We don’t talk as he leads me to his room. It’s a suite. I knew it would be. The floor of the parlor holds enough square footage to hold a party. The untouched kitchen could accommodate a caterer. We don’t need all this space but I find its excess darkly delightful.
I hear him close the door and my eyes dart to the French doors to my right. I don’t have to ask to know what room they lead to.
I sense him walking up behind me now. I can feel the heat of him and I tense as I wait for his touch.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead he brings his mouth close to my ear. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, his voice growling as his words entice. “Take something off.”
I turn to face him. I can’t speak. Thoughts of Dave push their way into my consciousness. This is a betrayal. Can I live with this? Can I compartmentalize this one night from the rest of my life?
“Your shoes,” he says, his smile teasing. “Take off your shoes.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But I’m not safe. Not from him, not from myself. Keeping my eyes on his, I ease down into a chair. He kneels before me and his fingers gently brush against my ankles as he unfastens the small, delicate buckles of my heels. My legs are pressed tightly together. I’m not ready to show him my world. Not yet.
But as the shoes come off, his hands slowly move up my calves, to my knees, to the outside of my thighs. Again the air I had just inhaled gets caught in my chest as I momentarily forget how to breathe. This skirt is so short, his hands keep getting higher and yet he hasn’t reached the hem . . . until he does, and he pushes it higher still . . . and then stops.
I wait, expecting him to go farther but his hands fall away. “I’m going to pour you that scotch now,” he says.
And there it is again, that devious grin, that careful balance between urgency and patience.
He gets up and I close my eyes and try to find some balance. I hear the freezer open and close, then the clink of ice cubes falling into an empty glass. I don’t move. I can’t move. I was worried about something only moments ago; there was something I needed to think through. . . . What was it? I can’t focus.
When I open my eyes, he’s before me, a single drink in his hand, which he extends toward me.
“You’re not joining me?” I ask. I’m whispering now. I’m afraid of breaking the moment . . . afraid of pulling myself out of this twilight reality. This is only a dream after all and if I keep it to myself, it will feel more like a dream with each day that passes. But right now I’m not ready to wake up.
Mr. Dade’s smile widens as he places the glass in my hand. “Oh, I’ll be joining you.”
I sip the scotch and then sip again. It’s beautiful. Just like this room, with its warm gold hues and notes of luxury.
He takes back the glass. “My turn.”
He extracts an ice cube, uses it to trace a path along the neckline of my dress. As the cool, wet surface touches my breasts, I feel my nipples harden as they reach out to him, begging him to go further. He responds by tasting the hints of scotch on my skin—light kisses filled with heat, his hands now on my hips. I’m breathing again but each breath is shallow as I struggle to stay still.
He lifts the scotch glass again and brings it to my lips, tipping it back just slightly so that the smoky taste only trickles over my tongue. And then his fingers slip into the glass again and this time the melting ice is moved up my thighs. My body and my mind are no longer connected. I feel my legs part, only slightly at first but as he pushes my dress higher and higher, I encourage him with increased access.
Again he lowers his mouth to the chilled scotch trail on my skin and I watch as he follows it up my legs. With a sudden and decisive movement he pulls my dress up to my waist, which he now holds firmly in his hands as his mouth moves higher and higher. That flimsy little thong is the only thing that stands in his way. He removes one hand from my waist and strokes the silky fabric.
Through lowered lids I see him smile again. I know what he’s thinking. The fabric is wet. It’s another invitation that I have no control over.
But it’s not enough for him.
“Ask,” he says; his finger hooks around the waistband of my panties.
I feel my cheeks heat up once more. A voiced request means that I won’t be able to say that I was just taken or that I wasn’t thinking. I’m ready to expose my body to him but now he’s asking me to share in this in a way that is so complete, it terrifies me.
“Ask,” he says again.
“Please,” I murmur.
“Not good enough.” His voice is still soft but I can hear the edge of authority in his tone. “Ask.”