My body heats up, growing warm for him. He hasn’t even touched me, hasn’t spoken a single word. He simply studies me from across the table, and it’s as if he owns me. He could do anything he wanted, and I’d mold to his wishes.
His eyes remain on mine, and though my natural response is to look away, I don’t. This is a test, and one that I very much want to pass. It’s as though he can read me with a single look. Those warm, mocha-colored eyes just dismantled me like a bomb.
“Your panties,” he says coolly after several minutes. “Go into the bathroom and take them off. Place them into your purse and bring them to me.”
Say what now?
In his e-mail he asked me to wear red panties, and it was a point I fought with myself over. I didn’t own a red panty-and-bra set. And I knew he’d never see them anyway—this being the first time we’ve met, and my general sense of modesty. So why, for the love of God, I rushed out to Victoria’s Secret at the last minute last night and bought a red G-string and push-up bra, I can’t explain. Maybe my subconscious anticipated this moment.
“I can’t just go take off my panties in a public restroom.” I meet his icy stare with an incredulous look of my own.
He raises his chin. “The choice is yours. I need to know you’re dedicated to this. To me.”
This is apparently my first test. And my stupid type-A personality not only wants to pass, I want to ace it.
I rise from the table on shaky legs. He watches me while I lift my purse from the seat beside me and exit the booth. I feel wicked and dangerous, and suppress a naughty giggle at the thought. I like this side of me that so rarely comes out to play. This feeling could become addictive.
When I enter the ladies’ room, I glance into the mirror to see a smirk slashed across my face. My cheeks are stained with two splotches of pink, and there’s a mischievous glint in my eyes. We’ve hardly begun working together, and I feel like a different woman already. Funny how taking control of your life will do that to you.
Alone in the bathroom, I slip into the first stall and latch the door behind me. A moment later, the outer door opens and two sets of high-heeled shoes click across the tile floor.
“Did you see who that was? He was sitting with a woman, but now he’s alone,” a woman’s voice says.
“How could I miss him? Six foot three of sexy with a bedroom stare powerful enough to knock you up from across the room,” the second woman answers, and they share a wave of polite laughter.
I can’t explain how I know, but I’m sure they’re talking about my date. With my skirt bunched up around my hips, I wait and listen.
“It’s good to see him out. That was so sad what happened to him.”
“It was devastating,” the second woman agrees.
The water from the faucet drowns out their voices and I can’t make out their words, but I’m trembling. They implied that something tragic happened to him, and now that I think about it, there has to be more to his story.
He’s a handsome, successful bachelor. Why is he single? Why does he do this?
Unease churns inside me. I’m not sure if it’s wise to get involved in something I don’t understand. But what choice do I have? The thought of returning to my lonely single existence sounds miserable. Tonight is the most successful date I’ve had in a long time. Sure, it’s probably just because I’m paying him, but still, I feel different. Calmer, more graceful, in control.
When the women exit the bathroom, I force myself back into the present. There’s no way I’m giving up now. I need to see what happens next. I push my fingers into the strings at my hips and slide the panties down my thighs. Depositing the tiny scrap of red lace into my purse, I exit the restroom with my shoulders squared.
In my absence, the waitress has removed my salad plate and our glasses, and left the check. I slide back into my spot in the booth, sitting directly across from him. His mouth twitches with a smile as if he wants to ask me how it went, but he remains ever silent and watchful. It’s as if he knows I’m moments away from handing over the evidence, and doesn’t need to fill the silence with senseless chatter. His confidence is addictive.
I match his self-assured posture and reach inside my small black handbag, balling the panties in my fist. Swallowing a sudden blip of nerves, I reach across the table, extending my hand toward him. Discreetly, he reaches out and takes my offering, immediately moving his hand to his jacket pocket and placing them safely inside.
He’s going to keep them? I figured this was an assessment, designed to make sure I could follow basic instructions. I didn’t imagine him pocketing my underwear to inspect later.
Geez.
“If there’s nothing else, I suppose we’re finished for tonight,” he says, watching me coolly.
My head is clouded by what I overheard in the restroom and I’m desperate for answers. Unsure what else to do, I nod my consent.
He stands and watches as I grab my purse and exit the booth. He insisted on paying the bill, which was generous, considering all he had was water, and I had cocktails as well as a meal.
When we reach the front of the jazz club, he holds the door and I step out into the night. The crisp Chicago fall demands to be noticed, and I wrap my arms around myself, wondering why I hadn’t worn a coat.
“Will you be okay getting home?” he asks.
“I’ll be fine. I don’t live too far.” I hardly touched my second drink, and the buzz I had has worn off.