“I’m tempted to just keep kissing you all night,” he says quietly.
“But?”
“But we’ll miss our reservation,” he says, taking my hand again, drawing me towards the building in front of us.
I was so taken with him I hadn’t even noticed. The sign says Masa. “Wait, Masa?” I ask. This is one of the most expensive, most exclusive restaurants in the city. “How did you even manage to get a reservation here?”
“I have my ways.” He grins, placing my hand on his arm and guiding me inside.
The inside is dim, the decor sleek asian fusion with low tables and straight lines, accented with a gentle curving decor that hints at traditional Japanese art. I rarely eat sushi, but that’s because less expensive sushi never tastes very good. Here, I can’t even imagine. There’s barely anyone here—it’s still early for dinner, and the host leads us to a table with a view overlooking Columbus Circle and the park.
As we approach the table, Jet leans down and whispers something in my ear. “I have something for you.”
“Other than the tulip?”
He picks up a small black gift bag sitting on his chair. “Yes.”
I try to contain the size of my smile. “Thank you.”
“Not here,” he says, his hand closing over mine as I’m about to open the bag. “Go to the restroom, and put on what’s inside.”
He says it simply, like he doesn’t expect me to argue. He has that hungry look in his eyes and I want him to kiss me again. I already know I’m going to go put on whatever is in this bag, but I have to know something first. “Did you bring me out to dinner because you wanted dinner with me? Or because you wanted another one of these tests?”
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my neck, just below my ear. “I absolutely wanted to have dinner with you,” he says, barely a whisper. “And I wanted to have a little fun while I did it.”
His tongue flicks out against my skin, and a matching tongue of heat rolls down directly into my pussy. “I’ll be right back,” I say, having difficulty pulling away, and I hear him laugh softly as I walk away from the table.
I lean against the door of the bathroom, catching my breath. The way Jet affects me is insane. If I make it through dinner without jumping across the table at him, I’ll be lucky.
Locking myself into one of the stalls, I dig through the tissue paper in the bag to find a small box. It’s a toy—I knew it would be, and thanks to my research for work I know exactly what it is. I open the box to reveal the odd, purple shape of the We-Vibe Sync, a toy used most often by couples. But one of the features people really like is that the vibrations can sync with your music, or with your phone as a remote. So even if you’re far apart, your partner can still control it. It also comes with a close range remote, but I don’t find it in the box.
Then it hits me. He wants me to put this on. There’s no remote. He has the remote or has already synced this toy with his phone. And he wants me to wear this during dinner? In public?
I feel myself dampen, and I’m embarrassed by how turned on that makes me. I’m not totally sure that I’m ready for this, but the idea of it has me squirming. On the one hand, this could be really stupid and embarrassing. On the other hand, why the hell not? I adjust the toy, making it snug—I don’t want any chance of it falling out. When I slip it inside my underwear, I’m already wet, and it has no problem sliding in. It settles against me, the front of the toy resting on my clit, the inside portion resting against my G-spot, hugging me.
The last couple of days I’ve learned just how effective those two places can be, and I think that both at the same time might tear me apart.
This does make me wonder about him though—Jet. Who is he? I don’t actually know anything about him. I don’t know if I can trust him. The fact that a virtual stranger just asked me to put on a sex toy at dinner shouldn’t make me damp with anticipation, but it does. What if I’m entirely wrong about the vibe I get from him? But—another part of my mind says—your gut has never been wrong before. You spend most of your time in a bubble, researching and analyzing everything to death. This is an opportunity to be spontaneous. To be fun. Work with it.
Coming out of the stall, I nod to myself in the mirror. I’m going for it. Cutting loose, just this once.
I toss the box and the bag in the trash—I don’t think I’ll be needing them again. Then I steel myself to do something I never thought I’d do: go out in public wearing a remote control vibrator.
6
Jet is waiting for me as I make my way back to our table, and he pulls out my chair for me before taking his own seat. Sitting down pushes the toy deeper inside me, and I’m even more aware of it now. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
“This is surreal,” I say.
“What is?”
“This,” I say. “The limo, the restaurant, the toys.” I keep that last part under my breath. The menu isn’t long, and none of the items have prices attached. That only confirms that I could never afford to eat here in a million years. Only places that cost more than your arm don’t list prices, and only people who don’t need to worry about money actually eat there.
But the menu mainly consists of drinks, as the food is Omakase—or the chef’s choice—with various add ons: Omni Beef and a special dessert ice cream featuring white truffles.
“Do you like beef?” Jet asks.
I nod. “I do. I don’t think I could ever be a vegetarian.”
“Good.” He smiles. “The beef here is delicious.”
He signals a waiter with one hand, and he appears out of nowhere, practically silent. I open my mouth to greet the waiter, and freeze. The vibrator is turned on. It’s just a low setting, but enough to make my whole body tingle. Jet greets the waiter, and orders our meals, adding on both the beef and the ice cream. I barely hear him, I’m so distracted by the feeling in my panties.
The feeling disappears as the waiter leaves and another server appears with glasses of water. I immediately reach for mine, and Jet chuckles.
“So, Kara Bishop,” he says, “tell me about yourself.”
I finish downing about half of my water. “What do you want to know? Other than that I’m willing to take sex toys from strangers?”
He leans forward onto the table. “I want to know what I always do. Everything.”
“Okay,” I say, “but I want to know about you, too.”
He smiles. “Question for question, then?”
“I’ll go first,” I say, taking another quick sip of water. “What’s your last name?”
“Kincaid.”
“Jet Kincaid,” I say, rolling it across my tongue. “Nice name.”
He smiles, taking a sip of his own water. “It is now. Jet is short for Jethro. I didn’t like my name so I started going by Jet pretty early on. By the time I got old enough to change it, it was so second nature that I didn’t even bother.”
“Jethro?” I stifle a laugh. “I would never have said you looked like a Jethro.”
“I take that as a compliment,” he says, and suddenly the vibrations are back.
I manage to catch my gasp just in time, but my whole body jumps in surprise. Jet places his phone on the table, and I see an unfamiliar app. I was right, he’s synced his phone to the vibe. As I watch, he places his finger on the screen, stroking upwards. The vibrations flare in intensity, and I grip the edge of the table. He grins, moving his finger in a circular motion, the vibrations rising and falling in time with the movement. God, this is so hot. I can’t take my eyes away from his finger, wondering what I’ll feel next.
The vibe is pressing into my G-spot, and little waves of pleasure are rippling outward. I take a shaky breath, and the feeling is gone. He’s turned it off again. I was right before—if I don’t jump him before the end of dinner, I’ll be very lucky.
“How does it feel?” he asks, and it looks like he’s studying me.
The waiter appears with our first course, seared salmon and a garnish I don’t recognize. Jet thanks the waiter without taking his eyes off me. I wait for him to disappear before I speak. And when I do, I have to think about what to say. My reactions probably already tell him enough about how good it feels. Finally, I say “I like it. Even though I know that I shouldn’t.”
I take a bite of the salmon and almost moan. It’s easily the best fish I’ve ever had, buttery and so soft it nearly dissolves on my tongue. Only one bite in and I know that this restaurant has earned its reputation.
“Why shouldn’t you like it?”
“Because,” I say, as I take another bite of the salmon, “as previously stated, we don’t know each other, and I’m letting you play with me. In public.”
That wicked little smirk from the shop appears, and I feel that sense of curiosity. I want him to tell me everything that makes him who he is. “You like what you like,” he says. “There’s no shame in that. I think we put too much stock into ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t.’”
“I guess that’s true, but feeling that way doesn’t erase the stigma, or the embarrassment.”