As you desire me, so shall I come to you
However you want me, so shall it be
Be it forever or be it just a day
As you desire me, let come what may

Dear Red Shoes:

There's a man I know. He is not my lover. He is not even my friend, not really. Some see him as my brother, some as my protector.

No one has ever bothered to ask how I see him.

This is how. This is my fantasy.

I am in New Orleans, in an old hotel on Dauphine Street, between St. Ann and Dumaine. There is not much here - just a table with a phonograph, a straight-backed chair.and a bed. There are French doors leading to a courtyard outside, and they are open. A lazy breeze stirs the gauzy curtains and brings to me the scent of bougainvillea. A song hangs in the air, and both are slow and sultry. The music is old, and Ella Fitzgerald sings as though she means every word.

His room is across the courtyard, and we've spoken, but only in passing. I know he has been watching me. Every night, through the undulating curtains, he watches as I sway my body softly to the rhythm of the music, the rhythm of sex.

Tonight will be the night. The night he comes to me.

I let the music fill me, so that I might be able to act surprised when he comes to the door. So that I might feign ignorance. It's a needless action - his approach is soundless anyway, and I am caught off guard by his voice, rough and even lower than the dim light.

"You gonna leave that music on all night, darlin'?"

I turn and there he is, leaning against my doorframe with relaxed arrogance. He is clad only in a pair of low-riding blue jeans, and his chest and feet are bare. The sight of him makes me shiver despite the warm night air. The record on the phonograph is scratched a little, and the needle skips and jumps in tiny pops of sound. "Maybe," I answer, arching an eyebrow.

He arches one in return, and he's much better at it than me. His eyes sweep over me in lazy appraisal. "You know," he says, smiling, "a man might get the wrong idea, coming over here to an open door and you.dressed like that."

Or he might get the right idea, I think as he once again rakes his gaze over me. I am wearing the thinnest silk I own, a loose dress with tiny straps and a bottom hem that brushes me at midthigh. "You came to me," I remind him.

He steps closer, and I can feel the heat pulsing off his body in waves. "You wanted me to," he says simply. There is no question in his voice, because he sees right through me. And there is no accusation, either, because we both want this.

We both want this.

"Wanna dance?" I ask in a whisper, and he shakes his head. Instead, he edges a silk strap off my shoulder, and one side of my dress falls. It slides to a stop on the crest of my breast. With one hand, he traces the skin above the lowered silk, passing over breast and throat, curve and hollow. His other hand gathers silk at my hip, lifting the hem of my dress until his palm is in contact with bare flesh.

I shudder, and he slides both hands to my back, gathering me close to him. He says nothing as he pulls my zipper down, opening my dress. He moves away slightly and the silk falls away from my body, sliding with a hushed whisper to the floor. His eyes darken as he drinks in my nakedness, not touching, just looking, and then his gaze is locked with mine.

"Is this what you want?" he rasps, running his hands down my sides to my hips. "Is it, Marie?"

He looks concerned, and it breaks my still silence. "You're overdressed for the party, sugar."

He growls softly as my fingers brush his stomach and reach the buttons of his jeans. Behind the denim, his body is already straining to be freed. The very thought that his sex is seeking mine.It inflames me. My touch becomes more insistent, impatient. Finally, as he lowers me to my bed, I slide the rough fabric down his hips, along with his boxers.

He is lying with his body pressed down into mine, and I am trying to maneuver so that he can be inside me when he grins and halts my movements. "Easy, Marie. I haven't even kissed you yet, darlin'." He drops a kiss to the corner of my trembling mouth. "No rush."

Then, my hands are in his hair and I'm drawing him to me, opening his mouth with my own. He groans as my tongue slides past his lips, exploring, searching. Against my thigh, his hardened flesh stirs. It's heady, this feeling of the tables being turned, of the predator becoming the prey.

Suddenly, I realize that I am seducing him, and I know that's how I want it to be. I drew him here, and I will not lie passively while he touches and kisses and strokes me. I am going to stoke the embers that rest within him until he is as consumed by this inferno of lust as I am.

I'm going to show him.

I shove against his shoulders, and he rolls onto his back, taking my body with his. I revel in the look of fierce concentration that twists his features. I like knowing that being so close to me, touching my naked body, is what's doing this to him. "Is this what you want?" I demand, smiling down at him a little. "Is it?"

"Yes." Nothing more, and there is no hint of teasing or humor. There is just need - need that I can no longer ignore, because it's mirrored in me.

I lean over him, letting my hair fall in a cascade over his skin. My fingers trail through the hair on his chest, up to his neck, to rest on the sheets on either side of him. My mouth is on his, and then on his ear, breathing softly. My tongue glides into the hollow of his ear, and I feel his hips arch upward as I hear his gasp. His gasp turns into a groan as I lean down a little more, pressing my breasts into his chest. He jerks, and the movement makes my nipples brush against his skin, eliciting another groan.this time from both of us.

He's breathing erratically by the time I move my mouth and trace my tongue along his cheekbone. "I've had you in my head, Logan. Now I want you in my body." With that, I lean back. His hands grasp my hips and I press down as he thrusts upwards and into me.

"Oh God." Did I say that, or did he? I don't know, and I don't care anymore. I feel like a spider who's spun the perfect silken trap, only to find herself firmly entangled in it. What began as a seduction has now become a mating dance, a cataclysmic melding that steals my breath and my thoughts.

It would be useless to resist, so I follow my body as it curves and bends above his. He is talking, I realize, and it's odd - I never figured Logan for a talker. But apparently he is, because he's sighing words and broken phrases as I move.

".dreaming of this, Marie.I wanted you like this, on me, around me." His breath catches sharply, and his hands urge me faster. "Don't stop, Marie. Oh, baby, don't ever stop.feels so good."

There's something about the sound of his voice around my name, begging me to keep going, that loosens the knot twisting inside me. It relaxes for a split second, then coils tighter than ever, and I cry out. "Logan!"

"Yes, Marie, yes.like that.Ah, baby."

Then I'm gone, flying outside myself, and all I can feel is the oxygen rushing in and out of my lungs, and Logan's chest beneath my clenched hands. He groans and shudders beneath me, and I open my eyes to find him staring up at me, chest heaving. He reaches up with one trembling hand and pushes my damp hair from my face, white and brown strands clinging to his fingers. "I love you, Marie."

That is my fantasy, and it will never happen. It is impossible, because I am a mutant. If anyone touches my bare skin, my body immediately begins to draw their life energy away from them. If they touch me for long enough, they will die.

That is why this is my fantasy. It's nothing spectacular or earth shattering or remotely kinky. Not like the stuff you usually read, I'm sure.

But it is outrageous, if only because of its impossibility.

This man is not my brother - he never has been. He was once my protector, but now he is much more.and less. He is the greatest wish I shall never have granted. The star that will never fall on me.

The dream I always wake from.

My nighttime fantasy.

Jake sighed and refolded the letter, stuffing it hastily into his pocket. His dog stared up at him quizzically and cocked his head to one side, whining softly. Jake grinned and drew a hand through his tousled hair. "Well, I guess things really can always be worse, can't they? I mean, at least I can still touch people, right?" He reached out rubbed the dog's ears, laughing.

Then he thought again of the woman in the letter. "Suddenly, my life doesn't look so bad." Then he rose from the park bench and started his walk home.