The Mature Driver Who Defended Me at the Party

The first time I saw him, I was coming down the station steps carrying a new handbag and a suitcase far too big for a weekend trip. That middle-aged driver climbed the steps two at a time and offered to help before I could even ask. I smiled and thanked him, though I doubt he realized how much I liked the gesture. And him.

Not especially tall, he had an athletic build, broad shoulders, and a physique that suggested restrained strength. He trained every day, that much was obvious; he looked more like a retired soldier than a taxi driver. Strong jaw, broad forehead, straight nose, and small hazel eyes that looked as if they already knew everything. He must have been around forty-five, maybe a little older.

I felt uncomfortable, studying a man who was twenty years older than me. At just twenty-four, I’d come out of the Faculty of Fine Arts with a useless degree under my arm and the certainty that boys my age bored me senseless. Maybe that’s why I kept staring at him longer than I should have.

“God, it’s cold!” I said as soon as I sat down.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“Yes, everything’s perfect.”

Despite the glorious sun, it was colder than expected. I should have brought a jacket, but I couldn’t be bothered to carry it around all night. I was wearing fitted jeans and a light gray oversized sweater that swallowed me whole.

“Where to, miss?”

“The Neon, the club. We’ve organized a fundraiser,” I said, rubbing my frozen hands together. “Would you mind turning up the heat?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s a charity party, for an animal shelter,” I added, trying to stop myself from shivering.

“That’s a good cause. I hope you raise a lot,” he replied politely. “And have you decided what you’re going to do now that you’ve finished?”

“Restore paintings. Or maybe work as a tour guide. I’m still not sure,” I answered, half lying for the fun of it.

I laughed to myself. There I was, flirting with a mature man who was old enough to be my father.

“And what do you like to paint? Landscapes and that sort of thing?”

“Not at all. I like drawing nudes. Men, mostly,” I said without blinking.

“Well, damn. A resourceful woman.”

“I’ve seen more naked bodies than you have, I assure you. Occupational hazard.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“If you want a professional opinion on yours, you can show it to me,” I said, shameless.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he replied, unfazed. “Besides, it’s nothing extraordinary. This car has class, it’s immaculate, but in the end it’s a work tool. Something useful, not something worthy of admiration.”

And that was exactly what I was looking for: someone of the opposite sex to talk to without any obvious endgame, someone calm, hardworking, who wasn’t a brainless idiot looking to get drunk. His company was starting to make me nervous. I didn’t know what to do with my hands: I took hold of my bag, pressed my fingers between my thighs to warm them, smoothed my hair, pulled the sleeves of my sweater down to hide my fists.

We kept talking, and that driver proved he was not just muscle. He read more books a year than I did, knew half a dozen painters I thought only I knew about, and had a calm way of carrying on a conversation that left me undone. I confirmed what I already suspected: finding a twenty-five-year-old man with the same amount of sense and his own apartment was a utopia.

“Do you mind if I change in the back here?” I asked suddenly, without thinking.

It was when I saw him take a moment to answer that I understood the awkward position I’d just put him in.

“Up to you,” he said neutrally, throwing it back at me.

Anyone else would have said, “Go ahead, don’t be shy.” That man wanted me to decide. And then, as I shifted in the seat, I realized I wasn’t wearing a bra.

“You’re in a hurry, I imagine,” he commented without taking his eyes off the traffic. “You wouldn’t want to arrive in your travel clothes.”

I took off the dress first to buy time. Then, with determination, I grabbed the sweater at the sides and pulled it over my head. I felt so horribly exposed that I immediately covered my breasts, small but firm. But when I looked at the mirror, I saw that he was still doing his thing, respecting my privacy.

I put the dress on as if nothing had happened. It was from a street market, though the way it fit me, no one would have guessed.

“It is cold,” I said, scandalized, just as I was beginning to think that man was too serious to notice someone like me.

“It suits you very well.”

I smiled with pride when our eyes met in the mirror. From that moment on I kept fixing my hair and adjusting my posture to look better, to please him. He casually let slip that he didn’t usually drive women as beautiful as me because they almost always had someone with them. It was his clever way of finding out I was alone. I told him about my hobbies; I learned about his: riding his motorcycle on Sundays, two favorite routes, one along the coast and another through the mountains.

The best part of flirting was that I stopped feeling cold. I was nervous, but happy. When I wanted to ask him to stop for a moment so I could finish my makeup, he informed me that we had already arrived. I paid him for the ride and was left wondering what would have happened if we’d been headed somewhere more discreet. I thanked him and told him I wished all taxi drivers were as kind as he was.

***

I was the last to arrive, as I’d feared. Raquel, Noelia, Carla and the rest were already there, but none of the guys: apparently they’d had to take Bruno home because he couldn’t even stand after all the beers he’d had.

I was finishing my first gin and tonic when, for some reason, I felt I had to look toward the bar. Confused, I recognized the man who had driven me here. Once I got over the surprise, I decided to have a little fun. I went over to Raquel looking intriguing.

“What do you bet I can sell five raffle tickets to that guy at the bar?”

“You know him or something?” she asked disdainfully.

“I wish,” I lied as naturally as could be. “I’ve got a secret weapon.”

“Oh, yeah? And what would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“That I’m smarter than you.”

I headed over to the driver and introduced myself as if I didn’t know him from Adam. He looked at my friends for a second, nodded as I explained the cause and asked him for help. I came back waving the bill I’d managed to get.

“I don’t believe it,” Noelia declared, eyes wide.

“Come on, let’s dance!” Carla shouted over the music.

“I’ve never seen Marina dance,” Raquel mocked.

“Well, now you will.”

Carla took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. One of those songs was playing that gets under your skin. I was still holding the bill in one hand, and the other felt sweaty inside hers. The dance floor was packed. The vibrations from the speakers rose up through my legs. Carla put an arm over my shoulder, swaying, and spoke into my ear.

“Don’t mind Raquel, she’s in a rotten mood.”

I nodded while moving my body to the beat. I felt light, almost drunk, and I searched the room for him with my eyes. I spotted him right away, standing at the top of the stairs. He was watching me. Not dancing, not talking to anyone, just watching me. I looked down and my movements became wider, bolder. Carla’s arm on my shoulder felt warm and sensual.

“The guy at the bar has been watching you the whole time,” Carla told me in my ear. “That’s why Raquel’s in a bad mood. It annoys her that you’re so hot.”

We went back up the steps together, out of breath, holding hands and smiling for no reason. Esteban was pretending to be in a fight with someone else. The driver kept looking at me, and I wanted to go over, take his hand, and bite the tips of his fingers.

Suddenly Raquel turned to me, sharp as vinegar: “Why don’t you try selling more tickets, since you’re so good at it?” I answered with an almost smug smile.

“Okay.”

“Maybe those guys want to buy some,” Esteban said, nodding toward the door, where a few older men had just come in. I didn’t know them: friends of someone, maybe, a bunch of guys in their twenties looking to hook up. When they saw Esteban greeting them, they came over.

“How’s it going, Esteban?” one of them said. “Who’s your friend?”

“Marina,” he replied.

The guy just nodded. He had dark, tousled hair, a scar in his eyebrow, and a nose smashed flat by some punch in a bad joint. He looked me up and down, but I couldn’t have cared less about his attention. The music was too loud to hear what he was whispering to Esteban, though I had a feeling it had something to do with me.

“Buy her a drink, Calabrés,” one of his friends urged.

“What are you drinking, gorgeous?” he blurted out at once.

“I don’t want anything, thanks.”

Then he put an arm around my shoulders. He was huge, even taller than the driver, who, thank God, was seeing what was happening. I tried to shrug him off, but he wouldn’t let go. One of his friends started laughing; so did the idiot Esteban.

“Pretty dress,” he sneered. “A lot of cleavage, isn’t it?”

“Would you mind letting me go?”

With one single move, he dropped his hand and grabbed one of my breasts in front of everyone. I wrenched myself free with a shove and pulled the neckline up to my collarbone. I felt the blush burning my face and my eyes going glassy. Behind me they were all laughing. Raquel the loudest, with a shrill sound that drilled through my ears.

“I’m giving you five seconds to get the hell out of here,” said a voice suddenly, loud and clear.

No one knew where it had come from. Calabrés was bulkier than the stranger, so he planted himself in front of him with a smug air, puffing out his chest, biceps straining his sleeves.

“And who the hell are you, her father?”

Raquel took a step back. The driver, on the other hand, didn’t move.

“Time’s up,” he repeated. “Out.”

“Well, look at you, tough guy!” the other man mocked him, sparking laughter. “And what are you gonna do? Hit me? Come on, then, give it your best shot. Here,” he challenged, turning his face to the side.

Andrés looked at him without losing his cool. This wasn’t going to be the first fight he’d ever gotten into. He took a shove, and then a punch square in the face. He staggered; he hadn’t expected it. He shook his head, and when Calabrés lunged to finish him off, Andrés stopped him with a short body shot and a sharp hook to the jaw. He knew his trade: alternating quick punches with heavy ones, opening up the other man’s defense.

“That was good, old man. Come on, again,” Calabrés panted, resetting his guard while the crowd cheered him on.

“Don’t make it harder,” Andrés replied, breathing hard.

The other man threw himself forward. This time Andrés was ready: he stepped back to create space and landed a clean straight punch. He felt cartilage crunch against his fist. Even so, Calabrés smiled, tasting his own blood on his lip, and Andrés understood how long the night was going to be.

***

Ten minutes later I climbed into the taxi with my bag over my head, in a useless attempt to keep my hair dry. It had started to rain, thick drops bursting on the asphalt. I felt cared for when he, getting soaked, urged me inside and closed the door behind me.

I checked his face in the rearview mirror. His lip was split, dark blood like dried ink. I put a hand to my chest, shaken.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I just need to wash up,” he said.

I found a tissue and handed it to him. His upper lip had swollen into a shiny mass on the left side.

“Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The world’s full of assholes.”

He started the car and focused on the traffic. I leaned back in my seat. The taxi wound through empty streets; lights reflected in puddles and drew trembling patterns on the misted-up windows. I looked at the mirror again and caught his eyes, tired, his beard threaded with a few gray hairs, his mouth split open. The engine purred around me, and the dress, slightly damp, clung to my skin.

Almost without thinking, I raised my hand and stroked my breast over the fabric. My nipples had hardened, partly from the cold, partly from what was going through my head. I closed my eyes, cupped one breast in my hand, and rubbed the nipple with my thumb. A soft moan escaped me, bringing me back to reality.

When I looked up, I saw his eyes fixed on me. Without any attempt to hide it, he adjusted the mirror to see me better and bit his uninjured lip. The taxi moved slowly, too slowly for that hour.

Brazenly, I hiked up my dress, spread my legs, and let him see the black silk triangle. I could feel heat between my thighs that had nothing to do with the rain. I set my heel on the back of the front seat and ran my fingers over the fabric, up and down, delighting in the hardness of my clit. I brought my fingers to my mouth to moisten them and slid them back under my thong.

I moaned again, now fully aware of what I was doing. My breathing was ragged and my lips were parted. I was so wet my fingers parted me with no effort at all. At the next traffic light I pulled the thong down my legs and went back to work with my knees spread wide.

Andrés turned toward me, shoved a finger deep inside, then brought it to his mouth and licked it slowly. The honk of a car behind us brought him back to the world; he pulled away and, at the first opportunity, parked at the side of the road.

He jumped into the back and buried his face between my thighs, sliding one finger and then two inside me. I had no idea where we were, and I didn’t care. He licked me in rhythm, setting the beat of my pulse. I shifted in the seat, gripped the headrest tightly, and crushed his face against my sex. His eyes never left mine.

I gasped when one of his fingers slipped and sought the other hole, just as deep. A tingling began in my belly and spread through my thighs. I got so close to the edge that I stopped hearing; there were lights, fireworks, a delirium. I came shaking my pelvis, every muscle in my body tense, pressing his head to force him to drink every last drop.

He kept staring at me.

“Go on,” I begged, though if I’d known what he had in mind, maybe I wouldn’t have dared.

He put me on all fours without a word. I looked back at him and gave him an impatient little face.

“Make me feel it.”

He didn’t hesitate. He lined the head of his cock up with the tightest place, pressed, and with one firm thrust filled me all at once. I cried out; my lungs froze, I panted and clawed at the upholstery. Every fiber of my body was raging around him while he held my hips, deep inside me, waiting for me to get used to him.

“Come on,” I demanded, my voice breaking.

He pulled back a few centimeters and thrust again, and again, until he found a rhythm that made me shake. His hips struck mine in a wet beat. I collapsed onto the seat, cheek against the upholstery and the rest at his mercy. The burn turned into something sharp and familiar, and I knew I was going to come in a way I’d never experienced before.

That obscenity ran through my whole body and tore a new orgasm out of me, one so different it folded me over on myself. I moaned, stunned by its force. He, far from stopping, let out a rough laugh and kept going, holding my wrist against my back, merciless. Time dissolved between thrusts and gasps. He kept making me come, again and again, until I had no strength left.

At last I heard him growl, his fingers digging into my skin. With one final thrust he sank all the way in and emptied himself inside me, pulse after pulse, in a heat that gave me one last shudder. When it was over, he collapsed over my back and kissed my shoulder with unexpected tenderness. I was trembling, drenched in sweat, barely able to breathe, but I still clung to him.

When we reached my building, I wanted to pay him. He not only refused to take the money: he gave me his number and told me to call him if I ever got home late.

I called him three times that month. And those three times I got a free ride and an orgasm worth remembering. The last night I thanked him and gave him my thong. Outside the taxi the cold was biting again, but I waited to see him turn the corner before going upstairs. I was exhausted, and I planned to sleep ten hours straight.