Zipless. Diane Dooley

skirt. He wanted more, more, more, but not here, not in a doorway of an alley off 23rd. He was classier than that. He hoped. His suite, back at the Chelsea, was waiting for them, with its big bed, room service and a good bottle of wine. He wanted her there like ten minutes ago.

      He wrenched his head back to suggest they get a cab, but once again that voracious mouth of hers captured his. She whipped him around and shoved him against the door, then proceeded to kiss and touch him for some infinite amount of time, refusing to stop, pulling him to her time and time again, until finally she stepped away gasping for breath, staring at him, wild-eyed and disheveled.

      “I…um…my jaw hurts. How long have we been here?” She leaned against the door next to him, her knees visibly trembling, and propped herself up as if she had difficulty standing.

      “About an hour, I’d say.” He tried to slow his breathing. He sounded like a panting dog. “Ready to go to my place?” He adjusted his ravaged clothing. Oh, please, say yes. I’m dying here.

      “Aye. In a wee minute.” She giggled. “Once I’ve got my legs back.” She raised an eyebrow. “One more kiss while we wait, Zippy?”

      He didn’t have to be asked twice. Once more into the breech, he thought, as he tasted her again and slipped his hand under her skirt. Such a delicious little morsel. So sweet, yet so bold. He sought the white cotton panties he’d glimpsed earlier.

      She squeaked.

      He tried to pull his hand back, but her thighs closed tight, entrapping it. She wiggled slightly, breathing hard. That little sound again.

      “Did you just squeak, Maggie May?”

      “Aye. Naw. I mean…”

      Something Scottish and completely unintelligible escaped her mouth, before she grabbed him and started kissing him again. Her thighs relaxed and he pushed his hand between them, rubbing his fingers against the damp fabric, watching her face until he knew his fingers had found the perfect spot.

      That adorable squeak again. He lifted his head. “I think there’s only one way to restore those legs of yours to working order, Maggie. Close your eyes, darlin’. This won’t take long.” He went to work, smiling when her head jerked back and banged against the door. “Easy, baby. Easy. Don’t go hurting yourself.”

      Her eyes opened, stared blankly at him, and then fluttered closed again.

      “Just relax. Enjoy the ride.” He dipped in for a taste of her lemony lips, felt her hands grasp his hair and her hips start to buck against his insistent fingers. Then she had the lapel of his leather vest between her teeth, with a few chest hairs caught in there too, and she was a-squeaking and a-moaning into his shoulder, her legs trembling and losing power until she slid down against the door. He moved with her, lowering himself and her, until she sat shuddering on the ground. He gave her one last firm lingering squeeze, and she rewarded him with one final squeak, a jolt of her legs, then she collapsed back against the door, heaving in great gasps of air, which in turn became raucous laughter.

      “Oh, Zippy. That was…”

      More unintelligible words in a thick accent. He leaned back against the door, watching her, and ignoring the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. She didn’t ignore it, however. She opened one eye and slid a hand up his leg. “Your turn.”

      He glanced around. No, not here. She deserved something a little better than that. “Not yet, darlin’. My place, a glass or two of wine, then on ’til the break of dawn. Followed by sleep, then a shower, a good breakfast, some morning delight and your cell number.”

      She smiled and closed her eyes again.

      “Those legs of yours ready to get in a cab?”

      “I don’t think they’ll ever work again, Zip. You’ve gone and killed them dead.”

      “Let’s give ’em a try.” He reached down and helped her up, holding her in place until little Maggie could stand on her own. He retrieved her purse and shoes. She took them, still smiling and a little dazed. “I’ll go hail us a cab, honey. You start walking. By the time you get to the end of this alley, your chariot will await.”

      He almost skipped toward 23rd. Hell of a night this had turned out to be. Showing up at the party after being requested and nagged by the label, he’d expected another dull night listening to the latest over-praised Brit band. Instead the music had turned out to be damn good, the band promising, and Maggie May had fallen into his lap. Well, not fallen. Should he tell her he’d stuck that boot out to stop her from walking by him yet again? Probably not. He hadn’t thought she’d trip, just that she’d stop and finally look at him. Instead, she’d been too busy eying the pretty, Scottish dude with the Goth girlfriend. She really was a terrible groupie, going after the one guy in the band who had a girlfriend with him. But she was fun. And sweet. And she squeaked quite adorably when she came. And he couldn’t think of any other thing he wanted to do tonight other than get to know her better. And get out of these jeans! He stuck his hand out and a cab rolled to the curb. He turned to call Maggie, just in time to see her high-tailing it down 23rd, legs flying, arms pumping. Maggie seemed to have gotten her sea legs back.

      Chris felt his shoulders slump in disappointment. Had he said something, done something wrong? Or had Maggie just gotten what she came for? He climbed into the cab and gave the driver his address. He wasn’t going to chase a groupie. He had some pride left, after all. The cab moved off and his song continued.

       Your place or mine, said a woman so fine,

       With a kiss so sweet that I could not decline.

       She kissed me in an alley off Twenty-Third Street,

       Standing on the tiptoes of her shoeless feet.

      The song changed to a minor key.

       She loved me, then left me

       While I caught us a ride.

       Sprinting down the street,

       Leaving nothing of my pride.

      She was with the band his employers were thinking of signing. He could track her down if he wanted to. Or not. Maybe just chalk it up to a small disappointment in a string of much more major ones. Looking on the bright side, he was writing again. But how would he be able to finish it? Unless the rest of the song was him going back to the Chelsea and drinking himself to oblivion. That sounded pretty good. Oblivion would be cool. He should have listened to Rod Stewart. Women called Maggie May were bad news. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced morosely at his crotch, suddenly realizing he was still holding her damn shoes.