acted in this way but there was none. The panic that had gripped her when she’d awoken in the darkened room, in a strange bed with a man she hardly knew, spread through her with an even greater shame.
She’d come awake with a start, felt the heat of Jack’s body pressed against her back and his hardness nestling between her thighs, and the reality of what she’d done, what he’d done to her with her enthusiastic and noisy consent, chilled her.
She remembered that she sat up in an instant, a stark strangled cry escaping her lips. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. A soft, dim light came from a table lamp on a dresser across the room. She was wearing her bra but no panties and a sheet pooled around her lap.
Jack was standing by the bed, tense, alert, partly in shadow. Sandrine wasn’t aware how quickly he had moved, in the split second since she had jolted upwards.
“What is it,” he whispered softly but with a barely-controlled urgency. “Are you OK?”
She was out of bed before he finished speaking, heading for the chair near the door where her clothes were neatly folded, rushing to hide her near-nakedness.
“I’m fine. I have to get home.”
“Jeeze, talk about giving a guy a fright.” He tried to gather her up in his arms but she fought him off.
“Please, no. I have to go. I’ve stayed too long.”
He pulled back, regarding her carefully.
“Sure. Of course. Would you like some coffee, maybe breakfast?”
She was flustered, uncertain. No, I just need to get out of here now. This was out of control and she wanted to be back in the sanctuary of her own apartment where she could work out what had just happened.
“No, thank you. I have to go. Could you please call me a taxi?”
“No, I’ll drive you home.”
She wanted not only to be gone but a long distance from Jack as well. She didn’t know what time it was or how long it would take for a taxi to arrive. She scooped up the rest of her clothes and carried them into the adjoining bathroom.
“OK, fine, thanks. I’ll just be a minute.” In the harsh light of the bathroom, she looked into the mirror and saw the wildness in her eyes, the panic, and knew she was on the verge of bursting into tears. Not here , she thought. Pull yourself together. Wait till you get home.
Jack was dressed in dark jeans, a thick black turtleneck sweater and leather jacket when she emerged from the bathroom. She slid quickly into her overcoat, knotted her wool scarf tightly around her neck and grabbed her handbag in the living room, following Jack downstairs then through a long, winding passage, then up another set of stairs before emerging into a brightly-lit garage holding a number of cars and motorcycles.
At another time, she might have lingered among them for there was a beautiful old Cadillac, highly polished and gleaming under the floodlights. Jack motioned to a dark-coloured four-wheel drive near a wide roller door. The tail lights blinked as they approached.
“We’ll take this one. The doors are open.”
The drive to her apartment took fifteen minutes during which nothing was said. Sandrine tried to shrink into her seat as much as possible; it didn’t occur to her to try to gauge Jack’s mood, whether he was angry or hurt or just merely perplexed by her behaviour. At that moment, she didn’t really care how he felt. Her temper was boiling; at him, because she felt he’d taken advantage of her in some way she couldn’t explain, invading her privacy as much as her body, and at herself for so easily succumbing to whatever had happened.
She wasn’t drunk or light-headed, she was wide awake, viewing everything with a sterile clarity borne of cold rage. What the hell happened? How did I get into this situation? I don’t understand. Whatever it was, she blamed Jack and wanted to be as far away from him as humanly possible.
Yet there was a tiny voice inside her calling for calm. It’s not Jack’s fault. You’re an adult
She’d come awake with a start, felt the heat of Jack’s body pressed against her back and his hardness nestling between her thighs, and the reality of what she’d done, what he’d done to her with her enthusiastic and noisy consent, chilled her.
She remembered that she sat up in an instant, a stark strangled cry escaping her lips. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. A soft, dim light came from a table lamp on a dresser across the room. She was wearing her bra but no panties and a sheet pooled around her lap.
Jack was standing by the bed, tense, alert, partly in shadow. Sandrine wasn’t aware how quickly he had moved, in the split second since she had jolted upwards.
“What is it,” he whispered softly but with a barely-controlled urgency. “Are you OK?”
She was out of bed before he finished speaking, heading for the chair near the door where her clothes were neatly folded, rushing to hide her near-nakedness.
“I’m fine. I have to get home.”
“Jeeze, talk about giving a guy a fright.” He tried to gather her up in his arms but she fought him off.
“Please, no. I have to go. I’ve stayed too long.”
He pulled back, regarding her carefully.
“Sure. Of course. Would you like some coffee, maybe breakfast?”
She was flustered, uncertain. No, I just need to get out of here now. This was out of control and she wanted to be back in the sanctuary of her own apartment where she could work out what had just happened.
“No, thank you. I have to go. Could you please call me a taxi?”
“No, I’ll drive you home.”
She wanted not only to be gone but a long distance from Jack as well. She didn’t know what time it was or how long it would take for a taxi to arrive. She scooped up the rest of her clothes and carried them into the adjoining bathroom.
“OK, fine, thanks. I’ll just be a minute.” In the harsh light of the bathroom, she looked into the mirror and saw the wildness in her eyes, the panic, and knew she was on the verge of bursting into tears. Not here , she thought. Pull yourself together. Wait till you get home.
Jack was dressed in dark jeans, a thick black turtleneck sweater and leather jacket when she emerged from the bathroom. She slid quickly into her overcoat, knotted her wool scarf tightly around her neck and grabbed her handbag in the living room, following Jack downstairs then through a long, winding passage, then up another set of stairs before emerging into a brightly-lit garage holding a number of cars and motorcycles.
At another time, she might have lingered among them for there was a beautiful old Cadillac, highly polished and gleaming under the floodlights. Jack motioned to a dark-coloured four-wheel drive near a wide roller door. The tail lights blinked as they approached.
“We’ll take this one. The doors are open.”
The drive to her apartment took fifteen minutes during which nothing was said. Sandrine tried to shrink into her seat as much as possible; it didn’t occur to her to try to gauge Jack’s mood, whether he was angry or hurt or just merely perplexed by her behaviour. At that moment, she didn’t really care how he felt. Her temper was boiling; at him, because she felt he’d taken advantage of her in some way she couldn’t explain, invading her privacy as much as her body, and at herself for so easily succumbing to whatever had happened.
She wasn’t drunk or light-headed, she was wide awake, viewing everything with a sterile clarity borne of cold rage. What the hell happened? How did I get into this situation? I don’t understand. Whatever it was, she blamed Jack and wanted to be as far away from him as humanly possible.
Yet there was a tiny voice inside her calling for calm. It’s not Jack’s fault. You’re an adult
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