Waking Up With Rachel
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Copyright ©2013 J.D. Laurel
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She was approaching forty like a runaway truck on an icy road, and when she finally made it, the wrinkles would come but not so bad that you'd notice -- the fine lines around the lips, the little creases around the corners of the eyes would be there in soft detail. She was one of those women who would still look young long into her later years, and then when it was very late, life would come crashing down on her and she would be old and die all at once, as if they were the same thing.
But right now she was a mature woman, full of figure, and so goddamn desirable that men would look and look again, and sometimes stare, hoping she would notice them. She had that look about her, an aura really that seemed to say, "I'm the best fuck you'll ever have in your life," and rightly so. She had done things with men, and she liked it, craved it, like rich chocolate. She used men to satisfy her, used them up then discarded them after she was done, and she knew how to do that well too, how to get rid of them.
That was Rachel on a Sunday morning in the La Petit Cafe, sipping her black coffee slowly -- house blend. She didn't like French roast. She was just that way.
* * *
It was how things happen sometimes. Like walking up to that one car, that one car that every cop meets if he goes the distance, does the thirty years, that one car that has the bad guy in it with the gun. And then you're lucky, or you aren't, because the bad guy is always ready, already knows what he's going to do, has the drop on you, and even if you do everything right, sometimes you aren't lucky. Beat cops, road cops, the frontline boys don't get Sundays off, but here I was, finally off on a Sunday and walking into my favorite cafe, and there was Rachel, wearing a pair of blue nylon running shorts that wedged conveniently between her firm buttocks perched upon one of the counter stools. All the men were staring.
Her thick black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that cascaded halfway down her delicate back, partially covering the white tank top she wore. I passed behind her and she didn't even notice I was there until I sat on the empty stool next to her. She looked at me then, and those alert brown eyes evaluated me quickly, looked right into me, into my insides to see what type of man I was. The long black lashes fluttered underneath the elegantly arched eyebrows; her luscious full lips did not part, did not smile, but she did not look away. The tank top was cut low and I gazed into the long, warm valley of Rachel's breasts. I was bold about it, bolder than I had been before. I somehow felt she wanted me to stare at her tempting mounds, wanted me to get a good look, maybe to see what I was missing.
I think most men are intimidated by beautiful women, wondering if they are good enough for them, and Rachel had that on her side. She continued to stare at me and I looked into her eyes. As a cop, you have to be a good judge of people -- it can mean your life or death -- but even though I peered as deep as I could into Rachel's inescapable eyes, I couldn't figure her out, couldn't read her, what was she really like, and that bothered me more than the growing desire I felt creeping into my lustful cock like a burglar sneaking in the unlocked door.
She wouldn't break eye contact with me, and it went on for a long time. She wanted me to look away first, wanted to win like the Aborigines who stare down their enemies when they do the snake dance, but I wouldn't quit, couldn't quit, had never been a quitter.
Her moist pink lips formed into a sneer, baring gleaming white teeth. The small dark mole on her upper lip crinkled.
"What's good here?" she asked softly, her voice laced with honey smoothness, her breath coming to me in mint-scented warmth.
I smiled at her, and the sneer deepened. "I come here for the omelets. My favorite is the mushroom with cheese."
She pursed her soft lips and the sneer disappeared. "What's so great about the omelets?"
I leaned closer until we were face to face, challenging her and her beauty. "They take up the whole plate, and they aren't stingy with the cheese. But the best part is, they cover the whole thing with hollandaise sauce." I smiled real big this time.
She stayed close to me, looking deep inside me again. "What are you grinning about?" she whispered, the warm mint caressing my face, her lips so close.
"I was thinking about the omelet." I gave her the real big smile again.
"Liar," she blurted out, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Looking away, she summoned the waitress and placed her order -- a mushroom and cheese omelet.
I ordered the same thing.
She devoured the omelet in large mouthfuls, and I thought that she ate like a man, a hungry man. Her fork made screeching sounds across the plate. She wasn't going to leave any of the hollandaise sauce behind. After washing it all down with two more cups of black coffee, she turned and looked at me again.
"You're not married, are you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly like she was analyzing me. "No, you're not the marrying kind."
"I was once," I replied, "but that was a while ago." I shook my head slowly, remembering that tragedy.
"Do you live alone?"
"Yeah," I said a little sarcastically. "What, are you taking a census?"
She ignored the barb and I felt her warm hand on my thigh, sliding smoothly upwards until it reached my crotch. She squeezed my cock and balls firmly. "Let's go to your place."