The night I met Ammon Fayed, he gave me what I thought was a small, blue rock. He hadn’t introduced himself yet, so I was surprised and a little annoyed when he took my hand, palm up, and closed my fingers over the stone. He’d looked amused by the scowl on my face. That was six months ago at a party for my former linguistics professor’s birthday.
He didn’t look amused tonight when I met him at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, right in front of the Temple of Dendur exhibit. The intensity of his glare sent a flurry of butterflies through my stomach, but I smiled and strode across the marble floor, my heels announcing my approach. His dark eyes appraised my outfit. The black flounce skirt lay flat around my hips, but flared at the bottom, allowing it to move while I walked. The black, three-quarter sleeved blazer I wore covered the black lace bralette beneath it, leaving more cleavage showing than I would have chosen myself. My hair was in a sleek chignon, exposing my bare neck. I wore no jewelry, as he’d instructed, except the blue Met button on my lapel to signify my having paid the suggested donation to enter.
When I arrived in front of him, he took my hands and kissed me on the lips without speaking. His kiss was long and soft, with just a flick of his tongue over mine. My hands were cold and clammy against his warm fingers. I looked up, hoping to see him smile, but there was no crack in the intensity of his armor. Tonight was not about frivolity, and he wasn’t going to indulge me.
He led me by the hand to the entrance of the Temple of Dendur, steadying me on the stairs when my knees shook. I stopped briefly to look at the view of Central Park in the fading daylight. The large room was far from empty, but that was his plan. (more…)