Shit. Six forty-eight. He'd be here to pick me up at seven; seven fifteen if parking was as bad as it usually was on a Friday night.
The outfit nearly worked. Actually, it looked damn good. The only thing wrong was the woman wearing it. This was our fourth date, and I wanted to make him squirm, make him work for it; although god knows I wanted him as bad as he obviously wanted me.
We'd met at work, at a tiresome holiday party. He was a faceless functionary of a local bank, I was the bland drone of the marketing firm, and we'd clicked over room-temperature chardonnay and warm cold-cuts. He was charming in a mischievous way that turned into outright flirtation when he figured out I was more than ready to be mischievous in return, so we'd exchanged numbers in an oh-so-professional way, and never expected to see each other again.
Panty-line. Damn. This dress worked fine when I was a hundred and five pounds; not so much now I'm a hundred-ten. What to do? Decisions, decisions.
Our first date had been coffee at the Happy Bean, where we'd apparently been regulars who'd never met until that following Tuesday night. Second date, Art walk. Third, Dinner at Serafina. And that left tonight.
Look, I'm a good girl, I really am. That's not to say I have anything against sex; it's just that if I'm going to be naked and seeing visions in ecstatic pleasure, I'd like the guy I'm with to actually mean a damn. And this guy was definitely starting to mean a damn. And, frankly, I really, really wanted to fuck him.
He was beautiful; tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, civilized, confident, hands and shoulders I just wanted to bite on. And black. Very black. My goodness, how that idea thrilled me more than I really wanted it to.
Seven o'clock. Too late to change the outfit now. Damn.
Did I mention charming? Oh, yes. His voice was like honey, and I loved the way I could make his eyes widen whenever I'd lean forward and let him see a little more of my C-cups than strictly necessary.
The intercom buzzed. I told him I'd be right down. Only one thing for it.
Look, I'm no slut. I'm not going to sleep with him tonight. I'm not going to run my fingers over his back, feel his kisses, urgent on my lips, neck, breasts, down between my legs. No. Some night soon, but not tonight.
I left my panties on the hallway floor, anyway.
The outfit nearly worked. Actually, it looked damn good. The only thing wrong was the woman wearing it. This was our fourth date, and I wanted to make him squirm, make him work for it; although god knows I wanted him as bad as he obviously wanted me.
We'd met at work, at a tiresome holiday party. He was a faceless functionary of a local bank, I was the bland drone of the marketing firm, and we'd clicked over room-temperature chardonnay and warm cold-cuts. He was charming in a mischievous way that turned into outright flirtation when he figured out I was more than ready to be mischievous in return, so we'd exchanged numbers in an oh-so-professional way, and never expected to see each other again.
Panty-line. Damn. This dress worked fine when I was a hundred and five pounds; not so much now I'm a hundred-ten. What to do? Decisions, decisions.
Our first date had been coffee at the Happy Bean, where we'd apparently been regulars who'd never met until that following Tuesday night. Second date, Art walk. Third, Dinner at Serafina. And that left tonight.
Look, I'm a good girl, I really am. That's not to say I have anything against sex; it's just that if I'm going to be naked and seeing visions in ecstatic pleasure, I'd like the guy I'm with to actually mean a damn. And this guy was definitely starting to mean a damn. And, frankly, I really, really wanted to fuck him.
He was beautiful; tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, civilized, confident, hands and shoulders I just wanted to bite on. And black. Very black. My goodness, how that idea thrilled me more than I really wanted it to.
Seven o'clock. Too late to change the outfit now. Damn.
Did I mention charming? Oh, yes. His voice was like honey, and I loved the way I could make his eyes widen whenever I'd lean forward and let him see a little more of my C-cups than strictly necessary.
The intercom buzzed. I told him I'd be right down. Only one thing for it.
Look, I'm no slut. I'm not going to sleep with him tonight. I'm not going to run my fingers over his back, feel his kisses, urgent on my lips, neck, breasts, down between my legs. No. Some night soon, but not tonight.
I left my panties on the hallway floor, anyway.
