She had gone to his hotel room after the meeting, to talk, to debrief, to write up a rough draft report on her computer before she drove home to her family and he flew off the next morning to the next city and the next meeting with the next employee and the next problem customer. It was why she had gone, and it was all she had done, despite the obvious spark between them. When the report was done she had gathered her things and accepted his offer to walk her to her car, somehow not quite wanting her time in his presence to end.

They had walked together, not quite touching, had stood silently together in the parking lot for no obvious reason, waiting for her to get in her car, to drive back to the real world, to pretend they weren't feeling, when she had realized her car keys were back in his hotel room, on the desk, next to where the computer had been plugged in. She could visualize them sitting there, could remember putting the computer away, carefully, ignoring the keys. It had to have been intentional, or maybe just fate.

Realizing her mistake, if it was a mistake, she had looked up at him. He had looked down at her. "My keys..." she had started to say.

He hadn't said anything, just looked down at her, boss to employee, friend to friend, future something. They hadn't moved, just continued to stand silent, outside the hotel, in the dark and growing colder, unwilling to act, knowing, fearing.

He had taken the first step, back to the warmth, to the light, to the elevator, to the room. She had followed, taking big steps to catch up to his much longer strides. He had seemed resolute, purposeful, determined, and vaguely angry.

Now, standing against the opposite wall of the elevator, as far apart from him as possible, she fights down memories of drunken stupors, of waking in unfamiliar beds with strange men at odd hours of the night. She has never done this sober, and she has been sober for seven years.

The elevator door opens. They step into the hall. She wants to cry out "They're on the desk. You get them. I'll wait here." But the still calm voice of the Universe reassures her: "This is different, this is better. This is what you've been longing for."

She finds it difficult to reconcile these words of calm with the large controlling red gruff of a man opening the hotel room door beside her. Exciting yes, calming never. But she has learned to trust the Universe and her excitement has gotten the better of her.

They are in the room. The door is closed. The keys are way over there. All pretense of recovering them seems forgotten. They stare at each other. Wanting each other. She needs so badly to touch him.

She steps closer, reaches out reaches up, strokes his face, pulls his face toward hers, or maybe he pulls her face toward his. It does not matter. It is spontaneous. It is shared. It is new and wonderful and completely unexpected, without obligation, without pretense, just lips and tongue and hands.

Definitely hands. She can't keep them off him, off his wide muscular chest and his strong encircling arms. They stand, locked together, eyes closed, his hands on her back and her ass, her hands on his arms and the back of his head, tongues exploring, entwining, dancing, rejoicing.

It is too much. It is all too much: too different, too romantic, too of itself, unplanned, uncontrolled, and spontaneous. She steps back, confused, unsure, excited and happy and yet almost ready to cry. She looks at the floor, unable to face him. "What do we do now?" she blurts.

"We keep our pants on," he answers brusquely.

She is startled, disappointed and thrilled all at the same time. Her husband would never suggest such a thing, has no concept of sex as anything but physical and below the belt.

But the limits he has imposed ease her panic. She steps back toward him and reaches out. "OK" she answers, nodding softly, as she slowly unbuttons his shirt, avoiding his eyes, still unwilling to face the full force of his lust, staring at his chest, muscular, hairy and red as she reveals it button by painstaking button.

He watches her for a minute, maybe two, an eternity, takes her chin in his hand again, tilts her head toward his, forcing her to look.

She watches the raw emotion in his face, knows she has caused this reaction in him, is intoxicated by the power she holds over him, is frightened again by the intoxication. She fights back her tears and kisses him again, eyes open and locked, savoring his strong lips and insistent tongue as he begins to unbutton her, as he finishes unbuttoning her, as her blouse falls to the floor and he pulls her in against him.

Her breasts are crushed against his chest, the long hard nipples tickled by the bright red hairs. She allows herself to moan for the first time, not just the first time tonight, but the first time in many nights. Moans, and forces herself up into him, the wide hands on her back helping her up, lifting her off her feet, carrying her to the bed and lying her flat on her back.

He is sucking her, savoring her, inhaling her, pulling her breasts as far into his his mouth as they will go, tugging on the nipples with his lips, nibbling them with his teeth, flicking them with his tongue. Vaguely she considers pulling her pants off despite their agreement, not believing she can take much more of this until suddenly, without warning, he stops, and pulls her up into sitting position.

She stares at him sitting facing her, wondering what the hell he is doing. He holds her gaze, stares back, and extends one arm, palm out. Curious and compelled she reaches out too, placing her palm against his, entwining their fingers, grasping his hand hard and urgently. They sit, hand in hand, palm to palm, fingers wrapped tensely.

It is odd, and different, one more new sensation in a night already overburdened with them, but she begins to relax, to enjoy it, to really experience the intimacy of the single point of contact, to understand that this is not a quick fuck in a strange bed with a strange man with the escape plan almost as important as the sex itself. Her mind begins to unwind, to accept the new parameters, to relax, and as she relaxes, her fingers relax, ease their grip, untwine from his and begin to explore.

He is passive at first, letting her touch him, learn him, know him, graze her fingertips along his hand, across the palm, up and down the fingers, to the wrist and the up the arm, before he begins to stroke her arm as she strokes his.

The tingling in her arm at the point of contact is electric. Her skin is excited. She does not remember her skin being excited. Not ever. There is no wave, no crest, no crash, just the constant tingling up and down her arms, her shoulders, her elbows, inside and out, her wrists, and her palms. Then a second hand on the other arm, traveling down and up as the first travels up and down, back and forth, moving finally to her chest, to her breasts, to her long hard nipples, palms in circles, then pinching, pulling, pushing her back, kneeling over her, kissing her, licking her neck for what seems like hours as he continues to play with her nipples, then working his mouth down to her breasts, licking, flicking, and sucking, alternating breasts with his hands and his mouth.

The pleasure goes on and on, wave after wave, but with no release or even promise of orgasm, her mind shuts down and she drifts in and out of consciousness, finds herself each time in his arms and begins again the cycle of kissing, touching, stroking, and licking, until finally she drifts into a deep slumber.

She awakes with a start, unsure of where she is with a strange man asleep beside her, and 4:13 AM showing on the clock beside the hotel bed. She panics, and then remembers. She is still sober, sober and free and more alive than ever before.

But it is late, and she must go. Slipping out of bed, she dresses quietly, stands over the sleeping man on the bed watching him breathe, kisses him on the forhead, picks up her keys, and leaves, reminding herself far too much in the process of all the times she has had to escape from rooms and men she did not remember.

But she is not running from this time. She is running to: to a new day, to a new life.

The Universe is waiting.