Later he glimpsed her with her companion — husband? beard? He could not imagine her sleeping with anyone else — waiting for their car near the valet station. He went to the coat check, then to the valet for his own car. He held his wife’s coat, helped her into the car, then went around to the driver’s side and put his hand in his pocket, thinking to tip the valet. He peeled off a dollar and looked at it in the moonlight, saw the curly handwriting and stopped, handing another bill instead. The valet, astonished and grateful, pocketed the twenty and ran off to see if he could score half again as well tonight.

He drove his wife home in silence, as he always did after these galas. It was late, after all, and he would have to be up early. He could feel the dollar, burning in his pocket, and he wanted only to unlock whatever secret promise it held.

She glimpsed him again, too briefly, from the coat-check: he was outside, handed his ticket to the valet and waited for his car. She stood where she could try to watch him, trying to catch his eye every time the door swung wide enough for an unobstructed path between them, a view interrupted by whichever of the other guests was heading outside to the cars. She felt empty when his car pulled up and she saw him pull out his bills to tip thevalet; she watched closely, feeling hope and life drain away from her heart. He handed something to the valet, then withdrew it, stuffed it in his pocket and peeled off another bill. The valet looked as if he were going to embrace the man, bowed deeply and held the driver’s door open. He was still grinning as the car pulled away.

She too was grinning, and did her best not to display it too outwardly. It would only lead to questions, and she hated questions. She sat silent during the drive home, cherishing the unfamiliar, thrilling, sticky ooze between her thighs.

At home she undressed and drew the bath, waiting as long as she could before stepping in, remembering the touch of his fingers and mimicking it, so imperfectly, with her own. She put her head back, and sipped a glass of wine, playing back her evening in slow motion, over and over. She could not believe she had done it; and she could not believe, when she thought about how she felt, that she had not done it until now.

She stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in her robe, watching the water swirl down the drain as if it were taking something precious and irreplaceable with it. She closed her eyes and went back to the bedroom, regarding the sleeping form, the shoulder slowly rising and falling, the gentle snore. She sighed and slipped into bed, trying not to replay the evening just one more time — knowing that it wouldn’t allow her to sleep. She struggled, eventually succumbed to Hypnos, and closed her eyes tightly when her mate reached for her in the night.

She stood just inside the room, wrapped in his arms. That she had never seen him before tonight didn’t matter; she knew, somehow, that her entire life had been spent waiting to meet him. Career, husband, family: these were fleeting things, she felt, impermanent. What she had here, in this room, right now: this was permanent. This would mark her, make her, enable her to define herself, complete herself. She did not stop to think; she didn’t need to.

She felt his strong fingers on her back, one hand hurriedly finding the zipper. She felt her dress loosen and instinctively took the half-step back to allow it to fall. She felt his hand on her breast, gentle but commanding; she sensed his open palm and three fingers stroke her panties, then felt his thumb hook the waistband. It was all the encouragement she wanted to wriggle free while she responded, with her entire body, to his kiss, his touch, his need.

In a perfect world, they would have had more time, she knew: time to make love first, slowly and gently; time to take, time to enjoy, time to rest and then begin again. Time, tonight, was an absent luxury. She moaned when he pulled her further into the room, trying not to stumble over each other in the unfamiliar dark. She pushed his coat off his shoulders, fumbled with his trousers, thrilled when he sprang free and responded, incredibly she thought, to her touch. His hands were large, surprisingly gentle, but she would have done anything he asked: and he did not need to. She moaned again when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, felt his lips disengage from hers and touch her ear, her throat, her neck. She thought she would lose consciousness when he spun her around, kissed her gently on the ear and pushed her over the chair, entering her forcefully from behind, his fingers never losing contact with her breasts, her clit, her ass.

She almost screamed when he kissed her ear again, wondering how it was possible for one man to be in so many places at once? Nothing in her life had ever felt like this; she was unprepared for this. I would, she thought, do anything at all to prolong this, and to feel this again. In the free-fall after their climax, they stumbled onto the bed, entwined in each other’s arms, for a few more perfect minutes oblivious to the world outside.

Neither of them wanted to break the spell: a spoken word, they knew, would shatter everything. She was aware of his eyes on her while she dressed, while she gathered his clothes from the floor and laid them out neatly for him. She kissed him again and slipped out of the room, her pulse pounding in her ears all the way back to the ballroom. Wondering, will he find me?