In my hands and covering my desk are statistics, facts, and numbers. I’m using them as building blocks to craft Robert’s professional dreams.
And if I succeed, what then? What if I manage to chart a path for Maned Wolf’s complete market domination? What if I gift-wrap that particular treasure map and lay it at Robert’s feet? Would he be amazed? Would he worship me?
But that’s not what I want. I like the way Robert sees me. There’s a gritty realism to his affections. Our attraction to each other is almost brutal . . . and yet our lovemaking never has anything to do with distress or affliction.
What I want is for him to thank me, with his eyes, with his mouth, with his tongue. I want him on his knees, not in worship, but in service.
These are the thoughts I’m having when my phone rings.
It’s him. As usual, his timing is . . . opportune.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m at work, playing with numbers . . . for you.”
“Oh, I doubt your motives are completely altruistic.” His voice sounds gravelly through our shaky connection. It has so much texture, I feel like I should be able to see it.
“No,” I admit, “I do take some pleasure in it.”
“There is nothing more spectacular than the vision of you in a state of pleasure.”
“Now, now, Mr. Dade, is that an attempt at some kind of sexual innuendo?”
There’s a pause on the phone. I know his thoughts. He hadn’t expected me to be this playful. I told him I would never let him touch me again.
But I’m rubies. Not diamonds. I’m not sure of what I want anymore and my awareness . . . my acceptance of that uncertainty feels like a triumph.
And triumph makes me playful.
“You’re done with work for the day.” It’s not a question.
“Am I?”
“Meet me out front.”
The line goes dead.
Without hesitation I stack the papers filled with numbers into a pile. It’s not as organized as it should be but a little carelessness feels appropriate.
I take off my blazer and open my briefcase. Inside is the sheer shirt.
I take off my camisole and then my bra before putting on the top.
My heart is pounding in my ears as I shrug back into the blazer. There is no pretense this time. I know what I’m going to do. I don’t know if it’s going to be the last time or not. I don’t care. My body wants to explore and this time I don’t feel the need to deny it.
I make my way down to the street and it’s only a matter of minutes before Robert Dade pulls up in a silver Alfa Romero 8C Spider. Its sleek lines and elegant power fit perfectly with my mood. He doesn’t say anything as he gets out of the car and opens my door for me. It’s not until I’m in the passenger seat that I hear him say, “I like your suit,” before slamming the door.
It’s been ages since I’ve been in a sports car and I’ve never been in one like this. The seats hug me like a lover while at the same time keeping my posture erect, ready to react to whatever adventures the vehicle might bring me to. Everything is silver or black. No bright colors are necessary for this beautiful beast to be the center of attention.
Robert Dade gets in beside me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Robert turns to me, the key is in the ignition, his hand on the leather-cloaked steering wheel, the engine rumbling. “To my place.”
I answer with a smile then shift my eyes to the road as we roar away from the curb.
I’ve never asked Robert where he lives. I assumed Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica, perhaps somewhere among the mansions of Beverly Hills. But he lives in West Hollywood, on a hill, above the hustle and bustle of Sunset on a windy little street no one would think of traveling if they didn’t know someone who lived there. The homes are impressive yet far short of astounding. But then the dark hides the more subtle elements of their design, so it’s hard for me to make judgments.
And the truth is that they could never hold my attention, not even if they were each five stories high with gold-plated awnings. That honor now belongs exclusively to the man by my side. He’s been driving the car in sports mode the whole way, gently adding pressure to the paddle shifters occasionally to take fuller control of the ride. I sense his thoughts are racing much faster than the car. He wants me here but he doesn’t trust it. I sense it in his refusal to turn his head in my direction, as if I might be scared away with a look. I can tell by the way he holds on to his silence, as if one wrong word might awaken me to my previous declarations.
But I’m not changing my mind and as he opens the automatic gates with the touch of a button, I reach over and let my hand slide over his thigh and then up, letting him know my intentions, my desires, my willingness to go forward.