Manhattan Transfer

In a New York state of mind

She woke to find something prodding insistently into her thigh. And a voice in her ear. “Carrie?”

Oh god. It was dim and dark, she had no idea where in the world she was, there was probably an early flight involved, and now this.

“Carrie? Are you awake?”

She groaned. Fatal mistake. A hand began stroking her bare skin somewhere south of her ribs. She groaned again. Rolled away. The glowing red digits of an alarm clock worried her eyeballs. 04:55

Shit. Was there a dawn flight? Where was she?

It was coming back now. Anything under twenty-four hours was a layover, and she’d flown into JFK mid-afternoon. Heathrow had been the usual mean and cramped unpleasantness; if there was one thing the English were really good at it was making anybody without the right accent feel small. A pleasure to get onto American Airways into a business class seat. A grandmotherly flight attendant had fed her ice cream and coffee and cookies while she looked at a sparkling white Iceland rolling below.

She had meant to get a bit of sleep on the flight — east to west always meant a long day — but there was so much to see outside the window, and champagne to taste while she regarded Greenland, Canada, Boston ten kilometres down.

And Hank waiting at Arrivals.

Hank, such an American name. He was almost certainly the owner of the thing prodding into her, its cheerful little tip keen to take up where they had left off last night.

A hand reached up and over her body, drawing her in, a warm furry chest pressed against her back, a gentle kiss against the back of her neck, fingers lightly stroking the underside of one breast.

Men!

Carrielle Watson, travel photographer, considered her options. If she rolled over, whatever was prodding into her buttock cleft would have more ready access, and she wasn’t ready for that just yet. She was now fully awake, and if it was getting close to dawn, she should really be out on the streets photographing, not fucking.

And she did have a flight coming up. Tokyo. Damn. What time did it leave? Maybe she should be packing rather than fucking.

That hand had found its way to her nipple, and was gently teasing it awake. That felt good. It was also sending signals to the rest of her.

She rolled over, pressing herself firmly against the front of her bedmate, and snuggling down so that her nose was pressed against his throat, and more importantly, that questing prong down below wasn’t in imminent danger of entry, at least until she remembered where she was in her cycle. Had they used protection last night?

Carrie certainly remembered something pink and rounded and totally unprotected in her mouth, tasting of man tang. Probably not quite so savoury at the moment, several hours and climaxes later.

The man before her had a beard — she could feel it against her face — and that meant it was Hank. Good. He was a silhouette against the dim rectangle of tall windows…

Tall windows. Holy crap. Now she remembered. Hank had lifted her bags into the boot of the yellow cab, and told the driver, “49th and Park, please”. Her first time in New York, Carrie had watched the towers of Manhattan grow closer. A glimpse of the Empire State Building, and then they were among them, those concrete canyons, traffic and people thick on the streets. New York, New York.

The cab pulled up outside some old brownstone complex that seemed to occupy a whole block. A liveried doorman stepped forward. Carrie looked up at gold lettering.

“The Waldorf-Astoria?” She turned to Hank.

“Last chance to see,” he replied. “They are closing for renovations soon. Thought you’d like it.”

“Wow!”

Carrie purred happily into Hank’s shoulder. Dear man. It was a big deal to a young Aussie woman to be pampered into an icon. An elaborate lobby, bellboys, marble staircases, a grand clock…

Just enough time to dump her bags in a fancy but faded bedroom, and then they were back on the streets again, cameras clicking, Carrie scooping New York up into her Leica.

The Carnegie Deli, walls covered in movie stars, a corn beef sandwich about as big as her head. Empire State Building, where Hank kissed her for the first time — “Yum, pickles!” he had said, before going in for another — Central Park, Strawberry Fields mourning John Lennon — dead longer than Carrie had been alive, but still there were fresh flowers marking out a giant peace symbol — and a long dinner at Mickey Mantle’s, where Hank had consumed a giant steak and drank a beer from a glass about the size and shape of a baseball bat. Carrie had insisted on a Manhattan. Or two.

Full of good food, cocktails, and a golden glow of happiness, Carrie had collapsed gratefully into the Waldorf’s king-size bed. And Hank’s embrace. And now here they were, ready for another round.

She wriggled herself up past Hanks’s beard and explored his lips. Somewhere lower down, another set of lips was welcoming a new member into the fold.

Hank’s turn to groan. “Have to be quick, Carrie.”

She stopped what she was doing. “When’s my flight? I can’t remember.”

“One thirty,” Hank said.

“Plenty of time, then.” Carrie resumed her movements.

“Not if we want to shoot Central Park at dawn,” Hank said, not slowing his own rhythm. “I can’t let you go without something special.”

It was another half-hour, all told, before they were scooting out through the grand front entrance, deserted and the predawn. “Need a cab,” Hank muttered, grimacing at his watch. He signalled to a doorman. “Trump Tower, please.”

The doorman opened the door of the first cab, giving the address to the driver. “Trump Tower!” the cabbie howled. “I been waiting an hour. What about Kennedy or Newark?”

“Peel off,” the doorman said, snapping the door shut before Carrie could slide in. He thumped the yellow roof. “Use your power steering and pull away!”

He beckoned to the next cab, whose driver made no fuss. Hank slipped him a bill, and the doorman touched his hat.

Carrie smiled at the driver. “G’day, mate!”

The driver flicked the meter on, “Aussie, eh? Got a kangaroo for me?”

“Not this trip, sorry, gave ‘em all away.” She reached into her camera bag, pulled out a wrapped chocolate and dropped it into the tray. “Have a Caramello Koala?”

Trump Tower was only a few blocks away, but Hank stopped him short at a food trolley, and ushered Carrie out.

“Two bagels, two coffees, no chatter,” he instructed the cook.

Hank balanced the paper cups in his hands and gave the bagels to Carrie. “No eating!” he ordered, “Central Park is just up that way.”

They crossed a street and turned a corner. He set the cups carefully down, and pulled a Canon out of his camera bag, fussing with the lens before picking up a coffee and handing it to Carrie. “Breakfast,” he said, indicating the diamond necklace in Tiffany’s window, raising his camera as the first rays of the morning sun caught Carrie’s hair.

There was time to shoot Central Park alive with dog walkers and joggers, catch the R Line down to the Staten Island Ferry to say hello to Lady Liberty coming and going, and back for a late checkout and final embrace at the Waldorf.

Carrie slid her bottom into seat 4A, her state of mind to New York, her time zone back to London, and slept most of the fourteen hours to Tokyo, snuggling deeper down every time the flight attendant suggested a meal.

Britni

Britni Pepper writes for Kindle Direct Publishing. She runs a blog where she reviews erotica, and rambles on about this and that. She may be reached on Twitter and Facebook.

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