My driver pulls up in front of Gisele's apartment building and I tell him it’ll only be a moment as I step out of the stretch limo. Her apartment's … nice. Understated. Not the most glamorous address in the Manhattan phone book, but I’ve certainly seen worse. She's a reporter, not a rock star. It just means that when she does see my apartment, it’ll make an even bigger splash. I cannot wait for her to see the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the City …

I hit the buzzer and I hear, “Hello?”

“It’s Stone,” I say close to the speaker. I feel a little ridiculous; I’m not used to having to ask for entrance like this. Normally I have people who just make doors open for me. It’s their job. But tonight, I want to be just me. Well, me and my driver. Let’s not get crazy.

“Oh, hey!” I hear a buzzing sound. “Come on up.”

I climb the stairs—really, no elevator? She’s going to think my apartment is the epitome of luxury at this rate—and knock on her door. She pulls the door open with a wide, if flustered grin.

“Almost ready!” she says, rushing off to the bathroom, the door slamming closed behind her. I try to hide my laughter until she closes the door behind her, and then I let it all out. She’d just hobbled through the living room with one knee-high boot on … and one foot bare. Likewise, her hair seemed a little more … untamed than normal. Apparently my 15 minutes wasn’t quite long enough for her grooming needs.

But, it was fun to see Gisele rattled. I have to admit, I like having the upper hand.

I wander around the living room, picking up and then putting down picture frames of her and two guys who look enough like her to make me believe that they are siblings. I can hear the water running, then shutting off, some mumbled words that sound suspiciously like a nice long string of swear words, and then a blow dryer turning on. 

I know I should probably just sit quietly and wait for her to return, but I can’t. I’m thrumming with excitement and nerves. Just being in Gisele's vicinity makes me feel like I’ve stuck a finger in a light socket. I know I used to do drugs in order to capture this feeling of excitement and thrill whenever I wanted it, but now, having been around Gisele, I realized how fake the drug rush was. Being around Gisele is a thousand times better than that first snort of coke, and a million times better than every snort after that.

There’s a saying that drug addicts are always chasing that first high, because after that, it never feels as good as that first time.

Well, they’ve never met Gisele Taylor. Nothing feels as good as standing next to her.

The bathroom door finally opens, and out spills a cloud of sex and eroticism I never thought I’d encounter. The smell hits me first—sexy and mysterious, with just a hint of roses. I don’t know what perfume that is, but it’s intoxicating.

And while my nose is taking in that amazing smell, my eyes are feasting on her body. Oh God, I’m instantly worried about embarrassing myself in front of her. I can feel myself get hard just from one glance. She has on this amazing dress that I’d only been able to catch a glance of earlier, but now that I can see it …

It’s long, almost to the ground, but there is a slit up the thigh, showing off her fuck-sexy legs that ended in fuck-me black leather boots. The top of her dress, though, is what would win her the Miss USA crown if she were to enter. A halter neckline that plunges down to show off her ample tits, she is no doubt showing off more than most women possess.

I suddenly am not so sure about taking her out on the town. I don’t want any other men to see her body; I want it all for myself. I wonder, again, what it was like to fuck her. I know I’ve done it at least twice now, but the not knowing what it was actually like is slowly starting to make me insane.

I want her lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me down her throat …

I realize that she’s saying something and I’ve missed it all.

“Sorry, what?” I say, tearing my eyes away from her tits, where I’d been busy imagining titty-fucking her. She has the boobs for it, and I can't help but wonder if she’d allow me to. To spray my cum all over her face as I fucked her tits…

“What?” I say again, this time forcing my eyes to stay on her face. I have the sinking realization that I'm not going to make much of a conversationalist out of Gisele tonight, if I can’t stay focused for more than three seconds at a time.

“Do you want to go?” she says slowly, enunciating every word as if I'm a small child with a hearing impairment.

Okay, I deserved that.

“Yes. Let’s,” I say, holding my arm out for her. She slides her hand into the crook of my elbow, and I escort her outside to the waiting stretch limo. I realize that we're parked illegally and no doubt I got a parking ticket or two while waiting for Gisele upstairs, but quite frankly, it was worth every penny, and a whole lot more. My driver, Fred, opens the door for us, helping Gisele in and then shutting the door behind us quietly.

Gisele runs her hands over the leather seats admiringly. “Wow, you travel in style,” she says, a little bit of wonder in her voice.

I strain to keep my eyes on her face, and not just continue to admire her rack. As hard as it is, it’s only polite not to spend the entire evening drooling over my date’s tits.

“Yeah, I don’t always ride in it, of course, but for a night out on the town, it’s a lot of fun.”

Well, I almost sounded normal there. I mentally pat myself on the back for that one, and reward myself by allowing myself to sweep my eyes over her whole body. Reclining against the seat, her legs crossed, her dress showing off her legs to perfection, I have sudden visions of fucking her in the backseat of the limo.

Isn’t that what a limo is for, after all?

“Where are we going?” she asks, breaking into my fantasy.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” I say with a quirk of my lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

Anything to have the upper hand with her. It seems to happen so rarely when I'm around her, I have to take the advantage whenever I can find it.

“Well, I can’t wait to be surprised,” she says softly.

She’s quiet the rest of the way. Sure, she’s talking and smiling, but I can tell she’s thinking about something. She’s tossing the thought around in her head, but not mentioning it for the rest of the ride.

She keeps it quiet even while we sit down to dinner.

It’s partway through dinner before the experimental drug comes up again. “How many other people are taking it?” Gisele asks as we dig into the Kumamoto Bay Oysters.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” I say. “I know my doctor is overseeing at least three more patients who are taking it, but I don’t know how many other doctors have patients under their supervision. I tried to break my drug and alcohol addiction so many times over the years, and just couldn’t kick it no matter what rehab clinic I enrolled in or what psychologist I saw. This drug, as bizarre as some of its side effects are, has truly changed my life around.”

“Does it bother you that I’m drinking wine?” she asks, holding up her glass of blush wine. 

“No, although I’ll tell you now, bourbon is still hard for me to smell. That was always my alcohol of choice, although in the depths of my worst addiction, I’d drink anything you'd hand me. I don’t remember a lot of it, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that I was drinking cough syrup or cooking wine.”

“Oh yikes,” she says, wrinkling her nose at me. “That’s nasty.”

“Addicts usually are!” I say cheerfully. I’m not ashamed of my past—it’s made me who I am, even if I have no desire to repeat those years.

Once we finish with our meal, I pull her out onto the dance floor, moving with her to the crooning of the jazz singer and band. She feels right in my arms—more right, more real, than anything I’ve ever had before.

I dip her in my arms, and I hear light applause around us. I look up and realize that we’ve gathered a bit of an audience. I straighten, pulling Gisele upright, and she waves, blushing, as I take her off the dance floor.

We leave the restaurant, out into the crisp night air, and I’m wondering how I can convince her to come back to my place, when she asks, “Want to come back to my apartment?”

“Yes,” I breathe. I want that more than anything.