But she still had a modicum of self-control.
She would wait.
She would wait five hours. She would wait until he could take care of her intense, overwhelming need to come.
* * *
He hadn’t told her specifically what to wear, but she was savvy enough to know what qualified as unbearably sexy. She donned a tight leather skirt that hit her mid-thigh, right at the top of her black stockings. A bit of lace from the stockings peeked out. He was a legs man, so she chose strappy heels.
Up top? A cherry-red bra.
That was all. She didn’t wear a shirt. She smiled to herself as she appraised the outfit in the mirror. The lack of a shirt was her homage to her own need for control. She had chosen this ensemble because she wanted to open the door with only a red lace bra on top. It was her way of being true to herself. She hoped Khashi, her neighbor across the hall, wouldn’t happen to return from work then. A sexy plastic surgeon, he kept odd hours between his job, and the ladies he entertained.
At 8 p.m. precisely the buzzer rang. Electricity sparked in her bloodstream as she buzzed him in. She didn’t know what was in store for her tonight, but she couldn’t wait to find out what he’d planned.
As she walked to the door, she fluffed out her hair and glanced around her apartment. He’d been here many times. He knew the kitchen with its exposed red brick walls, he’d lounged on her soft teal couch, and he’d seen the reprints of artwork on her walls. It was a warm and homey loft in the West Village. One window was open and the June breeze blew inside, along with the faint sound of traffic rattling through the Village on a New York night.
But never had she opened the door to him like this. Her fingers shook as she unlocked the chain and turned the knob to the right. The heavy door creaked, the soundtrack to her own nervous system and to her wildly beating heart.
Her breath caught in her chest. He stood in the hallway wearing charcoal slacks, a crisp white shirt, and the navy tie. Her fingers itched to unknot that tie. He was rolling up the cuffs on one of the sleeves. A businessman at the end of the workday—that’s what she would’ve named this photograph of him that she took in her mind’s eye.
“Did you open the box?”
She shook her head. He entered her apartment and she let the door fall shut behind them with a click.
He strolled casually to her kitchen, leaned against the counter, and tapped the wood.
She understood. The game was on. They were playing their parts. Joining him in the kitchen, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured him a glass, doing her best to keep her hands steady. She watched his every move as he knocked back the amber liquid. She imagined the burn in his throat. He set the glass down. It was nearly empty.
She stood near him, keenly aware that it was his move next.
This was a chess game, and she barely knew how to play. She swallowed dryly. Waiting. Uncertain.
She wanted a burn in her throat too. That would be better than all these nerves. She grabbed his glass and finished it.
“Do you want to open the box now?”
She nodded, grateful to have been given his direction. “Yes. I do.”
He tipped his forehead to the L-shaped couch in the living room.
She nodded briefly, and walked over to the couch. She sank down into the soft material, stretching her legs out in front of her on the lounge section, crossing them at the ankles. He joined her in the living room, choosing to sit on an ottoman, his knees spread, his hands resting on his thighs. “Open it now, Casey.”
Leaning forward, she reached for the black box and untied the bow, letting it fall to the floor. Gingerly, with nervous fingers, she lifted the top, shimmying it off. In seconds, she’d know what he’d planned, and a ribbon of excitement unfurled inside her from the possibilities. She wanted to say something, but words escaped her at that moment. She wasn’t sure how to vocalize all these unsteady feelings thrumming through her body.
Or if he would even respond.
Nate had always been easy to talk to. He’d always been chatty. But the man was wearing steely silence like a new coat. All his moves were measured, chosen carefully, designed to keep her guessing as to what he had in store for the evening.
She put the top of the box on the table, and the guessing game ended when she dipped her hands inside the box and withdrew a long, silky scrap of fabric—a blindfold. Next, she reached for a soft object, retrieving a feather tickler from his collection of goodies. Finally, there was a small riding crop, as if it had been made in miniature. Perhaps, so it didn’t seem so scary. She glanced up at him. His eyes seemed dark brown tonight. Gone was that warm golden color, replaced with a heat, a sensuality and blazing desire for her.
She trembled. “What do you want to use first?”
He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he issued an instruction. “Lie back. Close your eyes.”
She did as told, scooting into the couch. She hadn’t even turned on music, so she was keenly aware of every sound. Of the low hum from the refrigerator, of the far-off din of traffic, of the stirrings of a breeze. But there were no words from him. The silence vibrated between them as she waited, the world dark behind her eyelids.
His fingers found their way to the top of her stockings. Gently, he rolled them down, one by one, removing them, along with her shoes. “Don’t get me wrong. These are unbearably sexy, but I need your bare skin.”
Her world went pitch black. He had pressed the silk blindfold over her eyes. “This is about you. About all the things you can feel if you let go. With this on, all you can do is feel,” he said, low and husky, near her ear. Oh God, she was feeling everything. She was feeling the tight coil of desire deep inside her, and the fervent hope that he’d take her to the far edge of pleasure. That’s what she was feeling.