Feeling foolish, standing there on my tiptoes, I wasn't sure whether to stay or go. Then the main door to the building swung open, and he was there in the doorway framed by dark glass set in marble, half-silhouetted by the soft light pouring from inside. Beneath the filthy T-shirt was a well-developed torso that tapered down via a flat belly to plaster-splattered blue jeans and a pair of sturdy but battered beige work boots. I could see where the leather had worn away to expose steel toe caps beneath.

The serious face was back. Trembling, and without a word, I crossed the threshold, accepting his unspoken invitation. He took my hand and led me to the dark corner of the foyer where he had been working. It was cold inside, too, and his breath misted in the air. Walking in a trance, I followed his smoky trail, I would have followed him anywhere. A thought ran through my mind: What am I doing here? This isn't me! I'm sensible: safe. Boring, even. My instinct said, You know nothing about this man; get out now while you've still got your clothes on! But my body told me a different story, saying, You do know this man; you've fucked him every which way in your dreams, and if he doesn't make a move soon, you're going to explode.

He let go of my hand and stood there, still silent. I was sure he'd be able to hear the pulse of my heart. Stronger still was the pulse between my legs. I was throbbing so hard down there it was painful. Slowly turning to face him, I met those blue eyes. I spoke. "I need to know your name," I said, my voice quivering with anticipation. I needed to hear his voice, too; you can gauge a man's body through the outline of his clothes, but you can't predict what his voice will sound like. But still he refrained from satisfying my curiosity.

"Shh," he said, putting a finger to my lips. I moaned; I couldn't help it. His hands were warm, rough, large, and strong, worn like old leather.