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The waiter brought the artfully arranged niçoise salad first course, and we dropped our hands, neither of us having the grace to look guilty. The conversation during the soup course was unfailingly polite: politics, work. I told him about my writing, and he seemed impressed. Apparently writing as a hobby to help out “the masses” is an acceptable pastime for young black rich folks nowadays.
He was the CFO of the company; I had no response for that. We talked about the banquet, whom he knew, what I thought of the dinner. He was charmed that I had issues with people who patted themselves on the back every time an “underprivileged youth” made it to college, not stopping to consider the reasons for the lack of privilege itself. Apparently being a bleeding heart was also fashionable. I was too busy enjoying the low rumble of his voice and the tingling brushes of his superfine wool trousers against my stockinged knee to feel patronized. We all but ignored the introductory speaker.
Our seats were right next to each other, and I realized that we’d been leaning together, talking softly, our heads bowed toward each other. Almost like conspirators. I imagined that we looked like lovers, and just then, we looked at each other and realized…
We could be.
I quickly batted away that thought, but it aroused me, this man, his wife away with their children (two boys, he’d proudly admitted after I’d pointedly looked at his ring and given him an accusing look), the tastefully discreet hotel staff, the immaculate rooms upstairs, the fact that these things happen all the time at such dinners, that he was still openly flirting with me and I him, in our polite conversation but wondering if the other would, if given the chance, do what we were thinking….
The look he gave me made me realize he was thinking the exact same thing. He was remembering my hands, wondering how they’d felt on his skin, looking at my mouth, wondering if I’d just kiss him or if I’d wrap the glossed l
ips around his dick, too. I was wondering if he would fuck me against the door of the room, on the bathroom counter, where I’d swipe all the prettily packaged minibottles of shampoo and soap off when I came, if he’d eat me until I begged him to stop, if the thought of his wife would enter his mind when we fucked doggie-style in front of the mirror.
His dimple deepened.
“You have the most delectable mouth, Miss Dwyer.” His breath was warm against my collarbone.
“And you have beautiful hands, Mr. Prince.” I blushed (prettily, mind you—even for us working-class girls, Southern habits die hard) and was terribly grateful for the waiter asking us if we wanted poultry or beef. “The first,” I answered, probably too hastily.
Mr. Prince smoothly ordered, then looked at me thoughtfully and whispered, “You’re an intriguing woman, Alicia. I’d give anything to kiss you right now. Anywhere. Everywhere.”
At first, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him. Then, I wasn’t sure if I should slap him. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen through my high-class act and made me out for a cheap whore. But when I looked at him, shocked, he drew back, his eyes apologetic. I turned from him quickly, as if offended, then bit my lip as if considering something. But it was an act; I needed to distract myself from my now throbbing clit and my damp pussy, oversensitive mouth, and the fact that I was almost ready to pull up the fine linen tablecloth for him to get down there and have at it. I angled my head as if politely listening to the speaker, but glanced over, catching the want in his eyes. I only half hoped he didn’t see my nipples pushing out against the satin of my bra and the thin jersey of the dress.
The salad had disappeared, barely touched, and was replaced by a beautiful-looking quail in some sort of sauce. I’d stopped caring about food fifteen minutes ago; some sort of record. I couldn’t resist. I squirmed in my seat, pressing my slick thighs together in vain.
“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier, but please do that again,” he murmured.
I hadn’t noticed that my squirming had raised my knee-length dress to thigh-high. The huskiness of his voice made me smile. I shifted again, slower this time, letting my weight shift from one hip to the other, rolling as if I were already riding his dick. The skirt shifted upward again, and I thought I heard him groan. I daintily picked up my wineglass and sipped, ignoring the feel of the backs of my thighs against the embroidered chair cushion. My eyes were blankly directed toward the podium.
“My, my…stockings.” He sounded closer now; when had he moved his chair? Truth was, I couldn’t find a pair of panty hose that wasn’t already run and had to settle on the stockings and garter I’d bought last Valentine’s Day.
“How gauche of you to mention.” I was surprised my voice didn’t waver. I could have been talking about the weather.
“I’d be happy to make it up to you,” he purred, settling his fingertips ever so lightly on my knee. It took significant effort not to jump completely out of my seat. His hand was steady, confident.
“I see,” I answered more calmly than I thought I could, and uncrossed my ankles, letting my knees fall away an inch or two.
Let him work for it, I thought, somehow knowing he’d enjoy the challenge. His fingertips spread until his entire palm was over my knee, radiating warmth that spread up my thighs and seemed to radiate right through my belly.
“You haven’t touched your dinner,” I challenged, and nodded toward his plate.
“There are other things I’d rather eat.”
“Greedy, aren’t you?”
I spread my legs another inch. He took full advantage, circling his thumb against the mesh of my stocking. His touch seemed to echo throughout points on my body: my nipples, the sensitive hollow below my throat, the aching core of my pussy.
“You have no idea,” he promised, his voice conspiratorial.
His fingers inched higher, now at the top of my thigh. If the lights had come up, the sight of his sleeve disappearing beneath the white tablecloth would have been, at best, hard to explain. I inched my legs apart more, finally hooking my feet around the curved feet of the chair. My spine was no longer that of a finishing-school graduate; I’d pushed my back into the cushioned back of the chair. My quivering thighs were giving my anticipation away.
When his hand left my thigh to hover over the heat of my waiting pussy, I thought that I would kill him. When he used his thumb and pinkie to lock my thighs against any thought of them closing against his fingers and flicked my clit delicately with the fingertip of his middle finger through my panties, I could have kissed him. When he pushed aside the light fabric of my panties and did it again, I pushed a forkful of quail into my mouth to keep from crying out.
“Is it good?” he asked, clearly not referring to the well-seasoned poultry.
“Mm, hmm,” I answered, chewing thoughtfully.
His fingers were making brushing motions, up and down the folds there, painting the flesh with my arousal.
