Speaking of safety, the hostess assured me that there were lighting systems in place, in case of emergency, and that I was quite safe. “You're in good hands,” she said, and then she opened a door, by the sound of it, and ushered me into a room. I could tell by the change in sound—the disappearance of other diners talking and utensils scraping plates—that we were in the private room.
She said, “Your server will knock before entering with your food, and it won't be long.”
And then the door closed.
I flailed my arms out to make sure she was actually gone, and not just standing there for a laugh.
I said, “Hello?”
A deep voice came back, “Hello.”
My knees shook, just like the girl's knees in my fantasy. Had I been projecting my own fears onto the version of Suzanne in the fantasy scenario? I'd never been afraid of a man before, not like this.
“You're late,” he said, his tone somewhere between consternation and amusement.
“You're lucky I came at all.” I edged my way around the room, hands out, feeling for my chair. The room wasn't large, by the feel of it. It was bigger than a closet, but I could nearly touch both walls with my hands outstretched.
He chuckled. My hands landed on something warm and woolen, his shoulder. A warm hand came up to cover my hands, holding me in place. His touch gave off sparks.
He said, “At last, I get to touch you again. I thought your voice would be enough, but I've been craving your touch.”
I pulled my hands away. This time, I found my chair and got myself seated. The chair was wooden, with no padding in the seat, and it was hard under my bottom, which was already aching for the man in the dark room with me.
“What was the wording of your bet with Grace?” I asked him. “Was it just that you can't see another woman? Is that why we're meeting like this, in the dark? Where you can't see me? Is this a sneaky little loophole?”
He laughed, that deep, voluminous voice so much richer than it was over the phone. “She doesn't know I'm here. She'd probably make me suffer if she did.”
“What are the terms? What do you have to do if you cave?”
Something touched my knee, under the table. I inhaled sharply and tensed my back.
“That's my hand,” he said. “I can't see your lovely face and wanted to make sure you were real, and not a figment of my imagination.”
Now it was my turn to laugh, and I did. I slid down in my chair so his hand could work its way up along the tops of my thighs. Our table wasn't big, but it was in the way. I heard the scrape of him moving his chair closer to me, edging around the side of the table so he could gain access.
Both hands were on my legs now, so hot and electric, double the fun, running up and down the outer edges of my legs. My breathing changed, becoming more shallow. I parted my legs, inviting him up, but he kept his hands away from my valley. Oh, he was going to make me wait.
“Sorry I was late,” I said.
“Mmm.” One hand moved in between my legs, a few inches, then hesitated. “I thought you were going to stand me up.”
“I considered it.”
“Why?”
“Because I was mad at you.”
“Hmm.” The hand moved up my legs, under my skirt, and stopped, just inches from my moist panties. He stroked my inner thighs along the seam of my panties, up and down. I slid down a little and nudged toward him, urging him on.
The finger ran up over my panties and then down the center line, over top of the fabric, then back up again, and over my aching nub. I felt like jumping out of my seat, finding him in the dark, and jumping on his lap, but I held myself steady.
Let him come to you.
That had been the advice my mother gave me back when I was a teenager, dating for the first time.
“You have all the power,” my mother had said, and I wanted to believe she was right.
My breath caught in my throat as he stroked my nub.
“You were mad at me,” he said.
“Yeah, because you had phone sex with my friend Suzanne. You shouldn't have done that.”
He laughed and pulled his hand away, leaving me aching for more. In the pause that followed, I explored the table top with my hands and located a glass of ice water, and a round glass of something else. I stuck my finger in the top. “Is this wine?”
“Taste it.”
I took a sip of the ice water first, and then of the wine. It smelled like wine, tasted like wine, but in the dark, my taste buds didn't know what to think, except that it was good.
He said, “I don't usually drink white wine, but the staff here recommended white over red in case we spill on ourselves.” He chuckled. “Plus, white wine's cold, so you can tell when it's hitting your lips.”
I took another sip and noted the sensation. It was true that I could feel the weight of the glass, but it was only the coolness on my lips that let me know when I'd tipped back far enough. I drained the rest of the glass to help calm my nerves. I didn't normally drink so quickly in front of a date, but he couldn't see me, so I figured what the hell.
He asked me, “How's work?”
“Exhausting, but satisfying.”
“You must enjoy helping people.”
“I do!” I smiled in the dark. “Wait, are you teasing me? Are you being sarcastic? I'm sure my job's pretty dull compared to your business deals.”
“Lexie, if I didn't want to know, I wouldn't ask.”
“Oh.”
“So, what sort of things did you do for your clients this week?”
“Mostly rearranging porcelain dolls.”
He chuckled. “That doesn't sound so exhausting.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“Surprise me,” he said, and he sounded sincere.
And so, I proceeded to tell him, all about the week's job for Mrs. Chong, and all of her silly dolls. The woman had four children, all grown up, with grandchildren, but she seemed to love her porcelain dolls even more than the grandkids.
Mr. Luthor Thorne laughed at all of this, as though it was the most absurd and entertaining thing he'd heard in ages.
“Porcelain dolls never let you down,” he said. “She's a smart woman.”
“I think she's lonely.”
“Hmm,” he said, and I imagined him smiling in the dark.
I said, “We could have had the job done in two days, but she booked me through to the end of the week.”
The hand returned to my leg, rubbing close to where I wanted to be touched, but not quite where I wanted him. The glass of wine had gone to my blood, and I was boiling. Boiling to be pleasured.