Moonbeams of Unintended Consequences
by Muffy Wilson
Q-Pres Yellow Silk Dreams Publishing
Ebook ISBN: 9780994346216
Print ISBN: 978-1514385418
[ Contemporary Romance, MF ]
They spent an insatiable night together in a magnetic embrace riding moonbeams of passion and ribbons of desire. He took her to the edge, to a special volcanic place inside: fiery, impatient, burning, yearning. Their love wove them irretrievably together in ways that only the future neither of them anticipated would disclose.
A cab turned the corner and amongst the clustered forest of steel, glass and concrete there loomed a huge building, a behemoth that pierced the Chicago skyline. The passenger in the back seat, heart in her throat and pounding to a manic rhythmic hammer in her temples, was anxious and nervously kept wiping her sweating palms on her suit skirt absentmindedly. Her breath seized in her breast as the edifice grew larger with her approach in the cityscape like a towering sparkling jewel, glistening in the reflection of the breezy Midwestern Chicago sunshine with such majesty. The cab driver wove a fine staccato path of stop and go artistry through the heavy mid-day traffic which was in synch with the nervous pound of her heart when it began again.
The cab stopped in front of the architectural tour de force and she hesitated.
“This is it, lady. That’ll be twenty-four-fifty. You getting’ out? You want me to take you someplace else? Lady? Lady…”
“Yes, yes, I am so sorry. Thank you.”
Jordan Taylor handed the driver two twenty dollar bills and told him to keep the change as she opened the door from the backseat then extended a long, lean, svelte leg to the curb. She released a silent prayer that followed her eyes upward. She paused a moment, looked up the massive façade of green Italian marble and stood on the sidewalk as she reflected momentarily on the past. She started towards the main entrance and a small man in uniform with gray hair, and a warm smile opened the door for her. She smiled, nodded and exhaled a quiet plea that the answers to her desperate circumstance were held within. When the little man spoke again his comment unnerved her further.
“Mr. D’Istrafrio is waiting, Miss Taylor,”
Things were not at all as they seemed, nor as they should be — and yet they were exactly as they had to be. She followed him instinctively.
* * * *
Jordan Taylor hadn’t a care in the world for any other but herself in the fall of 2004. She had just graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute and registered to attend the California College of Art. In the fall, she would begin a two year curriculum to finish with her masters in interior design. Raised in privilege as an only child, she had worked hard nonetheless, sometimes holding down two jobs, to get her under-graduate degree. It seemed unbelievable to her friends that a girl of such small stature would have such lofty dreams, but she surprised them all with her tenacity and perseverance. All she ever wanted was to pursue her artistic interests and earn a living as an American Society of Interior Designers (ASID) member designer. Where that took her, she was unsure, but she loved design, fabrics and furniture. It seemed simple to her so she never saw anything as insurmountably unattainable. It was now within her reach. She was more invigorated than ever before. Her success and her goals within reach, she oozed vitality, energy, a lust for life and raw sex appeal unconsciously.
That was when she first saw him, at opening night of the San Francisco Symphony. She never planned nor expected to be swept away. That is rare. When the air is thick with excitement and anticipation, it ignites a charge within and you are on alert for the “something” to happen while not knowing what “it” is at the time.The orchestra warmed up in a disconnected, faltering collection of notes, strings and horns as the wealthy patrons filed into the theatre and settled. She wore a flowing yet form fitted white spaghetti strapped gown with a backline that dropped to the small curve of her back above the dimples of the well-rounded cheeks of her ass. Jordan felt so sensuous, so sexy and imagined what others saw when they looked at her which made her feel even more visible, exposed with a naked heightened sense of arousal. The cascading neckline tumbled in silken folds to her abdomen which revealed her breath in the soft rise of her alabaster breasts.
She was of medium height with an envious shape most men admired: long, shapely legs nipped tightly at the ankle tapering to narrow, small feet elegantly adorned in satin heeled open-toed slippers with scarlet, well-pedicured peek-a-boo toes, a full breasted bosom with nipples, pert, erect, and stretched to arousal against the fabric of her gown. Her generous round hips accentuated a narrow waist and a lovely pleasing back that joined all her sumptuous qualities. Her eyes reflected an emerald depth with gold flecks that edged to hazel and were framed by neat, arched brows that narrowed to her temples where her heartbeat announced the rhythm of her life. Her rounded cheekbones accentuated the graceful curve of her jaw line as it narrowed to a slightly dimpled chin below heart-shaped ruby lips. Her only adornment was a starkly white gardenia nestled in the curves of her auburn curls that caressed the pale white opaque flesh of her face. The heavy floral fragrance of the corsage announced her arrival. She glided elegantly to her aisle and settled, like a dove, into her center seat. She was alone.
The house lights dimmed yet, unaware, she glowed demurely in the white gown, as if she were unmistakably the main attraction.
She stared as he walked onstage. He was a towering, self-assured giant of a black man, broad-chested and confident, his arms in black opulent leather outstretched as if to embrace the audience, she felt as though to embrace her. His piercing gaze locked irresistibly onto her, in all her radiant purity. His intense black eyes seemed to declare his hunger with mahogany intensity.
The opera house erupted with his full bass-baritone harmony. He sang, it seemed to Jordan, to no one but her and she smiled quite involuntarily. Each throaty, reverberating note he released strummed every nerve to her very foundation.
The surrounding atmosphere was elevating, inexplicably electrified, nearly lifting the lamb to the altar. Jordan walked eagerly into the hunger. That undeniable connection felt romantic, exciting, illicit, forbidden—even thought it was not—making the magnetic attraction feel more like destiny.
The lit tether of desire was more like a fuse and she was helpless to resist. The rest becomes a foregone shared conclusion—a conspiracy of lust—of mounting excitement and crescendo.
Her pulse raced, heart soared, knees weakened—her flesh tingled with a heightened anticipation of being touched. Jordan’s stomach tied her eagerness into a series of fiery knots. Her secret folds began to engorge with a mounting fervor. A burning heat automatically swelled the tender flesh drawing the soft tissue back at the very core of her existence as they grew. Her petulant feminine petals nestled in the protective mound where her thighs joined. When the movements of soft thighs rub silken panties against the growing, demanding bud, a primal lust accelerates.
There is no denying a woman ignited under those circumstances. His musical seduction began, and would surely end she thought, with her in his outstretched arms.
Jordan slowly flushed with excitement while her eager response filled and unfolded the protection of the essential pearl of her existence and she answered his desire with a blush.
She sat through the entire performance tethered to his gaze. The magnetism she could not resist overtook her fully and her responses were involuntary yet welcome. She felt his gaze through her gown caress her, push her, tease her and excite her with every deep vibrato he released into the hall.
When the house lights rose, the fluid embrace of his voice was gradually replaced by the swelling bustle of movement from the exiting audience. She looked to her left and right, then up to the stage beautifully shrouded by long red opulent velvet curtains separating her from the object of the gathered passion in her belly.
Her reverie broken, she returned to her moment. As she rose, the romantic trance invoked by his voice broke, the hold eased, and dropped shard by shard from her body so she could now move. She gathered her wits, shook off the spell and seemed to float in the afterglow with the others to the atrium. She exited the main entrance to the broad threshold above the street below.
She took a few steps outside and, shocked by the damp San Francisco night, drew her wrap ever tighter to her heaving breast, her nipples still erect from the seduction of the opera star. She paused a moment, enjoyed the remains of her trance, and proceeded down the steps to hail a cab.
The after symphony reception was held at the home of one of San Francisco’s most prominent elite, a huge supporter and member of the Symphony Board of Directors, Drake Morrison. Drake and his wife Amelia were friends of Jordan’s parents who were absent because of a holiday in the Orient. Jordan’s parents were regular supporters of the Symphony and met the Morrisons frequently during intermission on most opening nights for a glass of champagne. She had been invited as a distraction from her solitude to join them on opening night at the reception in their home. She agreed to attend eagerly as she often attended the symphony with her Mother when her Father was unable.
She felt her low-belly tighten; her heart pounded and her palms tingled with perspiration in aroused anticipation. The main opera lead and cast always came to the receptions. The non-profit organization relied upon their attendance to boost donations so she knew she would see him here. She wondered if he would even recognize her or if the reverie of connection had been hers alone.
When he entered with his entourage, he towered over everyone with his black elegance. He was beautiful, a stunning black onyx statue carved to magnificent perfection. When she saw him, only feet away, she staggered slightly as he turned to her with an outstretched hand in greeting, eyes locked in a magnetic embrace. She lost her breath and her heart in one moment as she touched his fingertips with hers.
He clasped her hand with both of his and pulled her close to his body, with a knowing smile curled on the curve of his chiseled jaw line. She felt his heat, was hypnotized by his aroma. She knew then he remembered her in the audience; he had sung to her, he had sent his words in musical notes on romantic air foils to surround her, lift and seduce her.
The moment was suspended by interruption when he was directed to further introductions. He bowed ever so slightly with his departure and barely whispered a bientôt, ma’am’selle, his breath searing her neckline. She weakened in his presence and felt ill-balanced on a passionate precipice as he moved away. Their arms outstretched unwilling to be parted, her hand slid from his as their fingertips relinquished an electric hold.
“A bientôt, ma’am’selle,” he had said. She hung on every word with rapt expectation of their next meeting as he moved into the crowd of admirers.
She watched as he worked the room, seducing male and female alike with his charisma and brilliance. He was a master in the simple ministration of his charm. He spoke with confidence, smiled at nonsensical nervous banter and made everyone most relaxed in his presence with an effortless touch.
The night edged on and she resigned herself to being like all the others, seduced by the sheer presence of the man. She sought out the Morrisons and bid them a grateful goodnight. She went into the library where her wrap was hung. A manly black hand extended and took it from her grip and as she spun, he curled her into his embrace as well as the shawl.
“My room key at the Hotel Whitcomb. The town car service I called to take you there is waiting outside. Room 457. Have I presumed too much?” as he pressed himself to her body and the key card into her hand. The low melodious tone of his voice melted any thought of resistance.
“I, ah…No, you have not presumed beyond expectation.” She kept her voice low in spite of their momentary privacy. “The Morrisons are long time friends of my parents who don’t yet consider me a grown woman.” She smiled into his down-turned eyes and smelled his heat. “I thank you for your discretion.”
He ran his fingertips from the wrap on her shoulder down the inside of her arm to the soft swell of her breast and lingered. His fingers caressed her naked flesh under her arm above the cut on the satin of her gown.
Her knees buckled under the weight of her desire and he caught her as she fell into his full embrace.
“Oh, God,” she breathlessly gasped and looked up into his dark eyes. “Do all women respond to you like this?”
“You are not all women. Go, now. I will be there within the hour. Sooner if I can get myself out of here. Room 457, do not forget. It isn’t written on the card.” He bent and put his lips, so soft, warm and pliant, on hers in a sweet parting kiss.
Jordan reached up and touched his ebony cheek in a promise then left for the town car waiting out front.
He watched as she opened the library, looked over her pale bare shoulder and smiled farewell. He delayed a moment then rejoined the party in the main of the house.
Jordan approached the town car and the driver. He leaned casually against the fender as he smoked. As she descended the steps, he dashed his smoke and jumped to open the rear door for her. She took a breath after she relaxed nervously in the rear of the car. The driver anticipated her comment and confirmed, “Hotel Whitcomb. Yes, miss.”
“Yes, thank you.”
It was a short ride to the beautiful historic hotel. It was in the same district as Davies Hall, the home for the Symphony. She had been there many times for receptions, weddings, fund raisers and her own coming out: her introduction to San Francisco society when she was sixteen. It was a favorite of hers and she knew it well. As she was superstitious, that they would meet and make love in this building, student of the arts that she was, held great significance to her.
She loved the Hotel Whitcomb and everything about it: the history, the charm, and the architectural design elements. It was built in the early 19th century. The Edwardian architecture was artistically visible throughout the historic hotel. Around every corner and every bend, the Austrian crystal chandeliers, marble columns, rare Janesero wood paneling and beautiful Tiffany stained glass at the front desk and in the piano bar shown with history and seduced her every step as she filled with romantic confidence. They are but a few of the spectacular features of this exquisite, historic hotel. Close to many of San Francisco’s historic sites, including Davies Hall, the hotel is a romantic short trolley ride away from Union Square and Fisherman’s Wharf.
In a city known for its history, the Hotel Whitcomb has a story of its own. As the city emerged from the devastation of the 1906 earthquake, the hotel became a substitute city hall while the original was being rebuilt.
In 1910, the city of San Francisco was still rebuilding and in need of a place to house government officials. They found such a place across Market Street in the then-under-construction luxury hotel, the Hotel Whitcomb. The developers were able to quickly change their plans and convert the hotel to city hall. After the hotel’s civic duty ended, it was converted back to its original design and became the Hotel Whitcomb in 1916. Reminders of the landmark hotel’s early history are still present in the hotel: the original jail cells are located in the basement.
Until the mid 1990s, the words City Hall could still be seen faintly etched above the hotel’s main entrance. Jordan found all that history so romantic and she could relate almost verbatim a scant history from the travel brochures, she so loved this beautiful building. But then, that was her passion, design and beauty – and tonight…him. She would so love him.
When the town car driver stopped at the hotel entrance, she gathered her clutch, her wrap, and her courage. Jordan entered nervously not as though everyone knew why she entered alone, but as though there were a reception being held in her honor. Her head, covered in errant auburn curls which framed her face, held high with her shoulders square she smiled at the door man with her back proud and straight. For contrary to her parents’ belief, she was a grown woman with desire coursing through her veins from a wellspring of hot volcanic passion at the pit of her womanhood.
She crossed the hotel foyer to the lobby slowly; she took in everything she loved about this building and she breathed in the excitement. The history of the building, the very notion of decades of others before her filled her with a tempest of monumental proportion, or so she felt. This man was not her first and, she ventured in her thoughts, nor would he be her last. But he was her ‘now’—and she ached for him, every bit of him.
She floated with grace across the lobby, the fragrance of her gardenia still piquant and vibrant. She was not unnoticed—a vision of white, almost virginal, as she crossed the expanse and neared the elevators to the remaining floors. The elevator attendant nodded, acknowledged her presence as she entered, “Floor, miss?”
“Four, please,” she answered with a surefooted confidence only the privileged possess and entered the elevator with him. They rode to the fourth floor in silence and she grew edgy with anxiety as the hour shortened. She looked to him as he opened the cage, “457?”
“To the right and down the hall on the left, Miss.”
“Thank you so much.” She was barely able to squeak out louder than a nervous whisper.
Jordan walked down the hall, grateful he was going to be arriving later. Perhaps, she thought, he had, no doubt, had this opportunity before, and had discovered this was a good approach — to allow his guest an opening to calm and relax. She took a deep breath when she reached the closed door to room 457 before she slid the key card in the security lock.
Jordan opened the door slowly and took in the surroundings as she entered. The lights were dimly lit; the view of the City was familiar and comforting. The lights beyond the window sill resembled a blanket of sparkling confetti, ignited by fire, alive with an undeniable essence. Nearing the curtains, she could almost feel the pulse of the City below as the lights twinkled with a pulse. She turned and saw a bucket of ice and an unopened bottle of…champagne, no doubt.
She ran scarlet-tipped fingers over the antique occasional table as she approached the champagne. The chocolate-dipped strawberries, nestled in a large crystal bowl, glistened in the dim lighting and looked as big as her fist. She smiled to herself at his attention to detail. Had he arranged for all of this before he’d left for the theater, anticipating any favorable conquest or after seeing her in the audience, from the reception at the home of the Morrisons?
She asked herself if it really mattered. She was here because she wanted him. Not because he wanted her which, she smiled, he clearly did. Her, this favored Hotel, this room, him – it was all going to be a night she would never forget. It would be a night she was going to make remarkable, memorable, life-altering for them both.
She rang downstairs for a bellhop to return and open the champagne. He was at the door almost before she replaced the handset in the cradle of the phone. She opened the door to his knock and let him in to tend to the champagne. As was her usual demeanor, in the presence of male staff, she was courteous and solicitous.
“Shall I pour, Miss?”
”Yes, please.” In gratitude she offered him a tip which he refused. She carried the flute of wine to the door to see the bellhop out. He turned to catch another glance at the young woman as he left with a look of admiration on his face for the man who would bed her tonight.
She closed the door and turned again to absorb the room, décor and all her surroundings imagining the moments, the hours to come. It was really a beautifully appointed room, newly remodeled without having stripped the room of its heritage elegance and history. The crown molding, fittingly, adorned the ceiling and was beautifully intact along with the high eight inch baseboard along the deep lush wool Berber carpet. The rich furniture was stunning and elegant. The bed, she noticed feeling weak in her knees, was expansive and the crisp white sheets were turned down, squares of Ghirardelli chocolates were on the pillows and swans of Egyptian cotton towels bowed their nimble necks in reverence. The satin foot cover adorned the bottom of the bed and she smiled to herself as she imagined it on the floor in morning’s light. She ran her fingertips along it as she rounded the expanse and entered the bath en suite. Perfect, she mused to herself.
She sipped confidently from the flute as she returned to the main chamber and dropped a strawberry in her glass as she sat to wait at the occasional table by the window. She wondered if she should change into one of the soft terry cloth robes, then decided she hadn’t that amount of courage. She would wait, patiently and quietly.
She turned to the window and looked to the streets below. Her eyes narrowed to the image in the window. She crossed her legs, and saw her reflection in the flickering black glass. Her skin looked so pale, her eyes uncolored and dark —- deeply intense, her lips ruby red, her hair the muted auburn of a bottomless red hue, and the gardenia corsage in her hair was a brilliant white, screaming in all its contrast for attention. She felt like that corsage and knew full well she would get exactly what she wanted. Moments later, she heard a slight rap at the door and the door swung open.
He blocked out the light, he looked so big.
An onyx giant, she thought immediately. She smelled his musk as the door swept open and announced his entrance. She held the odor of his body in her breast as he approached. Her heart had stopped and all composure threatened to leave her at his touch.
He was wearing an opera cape as black as he, red silk lined. He shed it to the easy chair and crossed the room in three long strides. He cupped her left cheek in his right palm, magically raised her to her feet in one fluid motion, clasped her flute of champagne in his left hand and set it on the table. He wrapped his left arm around her waist and pulled her into him and off her feet with a kiss and she melted to his will, sharing it beyond measure.
She thought she had died in his embrace, time so seemed to arrest. And in some ways, she did die. She relinquished all that was she, opened herself to him and him alone in ways she had never before done or felt. She was electrified by his touch, magnetized by his kiss — destined to be his.
No, she did not die in his embrace but came alive in his arms.