Julie Leto - Exposed

Truth be told, the Max she still wanted.

She grabbed the sweatpants, then thought to bring him a T-shirt as well. With a shrug, she carefully opened the drawers in his dresser, smirking when the top drawer yielded an interesting collection of party favors he’d obviously gotten from Charlie’s bachelor blowout: a package of cheap cigars shaped like penises, chocolate lollipops sculpted like breasts, several foils of condoms with doomsday sayings about marriage printed on the packages.

She hadn’t exactly planned and prepared for this evening’s possible seduction, so in the interest of safe sex, she grabbed the square with the least offensive message and tossed it on the bed before resuming her search for a shirt. After grabbing one with Stanford emblazoned on the front, she moved to return to the kitchen, but stopped when she noticed the wall of heavy drapes facing the bay. Curious after remembering his comment about the best view being from the third floor, she fumbled behind the thrice-lined curtains until she found the right button. One click and the window treatments slid aside, a mechanical hum accompanying her awed gasp.

The entire wall was a window—sliding glass doors, to be exact. Beyond was a tiled balcony almost entirely enshrouded in thick San Francisco fog. She couldn’t resist a closer look. Tossing Max’s clothes back onto the bed, she worked the locks with ease, then stepped into the mist as if entering a dream.

The air stirred with the breath of the Bay. An instant chill surrounded her, penetrating her clothing and dampening her hair. Her clothes drank in the moisture, making the cotton cool and clingy. Her nipples puckered beneath her turtleneck, rasping tight against her satin bra. She thought of Max, nearly passed out in the living room. Dizzy. Flirtatious. Sexy and charming and more potent than 120-proof rum.

Too bad he wasn’t here when she needed him, when she just might be tempted to surrender to desire.

Tiny red lights blinked to the west, indicating the span of the Golden Gate. She strolled through the wispy fog until she approached the wall, surprisingly low—maybe three feet tall—that enclosed the patio. She kept a safe distance from the edge and closed her eyes, remembering the image in the magazine of the lovers on the bridge, right up against the railing. She superimposed her face on the woman again. And this time she did the same to the man, giving him Max’s thick, dark hair, rugged square chin and gentle, probing fingers.

She saw them clearly. A man—Max. A woman—her. An undeniable desire, hidden by just a touch of fog. Tonight’s mist was particularly thick for such a late hour—San Francisco fog usually rolled over the city around four o’clock and dissipated by midnight.

Yet nothing about this night was usual. Definitely not her. Not her uncontrollable desire for Max. Not the circumstances that brought her here or the consequences she’d face in the morning if she stayed.

She pursed her lips, realizing the consequences—a little embarrassment, perhaps a dose of discomfort in the morning light—were more than worth the price of living her fantasy, grabbing her dream with both hands and saying, “Yes! Now!” That strategy had paid off once when she’d taken over the operations at the restaurant. Had she not succumbed to her youth and married the first man she met at the airport, she might have been able to say the same about the day she bought her ticket to San Francisco and left her loving, but stifling, family behind.

“Yes. Now,” she repeated aloud, trying the words on for size.

“Just tell me what you want.”

His voice rolled over the tiles and through the thick fog like a warm blast of summer air. The contrast spawned a ripple of gooseflesh up the back of Ariana’s neck, then crept beneath her turtleneck and played havoc with her skin.

She squeezed her eyelids tighter as the sensations rocked her balance, nearly unraveling her completely when Max’s breath mixed with the fog and whispered into her ear.

“Tell me what you want. Anything, Ariana. Anything goes.”

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