down her spine,

Keenly aware of the sinewy muscles flexing beneath his pale blue shirt.

“By the way, my name is Nicholas Calhoun,” he says, offering his hand to her.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Calhoun,” she responds,

Her small hand completely sheathed by his large one.

“I’m doing research,” she says, her interest peaked and growing.

“I’m a freelance wildlife writer,” he responds, finding it hard to breathe.

“That sounds interesting;

“I’m a historical romance novelist,” she announces,

As her gaze lowers to the three-inch volume of Freudian Interpretations

On the table in front of her.

Her soft, sultry tone is like warm honey flowing down.

A temptress in a business suit.

Such a sweet disguise.

He is intrigued, as if

She’d shared a soul secret with him.

He leans in close, his lips mere inches from her ear.

She feels the potency of his heated perusal,

As tiny sparks of anticipation began to grow within.

Such a magical, intense attraction.

Delightful, erotic sensations bubble up from the center of her being,

Taking her from cool waters of inspection

To white rapids of interest in this man.

Images of possibilities cascade through the man’s mind,

Her every movement, each gesture, a sensual mating ritual,

His mind and heart thirsting to plumb the depths of her soul.

She is hypnotized; Unable to draw her gaze away …

To keep from drowning in his whiskey-colored eyes.

Eyes that entrance and embrace her with each glance.

“You’re staring,” she whispers.

She can barely breathe.

“So are you,” he counters.

“Your name, please?” he asks.

“Ailanna,” she answers.

An overpowering magnetism draws their lips together like so many slivers of fine steel.

The kiss is accepted … and returned …

The touch of lips erasing

Disconcerting patterns of his chaotic lifestyle as a bachelor.

Easing self-imposed loneliness and discontent

As a woman living alone.

A parade of emotions march around his pounding heart.

It is a powerful connection.

He draws back, slowly.

He is as a man thrown overboard. She is his life preserver.

“Dinner at eight?” he asks.

“Cocktails at seven?” she shyly counters.

“Pick you up at six-thirty.”