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“I’m wearing the suspender belt and stockings.”
“I love that belt. I love how you look in those stockings.”
“I’m wearing panties that are mesh and lace.”
He grunted on the word panties.
“They’re high cut at the back. Very, um, cheeky.”
“Jesus.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “I know what those look like.”
“Do you?” She shoved her shoulder into him, slightly annoyed but not enough to quit tormenting him. “There are three straps across the back, across where those dimples are. And three tiny satin bows running up the centre of—”
“I want to feel them.” He dropped her hand and his arm circled her back.
She squirmed. “You can’t. Not here. You have to wait.”
But he didn’t. He stroked down her spine, slowly, his hand warm through the fabric of her dress. He stopped at her waist and she held her breath. His hand slid lower. He centred it over her sacrum and his thumb found the topmost bow.
“I’m not waiting. These are for me and I want to touch them now. You said there were three.” He worried the bow with his thumb. “One.” He slid his hand down to wrap over her butt cheek. Anyone in the bar could see what he was doing; though it wasn’t brightly lit, it wasn’t in blackout either.
She held still, worried if she moved she’d call more attention to them. He found the bottom bow, strategically located and ran this thumb in a circular movement around it. She couldn’t stop a breathy Oh. He used his other hand to turn her face so he could kiss her. He said he word, “Two,” just before he did.
By the time he found the middle bow, she was a quivering mess of need and they’d been out of the house for ninety minutes, half of which included travel time and they’d had one drink and a chocolate-covered strawberry each. She was ready to skip dinner, and let him eat the damn bows off her body.
She put her hand dangerously high on his thigh. “I’m not wearing a bra.” He had to know that already, his hand had been up and down her back. But it was worth saying aloud. He slammed his hand on hers and gave her a playing with fire look that made her glad for the surprise of the net camisole she had on. He wouldn’t be expecting it.
They walked hand in hand, a short distance from the bar to a restaurant fronting the harbour. Modern Chinese and so elegant she hesitated a moment before walking inside. This night was costing him a small fortune. She’d have loved him for takeaway on the beach. She adored him for this.
They sat across from each other, but his legs were so long he managed to get a knee between hers. No one could see beneath the long white starched tablecloth, she felt comfortable slipping off her shoe and playing her toes under the cuff of his pants and against his shin and the back of his calve. He didn’t pretend not to notice. He closed his eyes and she had to reach across the table and put her hand to his face to stop him from looking so lust drugged.
“We should talk, or we’re going to embarrass the staff,” she said.
They talked about Mia, about how she’d gotten hesitant about swimming for no particular reason, then Audrey’s work, how she felt about starting again Monday, how difficult she thought the week would be. She told him about Barrett being in town and that he wanted to see Mia, and about Cameron’s broken engagement and arrival home heartbroken.
She talked, he listened, he watched her closely and he asked insightful questions. He was in turn concerned, supportive, carefully noncommittal and saddened. She didn’t have to question or puzzle his feelings out. He put them on a plate for her, a simple serving, devoid of fancy ingredients but unconsciously designed to be nourishing.
They ordered and the food came quickly and was fragrant and delicious. She realised how hungry she was and how skilled Reece was at deflecting conversation away from himself. Now was the time to ask him about being videoed, when he was relaxed, when he was secure.
“I want to talk about you.”
He topped her glass with water from a carafe. “I’m listening.”
“I want you talking. You’re very good at making the words come from someone else.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll tell you anything.” But mischief played beach volleyball in his eyes. She needed to beware, he might catch her out. She ran her up foot the inside of his calve. She’d done it a number of times and he didn’t see the next move coming, clamping his knees together too late. She’d already gotten her stockinged toes to the edge of his chair just under his groin. He looked down, and wrapped a hand over her foot to hold her still, to stop her touching him.
“Was it a sex tape?”
His chin shot up, the surprise she’d counted on in his expression. “What?”
“The recording that got passed around, the thing that made you so mad I’d recorded you.”
He frowned. Then, in a grand move to distract her, brought his other hand to her foot and began a massage. His eyes were down. He wasn’t going to answer. She wouldn’t force it. She’d do nothing to ruin the date and anything to enhance it.
“It wasn’t a sex tape.” He smiled. “I can’t believe you thought that.” He looked up and he wasn’t mad or embarrassed. He lifted her foot and centred it over his erection. They both stilled in anticipation, then she pressed gently, his sitting position widened and they both gasped.
“I wish it was a sex tape,” he said.
