Antoinette Heugten - Saving Max

She looks at him gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Are you married?”

She laughs. “I thought you were going to change the subject.”

“I did,” he says. “Now we’re talking about you.”

She swivels a bit toward him and crosses her legs. “Let me try to cut right through this. I’m not married; I have a son; and I don’t want to be in Plano, either.”

“Hmm.” He slowly unknots his tie and leans back in his bar stool. Everything about him exudes a quiet confidence. “Which begs the question—why are you here?”

Danielle blushes. She set him up for that one. “Is it important?”

“No, not really,” he says. “Except for one aspect.”

“And what might that be?”

“Do I have to dazzle you tonight, or will I have another chance tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not.” She is surprised by the playful tone of her own voice. “This is your only shot.”

He shakes his head. “Damn!”

Amazingly, she feels lighter than she has in months. She dismisses the possibility that she is also drunker than she has been in months. She doesn’t care. “Where do you live when you’re not hiding out in Plano?”

“Des Moines,” he says. “So tell me, what is it you do in Manhattan?”

Danielle is uneasy. She doesn’t want to talk about Max, her work, her problems—anything about her real life. Her grip on her emotions is a frayed thread. If she even mentions Max’s name, she will burst into tears. The alcohol is already fomenting feelings she hasn’t permitted herself to have in years—a yearning for intimacy with a man who could love and support her during these grueling times with Max.

She hasn’t had a real relationship since Max was born. Her short affair with Max’s father—an unhappily married lawyer at an ABA convention—ended in a pregnancy he never knew or cared about. Since then, no potential suitor was permitted entry into the inner circle reserved to her and Max. Tonight there is no possibility of complication—not with this kind stranger at the bar.

“Let me make a proposal,” she says. “No questions about the real world—kids, marriage or work. And no last names.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t that usually the man’s line?”

“Maybe, but those are my ground rules.”

“Then you’ve got a deal.” The brown eyes twinkle. “Are books and music okay?”

The tension in her neck subsides. “Absolutely.”

They spend the next hours in rapt conversation. He loves opera; Danielle has a subscription at the Met. She is an avid hiker; he goes white-water rafting every summer. They are both amateur chefs. Danielle’s specialty is Indian; his is Thai. His humor and warmth enchant and delight her. When Danielle finally checks her watch, she is shocked to see that it is almost midnight.

“It’s getting late,” she says.

“I know.”

“I think I should go.” Her voice is flat.

He leans closer and takes her hand. His touch is electric, synaptic. The air between them is dry powder hungry for the flame. Danielle can hardly breathe. His deep brown eyes are intent upon hers. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Please don’t leave.”

Danielle hesitates. She should walk away—before she can’t. Those eyes, his caress—they mesmerize and enthrall. Her whisper is a feather in the wind. “I … don’t know what to do.”

He rises from his bar stool, still holding her hand. “Come with me.”

There is no question where he wants her to go. Spellbound, she stands before him. He grasps her elbows and pulls her lightly toward him. As if her body already knows his, she leans forward into his embrace. As his arms envelop her, she does not question or falter. She is lost, yet found.

The darkness is voluptuous velvet. Danielle hears the click of the lock and watches the smoky outline of his body make its way to the bed, where she lies under the sheets. As he removes his clothes, the spicy ambrosia of his naked body reaches her before he does. As Victorian women swooned, Danielle reels from the essence of this man—unfamiliar, but known. There is no thought other than to have him touch her, know her, consume her. The moment that he lies next to her and their bodies cleave for the first time, she is aware only that she has never been so completely vulnerable, so friable. She simultaneously craves and fears.

Danielle can barely see his eyes, but what she sees is intense and yearning. She moves her hands to his face and holds them there, the roughness of chin against her palms, the softness of cheeks against her fingertips. He whispers something and moves his lips to her neck, throat, breasts. She wants to remember him—every detail of his body, his smell, the feel of his hands on her.

She runs her fingers down his body, shaken with a desire so strong it seems like molten silver streaming from her. His chest is covered with thick, fragrant hair. It is pure male, a luxurious field—all hers. She slides down farther, wanting to feel his pleasure and to have him feel her desire to please him. He stops her and lays her gently on her back. He lowers his mouth to the soft of her stomach. It continues its journey until he reaches the soft folds, the secret middle of her. She opens herself to him and closes her eyes, relinquishing all but the pulsing of her body and the sweetness of his tongue. It is a slow, maddening, upward spiral of sensation—an unbearable yearning and then a height, a reaching, an explosive burst at the pinnacle. She cries out, writhing and peaking, again and again.

As if he can wait no longer, she feels the thrust of him inside her as she clings to him, moving in time to the ancient dance, a single pulse. At the moment of release, she rises—hips, mouth, arms, thighs—to meet his arching abandon with a fierce climax of her own. Afterward, they lie in each other’s arms. He holds her tightly to him, his breathing irregular, his heart beating strong against her own. As she meets his mouth, she tastes herself, him, them, on her lips. Something breaks inside her, and tears stream from her eyes. Her sobs are ragged, rough blows that rack her body. They are Max, her loneliness, her pain—her joy.

“Shh, shh,” he whispers. “It’ll be all right.” His words are a balm, his arms strong and solid around her.

“No, no, it won’t,” she whispers back, her voice thick, throttled.

“Then hold on to me.” He squeezes her tighter.

She clings to him as the dying cling to life.

Danielle awakens slowly. The room is dark, the curtains drawn. She groans as she thinks of the day ahead—the stultifying boredom whenever she isn’t with Max; her unsuccessful attempts to work; and the constant anxiety about what the assessment will ultimately reveal. Then her eyes fly wide open. She remembers—everything. After their incredible lovemaking, they talked for hours. Tony talked about the disappointment of his divorce and his regret that he had no children. She told Tony about Max (using another false name)—his problems, her fears, her loneliness as a single parent. She did not reveal that she was a lawyer or that Max was at Maitland. Danielle could not bear to speak of the fresh agony of a hospitalized Max. She finally drifted off, awakening before dawn to an empty bed. Embarrassed and not a little piqued at having been loved and left, she got up hastily and dressed. Before she left, she caught a glimpse of something white next to her pillow—a sheet of hotel stationery.

Hate to go, but have to be in Des Moines this morning. Could not disturb your sleep. You look beautiful in my bed. Dinner tonight? Yours, Tony

Danielle sits down at the small writing desk. She reads and rereads the note. Reluctantly, she turns it over and writes. “I can’t tell you what last night meant to me. You are a wonderful, lovely man, but my life is far too complicated for a relationship that has nowhere to go.” She pauses. The memory of his hands upon her and the absolute safety she felt in his arms flood her with warmth and desire. She balls up the page and picks up another piece of hotel stationery. “I’d love to. See you downstairs at seven.” She signs her false name. “Lauren.” After that, she takes one last look at the deliciously mussed bed and walks out.