“Sorry, no” you lie. Catching yourself in the act and wondering why on earth you would ever do such a thing. Knowing full well that beside your bed you’ve placed the only other one you had.

You scan his features, the details in his expression, reading his complex intensity, seeing he’s perplexed, and you wonder is it possible he knows the tone when it catches in your throat, or the glint of light that flickers in your eyes when you’re hiding a truth? Does he really know you that well? Or is he just unsure?

“The cleavage is beautiful” he offers, and for a moment you’re unsure if his eyes are looking at the stone or over it to where his line of sight would find the intimate outline of your light dress, embroidered around your breasts, and where the darkened date-like succulence of your nipples have hardened with an alert desire all of their own.

“You know about palm stones?” you ask respectfully, and somewhat surprised that this manifestation of masculinity could ever possess such feminine intimacy.

You feel a loving, wanting warmth, slip between your thighs and you blush inside with the confession of feeling your sex swell and glisten with wet and honest desires.

“I’m learning, I guess, honestly, I didn’t know what I’d find today, I let the bike make all the decisions, and somehow it brought me here” his voice is smooth and raw, like sand and glue, but with a velvet edge. His eyes are fearless as they flirt with you, their inner light telling you he wants you, he wants to take possession of you. And how.

A flicker-book of fantasies cinematically cascades through your rapid mind. And in a breathless moment you imagine closing early and making love, a tangled tantric tryst, entwined with the sound of the ocean, an evening breeze, and the eternally setting sun.

Flustered by his brazen attraction you fight feelings of frustration, wishing he’d just take control, step around the counter and make his move.

His lips seem so full, his kiss withheld yet threatening, his eyes all patience and pleasure, and you’re certain he wants to feel you, to feel the melting of the marrow in your bones, the collapsing of your reserve, your unlimited submission, held in his arms, his hands slow and sculpting, claiming the clay of your sculpture. And you feel the strength in your thighs softening, weakening with wanting him.

“Are you a Scorpio?” you ask, desperately clinging to whatever modesty and composure you can muster.

And from the inside you feel an orchestra of butterflies taking flight as his inner light and warmth seem to both brighten and rise, pouring out through his smile with an impossible intensity.

“Yes, I am, how can you tell?” he answers, sincerely curious and evidently impressed.

“There’s something about you, reminds me…”

“Of someone you once knew” he says, anticipating your words, as if he were writing them for you. “I feel that too…” he offers, his voice choking a little, as if the truth of it carries too much emotion.

“Have you ever had your cards read?” you ask, segueing gently, kindly, sensing a lost and little boy trapped somewhere in the frame of this full-grown adult.

“Tarot, you mean?”

“Mmm-hmm” you affirm.

“I have not, do you do that?” he asks, with a trusting tone that would suggest he’d be open to trying. At least with you.

Ting-a-ling, the front door opens, the sudden sound snatches you both from the spellbound moment of your exchange.

Reflex, your eyes turn to greet the stranger, cursing inside as the moment of your intimacy begins unraveling.

The biker respectfully steps away from the counter, giving you the space to openly engage with the new customer.