Ryan

 

 

 

This is new to me. I’m sitting at my usual table at Café Pastiche, legs crossed and a folder with paperwork in front of me - and I’m nervous.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been nervous about meeting someone, especially a woman. There was always some kind of excitement involved in my arrangements, of course. But I’ve never been nervous when I met them.

Today, I find myself nervously fidgeting with the spoon next to my coffee, stirring it, adding way too much sugar, stirring it again, burning my lips as I try to taste it. My foot is bobbing up and down in frantic motions, making my inner turmoil visible on the outside.

I hate that.

I shouldn’t feel this way. It’s just another fuck. Another arrangement for my annual retreat.

But the thing is, she doesn’t know that yet. For all I know, she’s just expecting some flirting, disguised as a meet-up for coffee. Two people getting to know each other, maybe holding each other‘s hands, nervous giggles, compliments, and maybe a kiss.

She has no idea I want to buy her. For one night. One very, very dirty night.

Oh, the things I’d do to her…

I know I shouldn’t pursue my sick thoughts, my fantasies, but I can’t help it. I can’t help imagining her, on her knees, tied up, purple and red marks blossoming on her pale skin where I’ve marked her, tears flowing from her dazed eyes, as she pants breathlessly with desperate, heated lust.

“Fuck,” I hiss, shaking my head, as if that could clear my mind.

My cock is hardening at the mere thought. I inhale audibly, trying to force my mind on something else, so I’ll be able to get up and greet her like a gentleman once she appears.

She’s not on the menu, I have to remind myself. She’s not a whore. You didn’t find her in that fucking catalog. I shouldn’t get this excited about her, when the most likely outcome of this meeting will be an appalled gasp and her storming away from the table once I make my intentions known.

I can see the door from where I’m sitting, and every time it opens, my heart stops for a second. So far, all the faces that have appeared through the door have been unfamiliar. I check my wristwatch for what seems like the millionth time since I got here. She’s not late, I just arrived way too early. Being overly punctual is a habit of mine,  and it was only increased because I’m so impatient to see her again. It took her long enough to call me, but this wait feels like the longest I’ve ever had to endure.

She walks through the door three minutes before the time we agreed upon, looking deliciously innocent in a flowery sundress and a matching cardigan in light pastel colors. Her silky brown hair is falling over her shoulders in luscious waves, and she’s pressing a little handbag against her body as if to protect herself. Her steps are fast but small when she approaches the table. She’s wearing flat sandals, careful not to add even an inch to her already towering height.

I’ll make her wear heels if she agrees to become mine, and I’ll teach her to carry that height with pride.

She’s slouching when she walks, but her back instantly straightens when I get up from my chair to welcome her. Her height may be somewhat impressive for a woman, but she’s still shorter standing next to me. And she loves it. It’s written all over her bright face when she comes to a halt in front of me and finds herself looking up, something she doesn’t have to do very often.

“I’m sorry, am I late?” she asks as we shake hands.

Her hands are cold and surprisingly small, yet they send a bolt of desire through my body.

Why did she have to wear a dress like this? It covers more of her legs than that pencil skirt she was wearing when I first saw her, but the way it swirls around her long, slim legs is driving me mad with curiosity.

We have to sit down.

“You’re fine,” I assure her, beckoning for her to sit down across from me.

She follows my gesture, her shoulders tense and her hands clutching the handbag in her lap, as her eyes latch on to mine. Her make-up is stronger today, and she even painted her lips. I like the effort, because she’s obviously trying to impress me, but the heavy eye shadow overpowers her green eyes. She looked better with less color painted on her face.

I’ll have to remember that.

I cast the thought aside. There’s no point in making notes for her instructions if she’s not even up to the task.

“What can I order for you?” I ask, waving for a waiter.

“Um,” she says, her eyes hurrying across the table to see what I’m having.

“Coffee?” she ponders.

I smile at her. Fuck, she’s cute.

“Whatever you like, Miss Brown,” I tell her. “Coffee, latte, tea, a mimosa, or champagne, maybe?”

Her eyes flicker at that last suggestion. I knew she’s a champagne girl, but she’s too modest to admit it.

“Uh… I think it’s too early for a drink,” she says, but I’m confident she doesn‘t mean it.

I wink at her and order us two mimosas and some water, which she regards with a grateful smile.

She’s nervous as hell, but trying very hard to hide it from me. When our glasses arrive and she reaches for hers, I can see her slim fingers vibrating with tension. We clink glasses, and I watch as she carefully sips from hers, visibly calming down after the first drink.

“Better?” I ask.

She casts me a bewildered look, and nods.

I’ve never been lost for the right words, but right now I wish I had prepared something to say. It never occurred to me that this would be hard. After all, I know what I want from her, and I’m used to getting what I want.

But this is delicate business, and I have no way of knowing how she’s going to react.

Beating around the bush is not my style, so I decide to be straightforward with her.

Her eyelashes are fluttering nervously as she tries not to break eye contact with me.

“As I’ve mentioned before, I have a proposal for you,” I begin. “A way for you to make a lot of money.”

Her eyes narrow as she casts me a suspicious look. “A lot of money?”

I nod. “More than you’ll ever make with that waitressing job. In fact, it will enable you to stop doing that.”

She furrows her eyebrows.

“Is that not what you want?” I ask her. “Do you enjoy that job?”

Laura lets out an exasperated gasp.

“Yeah, right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “No, I’m just curious what kind of job you’re proposing? You don’t even know anything about my qualifications.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. It’s an attempt to appear sassy and confident, but I can see her shaking under her self-assured posture.

“Oh, I’m sure your qualifications are just fine,” I say, locking her down with my eyes.

“Well, then…,” she utters, visibly ruffled by my gaze. “What would I have to do?”

We exchange a silent look, feeling each other out without saying a word or touching one another. She’s a smart girl. I know she senses where this is going, but she needs me to say it out loud.

“Submit to me,” I say, my voice low and heavy with meaning. “Be mine for one night.”