The man at the bar was Scottish, according to his accent, and a medical doctor, according to what he claimed. That had been a bit of a put-off at first, because Clara didn’t want to think about Scotsmen, or doctors. Or about much of anything really. Thinking was not on the agenda for the evening. Drinking, meeting somebody who wasn’t completely boring, and maybe some great sex. That was the agenda.
“Call me Ronnie,” the man had said, and he pointed at her with both fingers, and then at himself, and smiled in a way that was so fatuous it had to be ironic, which was exactly the kind of thing she wanted right then and there. He bought a bottle of wine and brought it with two glasses to her table and announced that whatever it was that was wrong with her, he had the cure. He was a giving man, he said. Sexually giving. And that made her giggle as well, because it was so ridiculous and so charming. Like somebody had never quite grown up. Though obviously he had. As had she.
She had perhaps had one too many mojitos already. Slowing down and drinking wine would be good.
He was good-looking, oddly. Wavy brown hair, a nose that was a little too big for his face, over-active eyebrows. And he was into her. Deeply into her. All she done was smile at him, and Ronnie was over the moon. He didn’t get a lot of action, was her impression, and his self-mocking jokes about how his heart had been broken by the wife of a friend convinced her it was true. A little old for her, maybe, forty-something, but one night stands weren’t supposed to be the kind of thing you thought about that way.
So Clara let Ronnie kiss her in the booth at the bar, let him take some liberties with a hand on her knee, said yes to him when he asked if she wanted to come home with him. Live a little. Find out what “sexually giving” meant from an older guy.
She snogged him to within an inch of his life in the cab. He flailed his hands around at first then got his arms around her and kissed her back. A little clumsy, a little bit of teeth-knocking, but his delight in her made up for it. He was thrilled to be kissing her. He thought the world of her. She turned him on. She made him want to sing. He told her that, then he sang the entirety of “Michelle” to her with a lovely voice that honestly made her swoon, and it wasn’t the two mojitos plus the half bottle of wine saying that, not in the least.
And then they were inside his front door, and he was intent on her, and husky-voiced, asking her if she was sure, if she really wanted to be ravished, because Pilfrey was a gentleman, he said, he would never want her to feel pushed into anything, Pilfrey wanted her to feel as if she’d had the best night of her life with him. Which was again so absurd and charming that Clara smiled, went onto her tiptoes, kissed him on the lips, and told him she wanted nothing more than to be ravished. “Ravish away,” she said. And to her surprise, Ronnie picked her up and carried her into his bedroom.
“Sexually giving”. Oh yes. He certainly took that seriously. She’d come once, courtesy of his questing fingers, before she was properly undressed. The second orgasm was from his clever tongue, before she’d managed to do more than undo the buttons of his shirt. She lay nude on his bed, sated already, while he undressed himself down to his socks. Which he insisted on showing her, and yes, they were indeed clever socks, with a pattern of foxes on them. And that was indeed a magnificent penis he was somehow managing to ignore while he lay over her and kissed her breasts.
A condom on-- thoughtful gentleman, Ronnie was, not needing to be asked-- and he was inside her, kneeling between her thighs, her heels hooked over his shoulders. Deep penetration from a magnificent penis, her favorite thing, and she told him as much. Though not with those words. She wasn’t articulate just then, with Ronnie thrusting into her, thumb on her clit. She squeezed him and the most amazing things came out of his mouth, declarations of eternal love though she’d known him only three hours at the most.
And then she was coming, and he was coming, and then he was lying beside her, holding her close, kissing her shoulder, telling her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld. And why not believe him?
“Ronnie Pilfrey,” he said to her. “Remember my name. I’ll give you my number.”
“You can make me breakfast in the morning,” Clara said to him, thinking about that tongue, and he wriggled with joy beside her.