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“Do you see any reporters around?” I ask her, waving my hand at the empty restaurant. “If I wanted to make a show out of this, I’d have wanted this place packed… But it’s not. And if I did all this for show, I wouldn’t have brought you this,” I grab the rose in front of me and hand it to her, the tip of my fingers brushing against the palm of her small hands as I do it, “where nobody can see me do it.”
“Thank you,” she smiles, looking me straight in the eyes and finally feeling at ease. I’m used to girls being intimidated by me; I’m rich, world famous, and I look better than fucking Adonis himself. Not to mention the baseball bat I have dangling between my legs, but now's not the time to be bragging about stuff like that, is it?
“Don’t mention it,” I tell her as the sole waiter in the restaurant comes up to us. I order the tasting menu, not even knowing what half of the stuff in there really is, and a bottle of French red wine.
After we get the formalities out of the way—she’s a law student, I’m a quarterback, shit like that—and after we order a second bottle of red, her mood seems to improve considerably. While she started the evening as a shy girl completely star-struck by me, she’s now acting more confidently than most women I know.
“You like to show off,” she teases me, talking about last night’s game. “Most of the stuff you do on the field is completely for show, isn’t it? Like, did you really have to somersault over that guy?”
“Did you see his size? It was either that or be carried off to a graveyard after being hit by him.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she continues, taking a long gulp out of her wine. “I bet that a guy your size could handle a tackle like that.”
“A guy my size?” I ask her, arching one eyebrow and realizing that we’re changing gears in this conversation. For a petite girl she looks like she’s in control of the whole conversation. Which is good, for once in my life I can act like a fucking regular human being, instead of a cardboard star athlete. I know I shouldn’t be complaining about this (after all, most guys would kill to be in a situation such as mine), but being used by women as a human dildo gets old pretty quickly. Sure, most of them also try to put a collar on me, hell bent on parading me around like some kind of big prize, but I never allowed that to happen. I might earn a living like an athlete, but that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. Far from it, in fact: before playing in the League, I graduated with honors from Wharton. Don’t act all surprised, babe; I’m much more than just a piece of meat.
“A guy your size,” she repeats, the grin on her face telling me she’s talking about more than just my height.
“You know nothing about my size.” I finish my glass of wine and then just stare at her, allowing that electric feeling to settle around us. Fuck, remember when I told you that I wasn’t thinking about fucking her? Yeah, forget about that. Right now I want nothing more than to get her naked.
“But I’m going to find out all about your size, aren't I?”
“You were the one saying you’d fuck me if you had the chance,” I say, my grin widening as my heart starts pumping boiling blood to my cock. If this conversation keeps going in this direction, soon enough I’m going to have an erection so massive that I’m going to overturn the table.
“A deal is a deal,” she shoots back.
Touchdown, it seems.
“Check, please!” I tell the waiter.
Time to get out of here.
27
Fiona
We leave the restaurant in a hurry. No wonder, though, after the conversation heated up, I knew how our night would end up: with my clothes on the floor.
By the time we got out of the Time Warner Center building, Danny already had a valet waiting with his Aston Martin out front. A few heads turned as some people noticed whom the owner of the car was, and I had to wait while a few kids surrounded Danny, asking for autographs and selfies. I waited patiently by the car, anxious to be alone with him. I usually don’t do stuff like this, getting naked on the first date, but this is Danny Manning we’re talking about! And more than just being famous, he actually proved to be a perfect gentleman. I mean, what kind of guy bothers to bring a rose on the first date? That’s like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Sure, I prefer my novels hotter than what Jane Austen writes, but you won’t hear me complain about being swept off my feet by a perfect gentleman with manners straight out of the early 19th century.
“Where are we going?” I ask him as he finally leaves his fans behind and opens the passenger door for me.
“Trump Tower,” he replies, getting behind the wheel and revving up the engine. My insides burn up as he tells me our destination: from the Time Warner Center to Trump Tower is a quick drive, probably less than five minutes. Thank God.
“I didn’t know you lived there,” I try and make small talk with him as we cruise through Manhattan’s heavy traffic.
“Why would you? It’s not like I have billboards around town telling people where I live.” Fair point. “Besides, I rarely bring people over. “
“By people, you mean … women?”
He chuckles, the sound of his voice turning my pussy into a wet mess. Christ, I can’t wait to get out of the car and inside his pants.
“Yeah, especially women. I don’t want to risk having a crazy stalker knowing where I live.”
“And what if I’m a crazy stalker?” I tease him, placing one hand on his knee and sliding it up to between his legs. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but I just can’t control myself right now.
“I guess that’s why they invented restraining orders,” he fires back at me, his grin widening as I place my open palm right on his crotch. His cock is already tenting his pants, and I guess he wasn’t joking when he told me I knew nothing about his size. It’s like he doesn’t have a cock between his thighs, but a lighthouse. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this huge in my entire life.
Thank God he stops in front of the Trump Tower in no time, or else I think I’d just go nuts and blow him right on the ride to his place. Don’t judge me; I have no idea what’s happening to me. I’m usually a well-behaved girl, I swear!
