Outside the rain poured and the lightning flashed through the night. The sewers backed up and the traffic—mostly trucks and Greyhound buses—inched along through the flooded streets.
And inside a one-bedroom house, Jack Laramie, a thirty-two-year-old truck driver, unclasped Mary Martin’s bra for the first time. She was twenty-four years old and worked at a truck stop cafeteria. She met Jack during the graveyard shift. They dated off and on for three months, but had never gone this far. Tonight, Jack was going all the way.
Her bra dropped to the floor. The lightning flashed and illuminated her breasts. Jack gulped. They were beautiful, soft breasts. He kissed her full lips while brushing his thumb over her nipples. He gazed at her long legs like an explorer gazing at the Grand Canyon.
Mary removed his John Deer baseball cap and kissed him on the mouth. He tasted like a cheeseburger, she thought. But she didn’t mind. Her hand glided over his belt buckle.
“I love you, Jack.”
“Hmm...” he mumbled, kissing her shoulders.
“I said, I love you.”
He smiled.
He only smiled because he was not sure if he loved her the way she loved him. He loved her long legs, her full lips, and her soft breasts. But did he really love her?
“Jack...”
“What?” he said, stroking her stomach. She had a belly like the women in the ab-machine commercials.
“Nothing,” she said.
He kissed her flat stomach. She fell back on the bed and he ran his callused fingers under her panties. She moaned like the wind. He tugged at her panties down past her knees. He then stripped off his own clothing.
“Jack?”
“Hm?”
“You OK?”
“Fine...”
He kissed her ear and then her lips, and then, nervously, entered.
When you date somebody, you never know what you are in for. When Jack and Mary first met, Jack was consumed by her physique but not always by her mind or personality. Yet they became friends. And that’s what made him nervous—he had known her too long, knew her as a person and not just something attached to a set of boobs. If it was their first date, he would have charged her magnificent body like a mad bull.
But Jack had a credo. It sometimes landed him in trouble but, nevertheless, he lived by it. It simply went like this: “Roll the dice and see what happens.”
He thrusted, and she groaned and sweated like a tropical rainstorm. He moaned like a old Mack truck. He pushed harder and faster. And then every cell in both their bodies exploded in rapture.
Behind the blinds, the rain continued to patter against the bedroom window. Mary’s flushed face and tangled hair lit up from a sudden crack of lightning. The window rattled from the thunder.
“Jack,” she said, nestling beside him.
“Uh, huh?”
“Do you love me?”
“Hmm?”
“I said, do you love me?”
He just smiled, nervously.
And outside the rain poured and the lightning flashed and the traffic continued to roll through the flooded streets.
