Chapter 8
"Matthew, this is everything." Eileen said, placing a manila folder before him on his desk. "You've got about ten minutes before the meeting begins," she said, then closed his office door. He opened the folder. Before him was an assortment of transparencies, his presentation to the board of directors and executive staff.
Yesterday's introduction of the new Joey Plus, which was warmly received by the press and the user community, would certainly work in his favor this morning when he detailed his plan for ICP connectivity.
He flipped through the films. They were perfect. He felt armed and ready to face for the first time all of Wallaby's power players in the very room from which three months earlier he had ejected Peter Jones.
His intercom beeped softly, and he looked out of his glass office at Eileen. She tapped her wristwatch. It was time to start the meeting.
He nodded and shuffled the films and his notes together into the folder and headed for the meeting. Just as he reached for the boardroom door, it opened. Hank Towers appeared carrying a small plate.
"Good morning, Matthew," Hank said brightly. "Give me just a second for seconds," he said, gesturing at the remaining treats arranged on the long table outside the conference room.
Matthew laughed good-naturedly and went inside. "Good morning," he said, addressing everyone seated around the table. He set down his materials beside the overhead projector. Finishing sentences or the last bite of a muffin or looking up from their agendas, the board members and executive staff voiced their good mornings.
"We're just waiting for Hank," Matthew said. Just then Hank entered the room smiling sheepishly over a plate of fresh fruit salad.
"Matthew, congratulations on the Joey Plus," Hank said. The others followed with congratulations, and someone clapped. Another pair of hands joined in, and then another, until the entire room was applauding his success.
"Thank you," Matthew said. "But the congratulations should go to all of your people who made the development of the Joey Plus successful." His smile swept each face at the table.
Martin Cohn stood and announced the agenda, a copy of which rested before each person. Four items down the list was "The Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future - Matthew."
After ninety minutes of standard status reports, discussion, and voting, it was time for Matthew's presentation, and he stood. "Should we break for a few minutes before I begin?"
He knew his agenda title had them all intrigued - this would be the first time anyone but Peter had revealed a major future strategy for Wallaby. No one stood or motioned departure.
He dimmed the room lights, then switched on the overhead projector and advanced to the first slide, a modified Wallaby logo. Normally the logo depicted the baby kangaroo poking its head out of a pocket, but Matthew's slide showed only the joey and no pocket.
"At Wallaby," he began, "we've always been intensely focused on the idea of people using a portable computer for their personal tasks and needs. This had been a successful strategy, inherent in our culture because we got our start by giving people the power to use our portable personal computers for exactly that: very personal computing.
"But to some degree, we've been in the dark. In the early days we succeeded because we were the only players. But we lost our number-one status to our largest competitor, ICP."
He changed to the next slide and paused for a moment, allowing the visual analogy depicted to sink in. The slide showed the same lone joey, offset to the bottom left corner of the frame, and a sketch of the earth with the initials ICP stretching around it.
"International Computer Products is everywhere. They own the world of mainstream computing. There's hardly any big business, organization, or function in the world that doesn't in some way use ICP's products for its information processing."
The next slide showed the Joey Plus screen with little filing cabinets and documents positioned here and there. "By design, Wallaby's Joey Plus is the choice method of computing. The user community has stated that, and we all know that.
"But competition from ICP with its BP system, regardless of its inferior technology, continues to grow at a steady rate. The ICP logo on the front of its desktop and portable computers makes them mentally compatible with its mainframe computers. And for the past decade at Wallaby, we've all held a resentful attitude toward ICP. This is due, in part, to the premise upon which the company was founded. We're a small, free-spirited company, providing people with personal mobile computing tools contrary to what ICP has represented throughout its history - people acting as slaves to headquarters and mainframes."
He then showed a slide bearing an ICP BP computer graphic with a circle around it and a slash through it, like the "No Smoking" signs found in public areas. A few chuckles emerged from the darkness.
"Consequently - by design, if you will - few of us at Wallaby are apt to perceive an opportunity that could take advantage of ICP's Goliath size. Locked into our rivalry with ICP, we're too busy reacting, competing with our portable computer technology as if we had a chance to displace its impersonal, worldwide installed-base of systems."
He let them absorb this truth for a few moments, then removed the slide, allowing a pause before asking his next question.
"But what if the Joey Plus were equipped to make a huge leap into the big game?"
Chairs creaked, and elbows settled on the table as those seated around the table moved forward to more attentive positions. The next slide showed the Wallaby Joey Plus computer screen again. But in this one, the ICP globe logo was orbiting within it, with the baby kangaroo hopping from the U.S., across the Atlantic, to Europe.
Matthew heard whispers and low voices. In an instant he understood his position with profound clarity. Here he stood, in the place that for the last decade had been occupied by Peter Jones, with his hand on the lever that, once thrown, would forever alter the focus of Wallaby. He threw it.
"I believe that Wallaby has the potential to penetrate the worldwide installed-base of ICP computer users by becoming more compatible with ICP systems."
Not surprisingly, Hank was the first to protest. Incredulous, he rose from his seat. "Matthew, are you proposing we build an ICP clone computer?" His alarm was amplified by the others, and the room suddenly erupted into a rumble of questioning voices.
"Wait. Listen," Matthew pleaded. "Please."
Hank dropped back in his chair, turning his attention to Matthew.
The others followed his lead and quieted.
"No. Hank. We would not, not ever, develop systems that operated ICP's system software. First of all, we would continue with our design to evolve the Joey hardware, adding a simple, inexpensive port that would provide an easy connection to ICP mainframes and workgroup networks. Second, we would implement system software communication hooks in our operating system, which would read and understand file formats and information from ICP systems. These hooks are what would enable the user to easily manage the massive ICP mainframe databases from within Joey software applications, as well as share data between personal programs like word processing documents, spreadsheets, and graphics, to name a few."
Hank was slowly nodding. "We're following you, go on."
The room fell silent, and Matthew placed his next graphic on the overhead.
"We've got a window of opportunity, and if we can act quickly and bring compatibility products to market in the next quarter, Wallaby would enjoy the rewards of major penetration within a year."
The attendees were leaning to one side or the other, whispering back and forth. What Matthew was able to discern sounded positive, and, sensing no opposition, he placed the next slide, a proposed schedule. Midway through the his timeline breakdown, Graham Stevens, vice president of personnel, spoke up.
"Pardon me for the interruption, Matthew." Stevens removed his glasses and folded his hands on the table. His face bore the troubled look of a professor deliberating a complex formula. "There's one thing that concerns me. Something that does not appear on the schedule."
Matthew took a step away from the projector. "Please, go on."
"This company, as you pointed out when you started, was trained to think of ICP as the enemy. Do you really believe we can get the employees to support a strategy that slants us toward our biggest competitor?" His question was supported by contemplative murmuring throughout the room.
"That's a very important question," Matthew said. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Perhaps the most important of all."
In fact, it was. He had asked himself the same question a thousand times. And he knew he had to be very careful with his response. Both the reason and the solution had come to him when he had asked himself why, all along, ICP had never simply threatened Wallaby with a hostile takeover. The reason was simple - ICP could not acquire Wallaby and hope for the company to succeed without support from Wallaby's highest-level executives and employees. This was precisely where Matthew fit into the whole plan. He was the horticulturist who would graft the sapling Wallaby onto the deeply rooted, sky-high tree that was ICP. He would nurture the company into accepting that this was the right thing to do, this second phase of providing compatibility with ICP's systems. He would convince them that while maintaining its personality, Wallaby would also grow vigorously in size and sales. Later, in the final phase - the plan's ultimate goal - after Matthew's compatibility strategy had proven successful and thereby gained the employees' trust, the process for merging the two companies would begin.
He seated himself casually on the edge of the table. "When Peter and Hank started Wallaby," he said, dropping a nod to the cofounder, "they had a vision of placing into people's hands their own computing power. Naturally this was perceived as competition to ICP because it is also a computer company, which quickly brought to market its own all-in-one computer. But what I've come to understand is that we have a valuable product that can make greater headway by coexisting with ICP's computers rather than try to overtake it directly. And if we carefully educate our employees that it's our vision to keep building great portable computers for individuals, which can also connect to other systems, then yes, we can pull it off." His voice was piping with conviction and enthusiasm. "Joey, with its innovative mobile and expandable design, becomes the dynamic key that opens doors to other systems and other markets around the world."
"It would be tough, Matthew," Graham said, curling his index finger against his chin, "but if we were to get you out there, talking to our people about this strategy, I think you're right. We could pull it off."
Did this first agreement, from the man who raised the most difficult question of all, presage the entire team's vote? Had he just persuaded them to place in him their faith to change the lifeblood vision of the entire company?
He switched off the projector and brightened the room's lights. "Before I go on, it may be good to get an idea of how many of us agree on this strategy."
"Right," Hank said, helping him along. "I think it's smart, mature. Clearly a direction in which we should consider moving. However," he cautioned, sweeping the group with his serious eyes, "only if we can handle the perception aspect of it with the employees. Only as long as we make them understand that we're not selling out and building a clone, that we are actually making our Joey the best choice of portable computer on its own, and in tandem with ICP's computers. If we can accomplish that, then I think we could eventually come out ahead of the game."
Matthew experienced an epiphany. Hank had just explained Matthew's strategy exactly as he wanted them to see it. Furthermore, Hank's approval signified a point that was especially penetrating to the people seated there - higher stock prices. For each of them, this translated to even greater personal wealth.
Matthew quickly took advantage of Hank's definition, while the carrot still hung in the air. "Does anyone disagree with the concept?"
Heads turned, searching for dissent.
None.
He felt a powerful thrill wash though him like the one he had experienced at the last quarterly board meeting, when his organizational design had flexed Peter Jones out of his way. In the last meeting he had been given the opportunity to prove himself. Now, with the new strategy revealed, they had become his followers. They believed in him. That was what it all came down to. They trusted him with their future.
"Very well," Matthew said. He switched off the overhead lights again and returned to the projector. With his finger on the switch, he bade farewell to the old Wallaby, farewell to Peter Jones. He flicked the machine on, and alighted the screen with his next slide: "The Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future."
* * *
"Thanks, Hank," Matthew said, gripping Hank's arm with one hand, the other locked in a firm handshake.
The board room door silently swung shut, and Matthew dropped himself heavily into one of the chairs and let out a long satisfied sigh.
He'd done it. From here on, it would be smooth sailing. With the executive's support in the bag, he was now free to turn his secret plan into reality. And what did it translate to for him personally? The power and the rewards would be astronomical.
"How'd it go?"
He had not heard anyone enter the room and, startled, he turned to find Laurence Maupin. For the briefest moment he just sat there and admired her in her finely tailored light linen suit. Her soft and flowing honey-colored hair framed her fresh intelligent face, and in her delicate hands she clutched a small bundle of budding branches, held together by a blue ribbon.
"It went great," Matthew said, blinking with exultation at the sound of his own pleased voice. Then, unable to contain his satisfaction, his smile broke into a broad grin. "Really great," he spilled, feeling remarkably comfortable in revealing his joy in front of her.
"That's wonderful, Matthew. Wonderful!" she said, closing the space between them. "These are for you," she said, holding out the bundle.
"Pussy willow," he remarked. He felt a tingling sensation in his finger, where it had brushed hers. "Where did you get them?"
"Believe it or not, I found a bush of them in Woodside. I stole some for you," she said with a mischievous chuckle.
"Thank you," he said, able to meet her eyes only for a second. Her unanticipated arrival and the gift she had brought made him suddenly feel awkward and boyish. It was as if the room, his heart, had all at once changed seasons, going from the promise of spring to the all-out heat of summer. He watched her flip through his collection of slides, and he felt the light tingle return, this time in another place, as she keenly examined his illustrations.
She beamed at him and tapped the topmost slide. "Matthew, it's brilliant. Just three months, and you're already making important changes."
"Thank you. But you deserve some of the credit. Your coaching has been a great help."
"That's my job," she said. "Eileen said you have no other meetings this afternoon."
"None. I didn't know how long this would take."
She returned the slides to the manila folder, then circled her hands around the neck of the overhead projector. "Then how about lunch?"
"Good idea."
"Great. What do you say to San Francisco? I've got to run a few errands, and you can drop me off at home later in the afternoon since I don't have my car. It's being serviced."
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not. I think I deserve the rest of the day off. And I haven't been to the city for lunch in a long time." He had forgotten that she lived in San Francisco. Lunch, then a ride home.
They gathered his materials and in a few minutes were on the highway and heading for the city.
He felt relaxed in the car with her. With absurd clarity it occurred to him that while they had worked together almost constantly for several months, everything they had discussed pertained to business. How could he have been so focused on his work and not gotten to know her better? Now, he decided, was as good a time as any.
"How are you adjusting? This being your first full-time job and everything?"
"Excellent. Of course, working with you has made it all worth it."
He had hired her fresh out of school, graduating with a communications degree from Villanova. The previous summer she had been an intern, working in the public relations department as an apprentice speech writer. On two occasions she had assisted Matthew in preparing his speeches. The impression she had left him with was so positive that he had had his secretary contact Laurence as she neared graduation, to ask if she would be interested in working for him as his personal press assistant. Although she was inexperienced, she really had helped him. Enormously. Not only where his public image was concerned, as when she had smoothly handled the press for him after Peter Jones's departure, but also with his self-image, the hours they spent together in coaching sessions, counseling him on his manner and style, reinforcing his self-confidence. He felt as though some transformation was about to happen between them, some new level of communication.
"…right there," she said, pointing to the high hills and valley a half-mile in the distance, to the east.
He had been daydreaming. "I'm sorry?" he said.
"My horse. That's where I keep my horse."
"At Woodside Ranch?"
"Yes."
"That's where my wife keeps hers, too." He remembered Greta for the first time since leaving the house that morning.
"They have a new trainer who recently came to the States to start a new polo club. He's fabulous."
"Maybe that's Greta's trainer."
"It is," Laurence said, then, quickly: "I mean, he knows her, mentions her horse. He said Mighty Boy is the most beautiful horse he's ever seen."
"He's something, all right," Matthew said, changing lanes.
"I'm happy to be riding again. I've missed it so. In school I rarely got home to see my parents in Los Angeles. My father sponsors polo players, did I already mention that? I'm sorry, I'm rambling."
"Not at all. I want to know more."
"Well, a couple of years ago my father spent a year in North Carolina, opening a new company. While he was there he got hooked on polo. That was just when I had gone east for school. I felt like I needed a break from La-La Land, and Philadelphia seemed like as good a place as any, and the school was one of the best for liberal arts. Anyway, I'd fly down to see dad every now and then while he was in the South. We went to a couple polo tournaments together. By the time he went back home he was a member of the Equestrian Center in Griffith Park, in LA. I was quite taken with the game myself, the valiance."
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Matthew was enjoying himself immensely. In the distance the city came into sight. Seeing the tall buildings, the two magnificent bridges, the bay, he experienced a sense of newfound being. He thought of Greta, and how, in all the time they had lived here and she had had her horse, Matthew had never been the least bit interested in her hobby. Yet when Laurence spoke of it, he was intrigued. The Valley felt well behind him now. Before him lay a completely different world, and his insides stirred with the same excited nervousness a schoolboy feels on a class trip. "I don't come to the city often," he said, "so I'm at your mercy."
"Don't worry, you're in good hands. How about Union Square for lunch? It's near the shop where I have to pick up something."
"Sounds fine," Matthew said.
They pulled off the highway and wound their way through the busy city streets to Union Square. He pulled up in front of the Campton Hotel, and the attendant took the car.
"Can we shop first?" Laurence said. "I'll just run in and tell them we'll have lunch around two o'clock."
With an appraising eye, the formally dressed door attendant held the door for her. After she vanished into the lobby he stole a cursory glance at Matthew, the man so lucky to be with such an exquisite woman. The other man's envy brought a smile to Matthew's face. A minute later she was back.
"All set," she said, then frowned. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," he said, overshooting his innocence. "I'm just happy.
I feel like I'm playing hooky," he said honestly.
"Come one," she said, tugging playfully on his arm. She led them into oncoming traffic and, with city-smart agility, navigated them to the other side of the street. They strolled past the Hyatt and turned onto Post Street. The sun shone brightly on Union Square, and a cable car bell rang out on Powell Street. He fell back a step behind her when they crossed the street to admire the way her wavy hair bounced on her shoulders with each determined step. His eyes trailed to her waist, so perfect and slender, then lower, to the lovely curves of her bottom. She stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into her.
"This is it," she said, standing before an old shop. "It's like a toy store for me," she added, pressing through the doors. For an instant he had the pleasure of seeing the flat of her hand pressed against the glass. Even after they were inside, this image lingered bright in his mind's eye like sunspots on the eyelids.
"Come on," she said, tugging his arm again. She led him to an open stairway that rose to the second floor. He saw various equestrian products as they climbed the stairs. Saddles hung over the rail encircling the upper level, and rows of boots lined the wall, with riding crops, helmets, and assorted garments displayed throughout. He trailed after her as she strode to the rear wall and stopped before a case of leather riding gloves. She spun, hands at rest behind her on either side of the display case. "Do you know about Swaine Adeney?" she said, playfully affecting a British accent. "It was founded in London in 1750. They are the exclusive suppliers of fine equestrian products to the royal family."
"May I help you?" asked a young, dark-haired woman wrapped tightly in a tweed outfit.
Laurence turned serious. "I'd like a pair of these gloves." She tapped her finger on the glass in front of a simple brown pair.
Matthew swallowed. Gloves. The thought of Laurence hiding her beautiful hands inside a pair of gloves prickled his skin with a sensation that was very close to terror. He thought of Greta. Her gloves, so many gloves. Leather, wool, and cotton. Suede, cashmere, and silk. Oh, he thought with dread, those especially, which she had worn to bed every night since the accident…
"Do you like them, Matthew?" Laurence said, flexing ten delicately gloved fingers before him.
"Yes," he said, forcing a smile. "Very much."
"These are our finest pigskin gloves," the sales clerk informed them.
"I'll take them."
"Very good," said the woman, accepting the gloves from Laurence. She closed the cabinet and locked it, and they followed her back down to the lower level. Before Laurence could withdraw her charge card from her wallet, Matthew reached for his own.
"Wait, Lauri. I want to buy those for you."
"Don't be silly."
"Please. A small token of my appreciation," he said. "Please?"
The clerk accepted his credit card.
"I'll treasure them," Laurence said with a pleasant smile. "Thank you."
They strolled back to the hotel, where they were immediately seated in a booth in the rear of the Campton Place. There were few other diners; it was late in the afternoon, and most of the see-and-be-seen crowd was already gone.
"How about Champagne?" Laurence asked. "A toast your success."
The wine steward uncorked a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and they toasted, and while they enjoyed an excellent lunch, she spoke again about horses and polo.
"I would love to go to France. I've never been there. I would give anything to see the championship tournament that's held every summer in Deauville."
Hearing her talk about it, he thought that it might be exciting to go there. With her? Was that why it would be exciting? What had happened in the last couple of hours? What was it she had said or done to break down the restraint he had exercised for the past couple of months, which he now fully acknowledged?
With this thought, and all their talk about horses, he thought again of his wife, and the realization that this pleasant afternoon with Laurence would soon be over.
Back outside, the attendant brought him his car.
"Where exactly do you live?" Asking this question, it occurred to him that he had learned more about her this afternoon than in all their of previous times together.
"In Pacific Heights. Well, lower Pacific Heights. I can't afford real Pac Heights yet."
"Is that where you would like to live eventually?"
"Not really. I don't think I'm really a city person at heart." She directed him up Pine Street to Fillmore, then to a narrow street called Wilmot. Hidden in the middle of the busy Fillmore shopping district, it looked more like an alley than a proper street. He found its concealment unusually exciting.
"There, the second house."
He braked before one of three houses tucked into he middle of the block, sandwiched between business establishments.
"Well," he said. "I had a wonderful time."
"Me too," she said, folding over the top of the bag in her lap.
He paused, unsure what to do next. The air in the car felt charged with possibility, promise. He acknowledged his attraction to her. She stirred in him feelings he had not felt in years, which now suddenly gushed free inside him after today's victory. When she had entered the boardroom, he had felt a potent sense of longing. How long had it been since he had been satisfied, really satisfied? Again his thoughts turned to Greta. He gave his senses a shake. He resolved that after all he had accomplished, which Lauri had helped him attain, he wanted to experience with her their own, intimate celebration. He wanted to take her hand, hold it, and kiss her, to feel her fingers respond in his own hand as their lips met.
From behind he heard the sound of cars passing on Fillmore Street, and ahead of them, a group of young boys were playing basketball in a fenced school-yard. With a sidelong glance he studied her delicate, childlike hands, the impossible softness of her skin. She was so much younger than he. She had been silent all this time, and finally she spoke.
"Do you have any children?"
This startled him a little. Was she too unsure of what to do next? Stalling, as it were? "No," he said, "no children." He and Greta had planned to start a family after the successful launch of Orange Fresh. But after the accident, which happened on the very day that they planned to begin their journey into parenthood, the act by which a child is conceived never again occurred between them.
So that was how long it had been since they had made love, he thought. How long it had been since he had been with anyone that way.
Again Laurence broke the silence. "Why don't you come inside for a moment and see my place?"
He accepted without hesitation, and a moment later they were inside. "I've made do with my limited decorating skills," she said with a wave of her hand. "I'd love your opinion." She excused herself to the kitchen for a moment while Matthew wandered from room to room.
Her apartment was a recently restored Victorian with black and white tile at the entrance and hardwood floors throughout. Dhurrie rugs in light colors covered the floors in the living and dining rooms, and her furniture was a tasteful mixture of contemporary and antique. The bedroom was tantalizing. Her bed was an unusual steel frame design with a dreamy, sheer canopy draped lightly over the top. Its message was at once powerful and delicate. So were his feelings for her. He finished his tour and circled back to the living room, where he found her standing and holding two glasses filled with dessert wine. "Just a little sip, before you drive back," she said, handing him a glass.
He inhaled the bright sweet aroma, his eyes lingering on her hand encircling her own glass. She raised it to his, and he met her sharp, gray eyes.
"Here's to you." Her voice was quiet.
He touched his glass to hers. They each took a sip and, with his head still lowered, he let his eyes stray once more to her hand.
"You like my hands, don't you?" she asked simply, revealing her mindfulness of his regard all along, confirming it.
"Yes," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed.
"Go on, then," she said.
He knew what she meant. He slowly reached out and traced lightly along her index finger to her wrist, her thumb, to her glass, which he took. He had to have her hands.
He settled their glasses on the table in front of the sofa and folded both of his hands around hers. Never before had he held hands so supple. But these hands belonged to a whole visage of uniform loveliness. There was the difference, he understood at once. He had loved Greta's hands, yes, the power they had had over him, his pleasure, yet that was all. Just her hands. That was why, he now understood, that they had had such an unusual sex life. But Laurence was different. When he looked up from her hands, his heart quickened at his appreciation for all of her. That was it, and he let himself go.
He pulled her hard against him, as if it were the first time he had felt a woman's body against his own. In fact, it was. It was the first time he was really feeling a woman with all of his mind. The sensation was overwhelming, this feeling of taking in her whole image. His mouth came down firmly on hers. He felt a moan come from her throat as their tongues mingled with the wine's sweet aftertaste. He tasted her, felt the material of her dress, smelled her hair, understood that in her shoes were feet that were no doubt as lovely to look as her hands, as rousing to touch and kiss. From head to toe, he wanted to feel all of her at once. Their hips pressed together and she pulled him closer, kissed him hungrily.
"Matthew, you've done wonderful things for Wallaby and for me. I want it to keep going this way for you. Is this wrong, what we're doing?" she said, fingertips touching along the edge of his belt.
"No," he said, and closed his eyes with anticipation. Her fingertips slipped down an inch into his slacks. "I mean yes. Oh, yes."
"It's yours for the taking, Matthew. All of it. There's no stopping you now."
Her words drove him into a frenzy. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her in close, his tongue darting in her mouth, over her eyes and around her ears. He coursed his fingers through her hair, everything coming to him in rushing waves of passion.
Yes, she was correct. There was no stopping him, them. He thought now only of the bed. He pulled back from her. His trousers were undone and her blouse was open. He gripped her wrist and led her, walking backward as he did so, to the bedroom. She grabbed the bottle of sauterne and raised it to her lips, following with no resistance. At bedside, she passed the bottle to him. He took a large swallow of wine, then set the bottle on the night table. He held the liquid in his mouth and kissed her, then reached for more, but she beat him to it.
"Wait," she said. She lifted the bottle, and with her free hand, pulled down her bra and brought the bottle close. Staring into his eyes, she poured some of the sweet wine over her erect nipples.
Never before had he felt so avid. In his urgency, he pushed her back on the bed and crossed his leg over her smooth firm belly. He hungrily licked her breasts, sucking wine from one, then the other, struggling to work off her bra and blouse.
He raised her farther up on the bed, her head settling into the soft, feather pillows. This was the part he had envisioned from the moment he had laid eyes on the striking bed.
He led her hands to the steel head bar, and she understood at once how he wanted her. She gripped tightly, her knuckles turning pale. She lunged for his lips with her own. He met them and forced her down with his head, urgently reaching between her legs.
He worked his erect penis out of his pants. Gripping his hands beside hers on the bar, he entered her. He tuned into her every response, licking her eyelids, feeling the movement of her eyes beneath. He felt her teeth with his tongue, at the same moment aware of her ankles against his calves, and he wasn't sure he would be able to hold back very long. The feeling of the cold steel in his hands welded in his mind the image of their position, both gripping tightly to this linen-draped frame. He drove into her forcefully, with unfamiliar awkwardness. It was better than he remembered, he thought, gnawing at her neck ravenously as he quickened.
He climaxed almost immediately, shouting hoarsely with each burst. Once his tremors stopped he felt drained of all energy. He was so, so tired. Barely pressing off the bed with his arms as her hips thrust upward, he tried to help her finish. She managed to lift much of his weight, but not without effort. Her moans were coming in quick, strained gasps. For one trembling instant, before succumbing to his weight, she moaned. He collapsed on her, forcing her breath away.
He rolled away, onto his back, his legs twisted around hers, too tired to move them. Almost instantly, his breathing slackened and he lay there depleted. He became oblivious to her, to them, to where they were, and to what they had done. He felt pleasantly used up, yet at the same time, in another part of his being, he felt very full, larger than life.
Far away now, a dreamy smile alighting his face, he heard
Laurence's words once more in his mind as he dozed off.
No stopping you now…