CHAPTER 8
Sarah
Fuck him.
Remorse giving way to rage, I decided to walk home from Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing between my inner thigh area kept me in a fog. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin,” as Lauren sarcastically called me, made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I wished it hadn’t happened with that Adonis. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. The asshole didn’t even thank me for fucking his brains out. But I was the idiot for letting him seduce me. Now I hated myself for succumbing so readily to his selfish, lustful assault.
I got to my brownstone in no time. Mounting the five-step landing that led to the front door, I dug deep into my large bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled thinking about the possibilities.
I jiggled the front door key into the tricky deadbolt lock. It was a royal pain in the butt to get it to unlock, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood, which was still considered a little seedy.
Once inside, I used a tiny key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished mailboxes lining the chipped walls of the dingy entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. Blumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress, who always had a story to tell me about her song and dance days and was convinced she was related to the city’s former mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a nearby pizzeria. They were both always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.
I reached my hand into the narrow metal box and grabbed the pile of mail. Bills. Bills. And more bills. And a letter from the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about being used by that asshole on the train.
Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn, both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her, alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing cock deep inside me. I wanted the memory to go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.
Breathing heavily, I unlocked my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, short for Josephine, the sweet black cat I was caring for, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed. Her true owner, a flamboyant, singing-dancing transvestite, was away on a yearlong tour of La Cage Aux Folles.
My flat, a railroad apartment, was small but pleasant. I was lucky to have found it on Craigslist. It was rent-controlled, so I wasn’t paying much, and the tenant I was subletting from even gave me a small break for looking after his cat. The only thing odd about the apartment was that the walls were painted a flaming hot pink, and there was a large framed poster of Josephine Baker (obviously the inspiration for kitty’s name) above the pseudo-Victorian sofa. The other flea market finds that filled the apartment gave it a je ne sais quoi charm that appealed to me.
Jo-Jo followed me into the small galley kitchen, where I proceeded to open a can of Fancy Feast and put it into her special bowl on the Formica counter. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the message light on my landline was flashing red, signaling I had some.
Leaving Jo-Jo to her food, I slogged over to the phone located on the other end of the counter and punched in the code to retrieve my messages. I had six new ones, all from my best friend.
Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “What are you wearing? Remember, my cotillion friends are coming.” CLICK. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “Guess what! Taylor is taking me to the Hamptons.” CLICK. Lauren: “Call me!” CLICK. Lauren: “FYI, your cell phone is turned off.”
End of messages. My heart sank. So much of me wanted to hear Ari’s sultry voice. “Saarah. Call me. I want to make you wet and fuck your brains out.”
Stop it, Sarah! I silently chided. He was probably already bedding that stunning redhead. And he had no idea where I lived or how to get in touch with me. Chances were I’d never see or hear from him again. Yet, the raw aching I felt for this man continued to consume me. The aftershocks of my off-the-charts orgasm measured 6.0 on the Big-O scale and my pussy was still pulsing.
Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park at 7:30. Before I had a chance to dial her number, the intercom buzzed. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be someone serving me for non-payment of bills. Or even worse, some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Anxiously, I hurried back to the door to my apartment and pressed a nearby button.
“Yes?” My voice trailed off as I spoke into the intercom.
“Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.
That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless Catherine, my demanding boss, had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not happy about it one bit. So, this was her revenge.
“Just leave it outside on the stoop.” I never let strangers inside the building. As both Mrs. Blumberg and my mother said, you just never knew who could be the next David Berkowitz, the city’s next serial killer.
“You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.
“Fine. I’ll be right down.”
Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. Waiting for me outside was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me. And it was definitely not from my stingy boss, who I think hated me.
“Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt.
Sure enough my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy, debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all of her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and this was her way of sending me a message.
Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped back up the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight-ass jeans and some bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.
Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street honcho, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.
The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time Catherine sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap, unfashionable garments, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed chic women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street, consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.
I carefully removed the box top. Layers of delicate white tissue paper lined the interior of the other half. I peeled them away and then gasped. Facing me was a beautiful black silk dress with two sparkling spaghetti straps. A tag hung off one of them. Marc Jacobs, size 6, no price. I lifted the dress by the straps and held it up in front of me. It was stunning. Simple and elegant. But certainly not the kind of thing one would wear to a rock concert in Central Park. What was Lauren thinking?
My eyes returned to the box and came upon a small, white envelope with my name printed on it. Draping the dress over one arm, I reached for it. The flap unsealed, I slipped out the contents. My eyes grew big as I read the note and so did the explosions that were rocking my body.
Ms. Greene ~ Please wear this tonight. I shall collect you at 8 p.m. Meet me downstairs. ~ Ari
P.S. Please do not wear pantyhose.
A mixture of holy cow and damn him saturated my brain. How the heck did he know where I lived? Wait. Of course, he must have gone through my bag while I was asleep on the train. He got my address from my driver’s license. He must know everything about me. My height. My weight. My checking account number with my home phone number. My social security number. What kind of gum I chewed (Big Red). Crap. I bet he even thumbed through my sketchpad and read the journal I kept with my favorite sayings.
One of them flashed into my head. When in doubt, leave it out. Damn it! I should have never let him sink his cock inside me. None of this would have happened. None of it. Except…there was no doubt. I had wanted him as much as he had wanted me. My mind flitted to the ravishing redhead. Though they looked like they belonged together, maybe I had jumped to the wrong conclusion and she was just an acquaintance. Or just one of his many girlfriends.
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be among the many. When it came to men, I lacked confidence. Added to this, I was going through a very vulnerable period of my life with my mother being so ill and my future insecure. And there was another problem. I couldn’t see him tonight. I had plans with Lauren. Trust me, she rubbed it in my face that she was able to get those reserved-seat tickets for the Black Eyed Peas because her father’s investment company managed Fergie’s assets, and that I was lucky she counted me as one of her best friends.
The shrill ring of my phone hurled me out of my thoughts. It must be Lauren. I dreaded answering it because she got super mad if I didn’t call her back right away. For a friend, she was very high maintenance.
Finally, after the fifth ring, just before the call went to my voicemail, I ran over to it and picked up the receiver.
“Saarah, do you like your dress?”
Gah! It was him. The temperature in the kitchen suddenly rose ten degrees. And my heartbeat accelerated. The phone shook in my hand.
“It’s very nice.” Who was I kidding? It was the most fabulous dress I’d ever owned. And the most expensive.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you in it.”
Shit! How the hell was I going to tell him that I had plans? That I couldn’t see him tonight.
CLICK.
I wasn’t. My mother always preached: No risk, no gain. I immediately dialed Lauren’s number. It went straight to her voicemail. Beep.
“Lauren, something’s come up. I can’t go to the concert tonight. I’ll explain tomorrow. Have fun.”
CLICK. Phew! That saved me from having a nasty, drawn-out conversation with her. I suppose I could also try her on her cell, but truthfully, I didn’t want to. A pang of guilt shot through me, but I reminded myself that it wasn’t like she shoved out a fortune for the ticket; it was comped. Plus, she had her entourage so she wouldn’t be alone. I’d still pay the consequences tomorrow, but right now, I had to get ready for my date with Trainman.
Taking my new dress with me, I skipped toward my adjacent bedroom. A loud knock at my door stopped me in the hallway. Retracing my steps, I peered through the peephole. Mrs. Blumberg. She was rather entertaining, but quite frankly, I had no time for her right now.
I unbolted the door. Chewing a big wad of gum, she faced me. Half my size, the elderly woman was holding a shopping bag. While she always seemed to have a grocery bag in her hand, the Bergdorf’s bag was unusual.
“I was just on my way to shul when this came for you,” she said in her thick “New Yawk” accent.
She handed me the bag bag. Inside was another gift-wrapped package, this one significantly smaller, maybe a foot long by six inches. My heart fluttered. Now what?
Mrs. Blumberg’s crinkly eyes fixated on the black dress that was still folded over my arm. “Hot date tonight? I hope he’s Jewish.”
God, she was nosy. And so annoying. I didn’t respond.
“So, how’s your mother doing?”
Sadness swept over me. After I left the hospital, my mother was scheduled for another treatment. They always made her feel sick to her stomach. I fought back tears.
“She’s hanging in there.”
“Oy!” My neighbor shook her head, a bright-orange ball of frizz. “I’ll say a prayer for her tonight. You know, you should come with me one Friday.”
“I will and thanks.”
Mrs. Blumberg meant well. Despite her constant meddling, it was hard not to like her. Her eyes lingered on the shopping bag.
“So, what are you waiting for? You gonna show me whatch’ya got?”
God, she was being difficult.
“Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”
“I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You got a hot date.”
Her voice trailed off as she turned on her heel. Closing the door behind her, she got in her last two cents.
“Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”
I sighed; if she only knew. “There” tingled at the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted it off to find another note, the scrolly handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress. I was convinced it wasn’t his, but rather that of a Bergdorf’s employee.
Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.~A
Holy cow! He also bought me shoes. The kind Sarah Jessica Parker wore in Sex in the City. A creamy white duster bag encased them. My heart thudding, I slipped out the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe stilettos. Size 9.5AA. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two-sizes-too-wide combat boots stuffed with inner sole pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?
A frightening thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A six-foot-three pillar.
I let go of the wall. Okay, I could balance in them. But could I walk in them? I was going to do my trial runway walk down the hall to my bedroom. Still carrying the little black dress, I took my first step, then my next. My ankles wobbled, and the intense throbbing inside me wasn’t helping my balance. Focus, Sarah. Focus. Pausing for a deep breath, I took another step and then another; I was getting it down. My bedroom was just an arm’s length away. Victoriously, I stumbled inside it. Jo-Jo, whom I’d honestly forgotten about, followed right behind me.
My shoebox-size bedroom, painted in another shade of bright pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, a faux-French mirrored armoire with a matching nightstand, and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish zebra print satin sheets left behind by the transvestite. Not wanting the dress anywhere near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my T-shirt over my head, a waft of his intoxicating cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this tee. Hold on to it as a keepsake. A souvenir of losing my virginity.
Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Choos, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert breasts, surprised by the soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Ari tweaking and tugging them filled my head. A bolt of electricity ripped through my body.
Holding onto the armoire, I took off my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold the latter to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of Law and Order popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime.
Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Fucked-Up Pantyhose.”
Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole-in-the-wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and the bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the scent of my encounter. I loosened my ponytail, letting my thick hair fall to the middle of my back, and then lathered it up with my cheap drugstore shampoo. Impulsively, I rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, shocked that my bud was still so sensitive and swollen. A buzz of excitement shot through me.
After conditioning my hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my torso—a zebra print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my complexion was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Her best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!
With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair back into a ponytail, with no time to blow dry it, and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Ari licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that feel like? At the last minute, I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a recent birthday present from Lauren, who thought it might help me get some sex in the city. She couldn’t have been more right.
I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps and shimmied it down. It stopped mid-thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky fabric was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.
Don’t wear pantyhose. I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror. Damn! I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.
Remember, no pantyhose. Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Loomers, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Choos and gave a final look at myself in the mirror.
Sarah, plain and tall, in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. Pretty, and witty, and wise. But, damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance, as my landline started ringing.
Shit. Wearing my heels, I teetered to the kitchen but not in time for the call to go my voicemail. I played back the message and could faintly hear Lauren’s voice, the Black Eyed Peas singing, “I’ve Got a Feeling” in the background.
“Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.
I glanced at the wall clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with my mysterious Trainman.
8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed by me, several pausing to stare. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink, and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.
My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said: The grass can’t compete with the trees and I was just a tall blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful trees.
My heart was sinking, and my nerves were ticking like a countdown clock. And then, as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. A devilish grin flashed across his swoon-worthy face.
My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was casually dressed in jeans—the premium denim kind—and a black cotton T-shirt—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his little black dress and uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I said nervously, hating myself for my banality.
In my spiky heels, we were practically the same height, making him about six three. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places he had no right to be.
“The dress suits you,” he said at last with a glimmer of approval.
He offered me his arm, and my eyes fixed on his biceps. Perfect, not too big as if to shout professional weight lifter, but enough to let me know that he worked out. The rest of his body was equally sculpted to perfection. The outlines of his muscled thighs and calves were visible through the denim, and I could see the ripple of his abs beneath his fine cotton tee.
I hooked my arm in his, glad to have someone help me down the steps in these mile-high heels. Please don’t let me trip. Please! I prayed silently.
I made it to the street. A small victory. I suppose we were walking somewhere—there were lots of good restaurants in the theater district—but truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to walking more than a block in my stilettos. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still didn’t trust myself in them.
“My driver will be here any second,” said Ari.
Driver? What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Ari motioned with his finger to it and helped me step off the curb.
A tall uniformed man, with rich, ebony skin and the intimidating build of Mr. Clean, immediately came around the car and opened the passenger door.
“After you,” said Ari.
I looked at him with hesitancy, and then with as much grace as I could muster in my tight dress and six-inch high heels, I slid into the car. Ari climbed in after me. The door closed, and I was sitting, once again, next to my mysterious stranger on a train.
The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Soft black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark-tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating us from the driver. There was also a well-stocked bar. I’d never been in a limo before. Obviously, Trainman was rich. Very rich. Again the question: What was he doing with me?
He stretched his long, taut legs out in front of him, and I noticed he was wearing expensive black suede loafers with no socks. I impulsively crossed mine—acutely aware that I was not wearing underwear. The thought made me press by legs tighter together. I wondered—was this some kind of defense mechanism?
Ari glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know?—and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his bronzed face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I wasn’t wearing pantyhose that pleased him? I dared not to ask.
The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with that of the car’s rich leather and wafted up my nose, making me feel lightheaded. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and the throbbing in my groin kicked up a notch with the movement of the car. Please don’t let me get carsick.
“I hope you like lobster,” he said, breaking the silence.
Oooh. That was a conversation starter. Me, who lived on ramen noodles and an occasional macrobiotic dinner out, courtesy of BFF Lauren, who was forever going through a raw diet phase, didn’t know the first thing about eating lobster. All I knew was that it was a big red shellfish, with big, scary claws, that I could never afford.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Good. We’re going to The Palm, my favorite restaurant.”
“Cool.”
This was not going well. Despite my intimate encounter with this gorgeous man only hours ago, I now felt at a loss for words. Remembering one of my favorite sayings—Speak only when spoken to—I peered out the tinted window, gazing at the spectacle of cars, cabs, and pedestrians that made New York the city that never sleeps. A thought crossed my mind. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. Somehow, I thought Ari’s piercing blue eyes could see right through me yet mine couldn’t penetrate him. He made me feel naked.
His sultry voice diverted my attention. “Would you like a drink?”
“Um, a Coke would be nice.”
“Come on, Saarah. You can do better than that. It’s not a school night,” he said in a tone that was half-amused, half-mocking.
With a smirk, he reached for a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and poured some into two crystal goblets. He handed me a glass and then clinked his against mine.
“Cheers. To you and a fine meal.” His eyes stayed fixed on my face.
My heart hammering, I put the goblet to my lips and took a sip of the wine. It was chilled and delicious. It didn’t taste like the acidic or oversweet “house wine” I occasionally ordered when I was out with Lauren. No, it tasted perfectly balanced and velvety. As I swallowed, I glanced at the label on the bottle; it was in French. So, Trainman liked fine cars, fine wines, fine food…and fine women?
The limo was heading east on Forty-Second Street, the driver expertly weaving in and out of the insane Friday night midtown traffic. I imbibed more of my wine.
“So, Saarah…”
There he was, saying my name with that slow, sexy lilt. My breath caught in my throat.
Holding his glass of wine in one hand, he slowly ran the manicured fingertips of the other down my right leg, all the way down to my ankle. His caress gave me goosebumps.
“So, you didn’t wear any pantyhose,” he purred, his hand rubbing up and down my ankle.
I swallowed hard. Or any panties. I was too aroused to say anything.
“I hope you’re as hungry as I am.”
“I’m famished,” I squeaked. Suddenly, I was craving a heaping portion of his cock. My stomach emitted an embarrassing growl.
He responded with that amused smile while his hand glided back up my leg and made its way under my little black dress. His middle finger toyed with my magic button that turned on the heat. I was getting hot. Very hot. And very wet.
“You’re salivating. You must be starving.”
I bit down on my glossed lips to suppress a moan.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
Hesitantly, I parted my lips. Removing his hand from between my thighs, he slid his middle finger, wet with my sex, across my tongue.
“Just a small taste of what’s to come.” A roguish glint danced in his eyes.
Never having tasted myself before, I had to steady the wine in my hand at the unexpected experience as shock and pleasure flowed through my body. Every nerve in my body was buzzing. I feared one way or another I was going to end up with a large, wet stain on my new black dress if we didn’t get to the restaurant soon.
The limo turned north on Third and shortly after pulled up behind a cab in front of The Palm. The driver got out and our door swung open. Ari gracefully slid out and I followed, aided by his hand. My stomach rumbled again. I really was hungry.
Inside, The Palm was a noisy, bustling restaurant with white-clothed tables and a colorful array of caricatures of well-known celebrities lining the walls. As we walked toward the check-in area, a jovial heavyset man, with half-moon glasses, greeted my companion with a warm handshake.
“Good to see you, Mr. Golden. Your regular table is waiting for you.”
So now, I knew Trainman’s full name. Ari Golden. Fitting for the golden-haired warrior. Later tonight, I would google him and find out everything there was to know.
Holding my hand, Ari followed an attractive, mini-skirted hostess who kept looking back at him, past the jammed bar and table after table of chicly dressed couples and businessmen devouring monstrous lobsters. I managed to keep up on my heels and again prayed I wouldn’t do something embarrassing like breaking my ankle in front of all these rich people.
Several striking, well-dressed women stopped Ari along the way, eyeing me curiously. Ari politely acknowledged each of them with a quick smile and a nod. Former strangers on a train?
The circular booth to which we were led was in the far corner of the restaurant. It could easily accommodate four more people, but we had it all to ourselves. I slid all the way into it expecting Ari to sit across from me, but much to my surprise, he positioned himself practically next to me. In fact, he was so close to me, I could feel his heat. My heart pounded.
A waiter came by and Ari ordered for the two of us: two Manhattans, Caesar salads, and a four-pound lobster to share.
I was happy when the Manhattans arrived at our table. I still felt super-nervous being with this intimidating man. I didn’t know what to talk about. I took several consecutive gulps of the drink. The chilled, velvety liquid, another first, went down smoothly and loosened me up. A little.
Twirling his Manhattan cherry by the stem, Ari eased into conversation.
“Sarah is a beautiful name. It means ‘princess’ in Hebrew.”
My mother had told me that once, but I was the last thing from being a princess. Tomboy, geek, plain Jane, yes. But definitely not a princess.
“Thanks,” I said in a tone that was more dubious than flattered.
He plucked the cherry from his drink and flicked it with his tongue. “I’ve seen you a few times before at 30th Street Station.”
I gulped. Had he been spying on me?
He popped the cherry into his mouth and swallowed as my mind whirled with unsettling thoughts. He’d stalked me?
“Were you visiting someone there?”
I nervously nodded.
“Oh, a boyfriend?”
“No, my mom,” I replied, taken aback by his question and his confrontational tone. “She’s being treated for cancer at Penn’s medical center.”
Without warning, all the emotions I had bottled up broke loose. Remorse. Fear. Hopelessness. Grief. I don’t know what caused it. The wine. The Manhattan. The cherry. Or a combination of all three. Tears that had been welling up in my eyes on and off all day streamed down my cheeks.
Before I could apologize for my emotional outburst, Ari leaned into me and brushed them away with his thumbs. With a tenderness that surprised me.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffed.
“Don’t be.” His voice embodied genuine compassion. “I lost my father to cancer several years ago.”
So we did have something in common. Or close enough. Fingers crossed, my mother would be cured and go into remission.
“What kind?” I asked hesitantly.
“Lung.” Sadness filled his voice. “He was a smoker.”
“My mother has lung cancer too, but she never smoked a day in her life.”
Anger from this unfair fate rose fast and furious inside me. Just in time, the Caesar salads arrived. I picked at mine, my appetite suddenly gone. Ari dug into his, sheepishly gazing up at me with each forkful.
“Saarah, cheer up!” It was almost a command. “Here comes the lobster.”
My eyes grew wide at the sight of the humongous red-shelled creature that our waiter set down in the middle of our table. Alongside the platter, he added a couple of nutcrackers and pickers as well as a side of melted butter. Tying ample plastic bibs around our necks, he bid us, “Bon appétit.”
My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the lobster and Ari’s lit up face. I had never eaten lobster before and truly had no clue where or how to begin. Thank goodness, my gorgeous companion was a god. And a mind reader.
“Watch. Use the nutcracker and start with the tail. The most succulent part.” Squeezing the utensil, he skillfully cracked the creature’s tail and then plunged one of the slim two-pronged forks into the meat. “Taste,” he ordered after dipping the snowy meat into the butter.
I opened my mouth and let him feed me the buttery piece. Oh, God, it was good. Rich, melt-in-your-mouth good. I instantly wanted more.
“Your turn.” A wry smile lit up his face. “But I want you to crack a claw. The next best piece of meat.”
Taking the nutcracker, I wrapped it around one of the lobster’s large claws. I squeezed it hard, but the shell wouldn’t crack.
“It’s hard,” I lamented.
He chortled. “You have no idea.”
Suddenly, under the table, I felt Ari grab at a naked calf. He yanked off my shoe and moved my foot to the crotch of his expensive jeans. The sole of my foot sat directly on the warm bulge between his muscular thighs. Oh, God, it was hard! Very hard! Gripping my ankle, he rubbed my foot up and down. Slowly. Then faster. The mound expanded while my foot caught fire.
I fumbled with the nutcracker. I still couldn’t crack open the damn claw. I was totally distracted.
“I’m hungry,” grumbled Ari, rubbing my bare foot faster and harder against his arousal.
Holy cow! The rigid rod beneath his jeans tensed further. Absent-mindedly still working on the claw, I gazed at the man sitting across from me; his eyes were closed, his lush lips parted, and his back slightly arched. His huge erection thrusted deep against the sole of my foot and then gave way to a spasm that made my toes curl. An orgasm!
And at that very moment, the claw cracked opened, the tender white meat inside exploding through the shell. I plunked the two-pronged fork into a chunk and slid it into Ari’s parted lips.
“Mmmm,” he moaned as hot tingles coursed through my body. I delighted in the pleasure I could give this gorgeous man.
He savored the meat in his mouth and then opened his eyes. I watched him swallow.
“My princess, that was delicious.”
I flushed at his compliment. And he called me his princess!
We continued to feed each other lobster until we had devoured it and all that was left was a heap of shells.
“What did you think?” asked Ari as he discarded the last shell.
“Oh my God! It was amazing!” Oh was it!
He quirked a pleased smile. “Do you have room for dessert?”
“Yes,” I said with a nod.
“Great. They have the best crème brûlée here.”
“Can’t wait,” I replied, having no clue what this concoction was. Secretly, I wanted to skip it and longed for him to take me home or to wherever he lived and fuck our brains out. Even the back of his limo would do. So turned on, I was craving him inside me.
In no time, our waiter, whose name was Mario, came back to clear the table, and Ari ordered the dessert. Again, a single portion for us to share. As Mario took off, Ari picked up a teaspoon and began playing with it.
“Can you do this?”
My eyes stayed on him as he put the spoon to his perfect manly nose and balanced it on the tip. I giggled.
“Of course. Anyone can do that.”
He flashed another cocky smile. “Okay, let’s see you do it.”
With his eyes fixed on me, I silently lifted my spoon and repeated his actions. Eyes crossed, I gazed down to see the spoon dangling from my nose just like his.
He smirked. “Let’s have a contest and see who can keep the spoon on their nose the longest.”
“Fine.” My turn to smirk. My mother had taught me this trick when I was a little girl, and I’d mastered it, my upturned nose perfect for this balancing act. He had no clue who he was dealing with. Maybe I was clueless and insecure when it came to men, but when it came to games, I played to win.
“Okay. On your mark. Get set. Go!”
Over the next five minutes, we stared into each other’s eyes, our spoons dangling from our noses. I was ready to explode with laughter at the sight of this sex god with a spoon hanging from his nose and somehow, I also found it adorably sexy. Totally phallic. Not before long, everyone in this chi-chi restaurant was imitating us. I pointed this out to him, hoping he’d jerk his head to look around, and the spoon would fall off his nose. But no. He remained inert, staring straight into my eyes with stoic determination.
Damn. Him. He was making it so hard. Time to stir things up. I started making funny faces from rolling my eyes to making monster lips. But nothing distracted him from his mission to win. And then, high from the Manhattan and wine, I just blurted it out.
“I want you to fuck my brains out again.”
His eyes grew saucer-wide as he jolted against the booth. The spoon slipped off his nose, falling under the table.
“Shit!” he mumbled.
“Ha ha! I win!”
To the victor, belong the spoils. Another one of my favorite sayings. But I had no idea what was in store.
Ari looked at me mischievously. “Well, I guess you win the prize. Stay put. I’m going to retrieve the spoon.”
“I’m sure our waiter will bring you another,” I said, but it was too late. He was already sliding his glorious body under the table, and in no time, he disappeared.
Remembering my bare foot, I quickly wiggled my toes back into my shoe. But before I could set my heel down, a hand gripped my ankle and yanked my foot out. A soft, warm mouth descended on my big toe and sucked it feverishly. Tingles shot up my leg, all the way up to my crotch. Oh my God! Dessert had arrived.
Having enough of my big toe, he nibbled and sucked the rest of them, one at a time. Delicious pain followed by delicious pleasure. He then flexed my foot and moved his mouth to my heel. His tongue glided, like a slow rollercoaster across my high arch, making its way back to my toes. The sensation sent prickly goosebumps all over me. Who knew that the soles of my feet were so sensitive?
Holding my foot in his palms, his tongue continued its journey up my long, naked leg. The sensation was ticklish, yet strangely erotic. Arching my back, I squirmed. When he reached the top, his hands gripped my thighs, and with a firm yank, he spread my legs apart. Oh, God. Was the icing on the cake coming? My body stiffened in anticipation.
Hiking my dress up as high as it would go, he buried his face in my pussy. I could feel his rough stubble rub against my inner thighs as he sucked and nibbled my sensitive cleft. Then, his tongue took over. It figure skated across the surface of the fiery folds, performing all kinds of tricks from spins to figure eights until it landed on my aching clit, licking and flicking. I was falling apart, every bone in my body turning to jelly. His ever-so fit tongue stroked furiously as the pressure between my legs mounted. I wanted to scream! Squeezing my eyes shut, I bit down on my lips—Oh, please let me come!—and finally a hot burst of ecstasy gave me the relief I’d been craving.
Shuddering from the release, my head thrust back, I could only hope people weren’t staring at me. That famous line from the movie When Harry Met Sally flashed into my head: “I want what she’s having.” Yes, my golden-haired sex god had given me yet another delicious and enviable orgasm. And then I jolted again as he pressed something hard and cold against my flaming folds. The spoon! The shock of the sensation intensified the fire between my legs. Oh my God! I was coming again!
For a few moments, I think I lost consciousness or was transported to another planet.
“My princess…”
At the sound of his voice, I returned to reality. As I snapped open my eyes and began to recover, my Trainman re-emerged from under the table, holding the spoon in his hand.
He winked at me. “Did you enjoy your prize?”
I gulped as I watched him put the spoon to his luscious lips and languidly lick my glistening sex off it. His tongue rolled around the surface as if he were savoring the last bit of creamy sweet frosting.
“Mmm,” he moaned. “I hope you’re still up for dessert. Seriously, the crème brûlée here is orgasmically good.”
Jesus. What was it with this man? I’d had enough orgasms to last a lifetime. Well, at least, for the next twenty-four hours. The thought of another creamy, mind-blowing dessert was almost anti-climactic, no pun intended.
“Sure,” I stuttered, my pussy still buzzing.
His lush, shimmering lips twisted into another wicked dimpled smile. “You won’t be disappointed.”
I tried not to read too much into his words. While we waited for the dessert to arrive, I silently stared at his beautiful face, realizing that I knew so little about this man who had robbed me of my virginity and made me explode with unparalleled bliss more than once.
“What do you do?” I asked, finding the strength and courage to interrogate him.
“I’m a businessman.”
“So, you were on a business trip to Philadelphia today?”
“No, my company is based there. I commute back and forth every day.”
That was a big distance to travel twice a day, but obviously his employer made the round-trip worthwhile. He was obviously wealthy. Very wealthy.
“Why don’t you live in Philly?”
“Because I love Manhattan.” He quickly changed the subject. To me. His voice was flirtatious. “And what do you do?”
“I work for—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Ari jumped up from his seat.
My eyes followed him as his long legs strode to the front of the restaurant. And then my heart leaped into my throat.
The gorgeous redhead! And she was in Ari’s arms.
My emotions skipped over jealousy and sprinted straight to rage. How could he do this to me? And so shamelessly right in front of me?
Without putting on my other shoe, I sprung up from the table and hobbled over to them. If people were staring at me, I was oblivious. The redhead gave me the once-over, the expression on her face suspicious and patronizing. As if I were in a league below her and didn’t belong here.
Ari’s face, however, brightened. “Saarah—”
“Don’t ‘Saarah’ me.” In a swift, heated move, I yanked off my other Jimmy Choo and flung it at him. “You can keep your damn shoes! And eat your precious dessert all by yourself.”
I stormed out of the restaurant, pretty sure I would not be returning to The Palm any time soon. Make that ever. With tears pouring down my face, I headed west on Forty-Fifth Street. I hadn’t brought along my wallet, so I was going to have to walk home barefoot. Fortunately, the night was still warm.
Tears kept coming. Past Third. Past Lexington. Past Park. Happy, laughing young couples, taking advantage of the fine weather, passed by me, but they were all just a blur.
I wanted to get him out of my mind. Erase him forever. But I couldn’t. The inner throbbing just wouldn’t go away. I hated him. I hated her. And I hated myself most of all. How could I be so stupid to fall for this callous man? To give him my body, pure and unadulterated? To trust him? My mother had always told me to wait for someone who really loved you. She made the mistake of not—and had to raise me as a single parent. I should have listened to her words of wisdom. And right now, there was nothing that I wanted more than to talk to my mother. To tell her everything. To hear her consoling words and feel her loving embrace.
When I got home, I was going to soak my feet, wash him and the street grime away, and then take a pair of scissors to his little black dress and shred it to pieces. I was going to go back to being who I really was. Sarah, plain and tall.