I Took Shelter from the Storm with a Stranger

The storm hit Córdoba without warning, as if the sky had been nursing a grudge all day. In a matter of minutes, Avenida Colón turned into a brown river, and I, Mariela, was running with my bag clutched against my chest and my shoes splashing through every puddle. My dress had stuck to my body like a second skin. I cursed the city council, the rain, and my own idea of going out without an umbrella.

I’m twenty-five, and that night I learned something about myself that I’d rather not analyze too much. That’s why I’m telling it here and nowhere else.

I was looking for an awning, a canopy, anything, when a guy appeared at my side under a broken umbrella that barely covered him. Tall, dark-haired, with a three-day beard and a smile that had already made up its mind.

—Hey, do you want to get out of the rain? There’s a hotel around the corner. It’s not far, and we’re both soaked anyway —he said, looking me up and down without even trying to hide it.

I stopped, panting, my hair plastered to my face. I looked at him properly: dark eyes, a confidence I couldn’t tell if I hated or liked. But that kind of hotel was for one thing only, and drying off wasn’t exactly it.

—No, thanks. I’ll wait in a bar —I replied, crossing my arms over my wet cleavage.

He laughed and stepped closer. His voice was hoarse above the sound of the rain.

—Look, the bars already closed with this storm. And you’re shaking. It’s just until it lets up. Or are you afraid I’m going to suggest something else?

I felt a bothersome tingle in my stomach. It wasn’t exactly fear. It was curiosity, mixed with that sudden heat that comes out of nowhere and you don’t really know where it comes from.

—Nobody goes into a hotel like that just to take shelter —I said, but I didn’t sound convincing.

—Damián —he introduced himself, ignoring my objection—. And look at your dress: everything shows through. You’re going to catch pneumonia. I don’t bite, unless you ask me to.

I looked down and saw he was right: my bra was clearly outlined under the thin fabric. But that wasn’t what was making me nervous. It was the way he looked at me, as if he’d already decided everything that was going to happen and was just waiting for me to catch up.

—Fine. Just to dry off —I gave in, without conviction, while he took my arm with a gentleness and firmness at once.

***

We walked a few blocks to a side street. Damián talked about anything to break the ice: traffic, potholes, how much he hated getting his shoes wet. I answered in monosyllables, but little by little something in my shoulders began to loosen.

The place was discreet, with a flickering neon sign. He paid for the room without hesitation and we went up a floor by the stairs in a charged silence. Inside was everything one imagines: a big bed, dark sheets, a huge mirror on the ceiling, and a dim light that made everything feel more private than I wanted it to.

I sat on the edge of the mattress to take off my shoes. He peeled off his soaked shirt and revealed a defined torso, with a couple of tattoos climbing up his arm.

—See? Just shelter —he said, tossing me a towel, though his eyes went straight to my crossed legs.

I wrapped myself in the towel, but the cold was still there, buried in my bones.

—Thanks. Still, I don’t know if this was a good idea. I feel weird.

Damián sat down beside me, too close.

—Weird how? We’re two adults escaping the rain. What’s wrong with a little heat?

His hand brushed mine and a shiver ran through me, but it wasn’t from the cold. I swallowed.

—Seriously, I didn’t come here for this.

—You didn’t come here for this —he repeated, leaning in—, but look at the way I’m looking at you. You’re beautiful. Tell me something about you, nothing more.

We started talking. I told him about my boring job at a real estate agency, and he talked about his trips as a salesman. The conversation grew intimate without me deciding it should. He asked direct questions: whether I had a boyfriend, what I liked in a man. I answered evasively, but my cheeks were burning.

—I don’t have anyone right now. And I’m not looking —I said, my voice trembling exactly on the word that mattered most.

—Liar. Your eyes say something else. If you want to leave, go ahead. The door’s right there. But the rain’s still coming down, we’re alone, and you stayed.

I shook my head. I didn’t move.

—This is crazy.

—Crazy is denying yourself something you want —he took my hand—. Let me kiss you. Just one kiss. If you don’t want any more after that, we stop.

***

I hesitated, my heart pounding. When our lips touched, it was like putting your hand on a live wire. The kiss started slow and quickly turned hungry; he pulled me by the waist and I, who a second earlier had been thinking about leaving, ended up with my fingers tangled in his hair.

—Wait —I murmured, with no real intention of making him listen.

—Tell me to stop —he whispered against my neck, kissing it.

I didn’t say it. He nipped my ear and a sound escaped me that gave me away completely.

His caresses slid down my back and found the zipper of my wet dress. The fabric dropped to the floor and I was left in my underwear, exposed to that warm light and to his gaze. Damián looked at me like someone who’s found something they hadn’t expected.

—Look how gorgeous you are —he said, and the line, so simple, melted me more than anything filthy ever could.

I covered myself by instinct. He gently moved my hands away and kissed my chest over my bra, slowly, until the “no” still stuck in my throat turned into a long sigh.

—Tell me what you like —he asked, while unfastening my back.

—I don’t know... keep going —was the only thing I managed to say.

The bra gave way. He looked at my breasts for a moment before lowering his mouth to them, first softly, then with hunger, one hand tracing the path the other opened up. I arched my back without meaning to.

—You’re trembling already, and it’s not because of the cold —he said, sliding his fingers over the last bit of fabric I had left.

He was right, and that embarrassed me more than being naked. He pulled my panties off my legs with calculated slowness and knelt between my thighs. He didn’t say anything crude; he just looked at me for a second, as if asking permission, and lowered his head.

What followed erased any thought of leaving. His tongue worked with a patience I hadn’t expected from someone so bold out on the street. One hand held my hip; the other climbed up and squeezed a breast. I clutched the sheets, my legs tense, my breathing in pieces.

—Don’t stop —I begged, and for the first time all night my voice came out steady.

He didn’t stop. Pleasure climbed in one straight line until my breath caught and my whole body jolted against his mouth. I lay there trembling, one hand over my eyes, not fully understanding how I’d gotten there.

***

Damián stood up and took off the rest of his clothes. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t look at him; I did, and my mouth went dry. He came back to the bed and, before anything else, kissed me long and deep, as if he wanted me to stay inside what we were doing and not outside it, judging it.

We did it like that first, face to face, with him on top of me, looking at me. I dug my nails into his back and he set a rhythm that kept building, attentive to every one of my reactions. The mirror on the ceiling threw back an image I didn’t recognize: me, open and surrendered, in a love motel, with a guy who three hours earlier didn’t exist in my life.

—Look at yourself —he said, following my eyes upward—. Look how you are.

I felt a little embarrassed and a lot aroused at the same time. We changed positions; I got on top and set the rhythm for a while, with his hands firm on my hips, his eyes never leaving me. Then he took me against the wall, one leg raised, and after that there was no more conversation, only bodies and broken breaths and the sound of the rain still falling outside.

I came again before he did, tightening around him, and then I felt him finish with a deep groan against my neck. We collapsed onto the bed on top of each other, sweaty, laughing without really knowing why.

***

I thought that was the end. But after a while, while he was stroking my back with the tips of his fingers, Damián moved his hand lower than my waist and stopped.

—You’ve never done this, have you? —he asked softly.

I tensed up. I understood right away what he meant.

—No. And I don’t know if I want to. They say it hurts.

—It hurts if it’s done badly and too fast —he replied, without pressuring me, his voice calm—. If you go slowly, it doesn’t. Do you trust me tonight?

It was a strange question to ask a stranger. The absurd thing is that, after everything that had happened, I told him yes with just the tiniest nod.

He was truly patient. He found the lubricant in the drawer, told me each step, gave me time. He started with his hand, slowly, paying attention to when I tensed and when I relaxed, in no rush to move forward. He spoke little; when he did, it was to calm me.

—Take a deep breath. Let go. If it really hurts, we stop and that’s it.

—Don’t stop yet —I heard myself say, my face buried in the pillow.

When he finally entered me, he did it little by little, centimeter by centimeter, stopping each time I complained. The first moment was unpleasant, it burned. Then the discomfort turned into a strange pressure that, to my own surprise, started to feel good. He kept the pace slow, one hand in front helping me get there again.

—See? It wasn’t that much —he murmured against my nape.

I didn’t answer with words. I came for the third time that night, in a different way from the others, and I felt him finish a second later, holding me from behind.

We stayed still for a long while, not speaking, listening as the rain faded away until it became a soft dripping at the window.

***

—I should go —I said at last, when there was no longer any storm to use as an excuse.

—Stay a little longer —he asked, but without insisting.

I stayed a little longer. Then I got dressed slowly, my clothes still damp and wrinkled, my legs weak. Before opening the door, I turned around.

—That was crazy —I admitted—. I don’t even know how I ended up here.

He smiled from the bed, not moving.

—If you ever want to repeat the crazy part, you know where to find me.

I didn’t give him my number or ask for his. I stepped out into the hallway and the cool air hit my face. The city was quiet, washed clean, as if the storm had never existed. I walked toward the bus stop with a smile I couldn’t get rid of and legs that could barely carry me.

I’ve never told anyone this. Not my friends, not the boyfriends who came after. It’s the only time in my life I let myself be carried away like that, with a stranger, not knowing anything about him except his name. Sometimes, when it rains hard over Córdoba, I remember and wonder if it was real. And between my legs, even now, something tells me it was.