CHAPTER 7
SORAYA
SORAYA: WHERE ARE WE GOING?
I’d left work an hour early to get ready. More than half the clothes I owned were in a heaping pile on my bed. Normally, whatever mood struck dictated my outfit. I wasn’t finicky. To me, style was an expression of your own individual personality, not following the latest trends from the runway or from one of the Kardashians. So it was freaking-me-the-fuck-out that I was on my tenth outfit.
Graham: To a restaurant, unfortunately. Unless you’ve changed your mind. I’m more than accommodating if you’d prefer I feast on you at my place.
If it were anyone else, all of the little pervy comments would piss me off. But for some reason¸ Graham’s made me smile. My answer to his invitation to screw was always to screw with him.
Soraya: Actually, maybe I have changed my mind.
Graham: Give me your address. I’m still at the office, but can be there in ten minutes, wherever the hell you live.
I chuckled at his desperation. As much as I thought he was full of himself, there was something very endearing about the honesty he displayed wanting to be with me. Normally, to a guy like him, showing desperation was a sign of weakness. It almost made me feel bad about toying with him. Almost.
Soraya: I meant about us having dinner tonight. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.
Graham: Bullshit. If you don’t show up, expect a knock on your door.
Soraya: You don’t even know where I live.
Graham: I’m a very resourceful man. Try me.
Soraya: Fine. I’ll be there. But you only gave me an address. Where are we going? I need to know what to wear.
Graham: Wear whatever you’re wearing right now.
I looked down.
Soraya: A hot pink lace bra and G-string? Where are you taking me, a strip club?
It was a solid five minutes before he responded.
Graham: Don’t tell me shit like that.
Soraya: Not a fan of hot pink?
Graham: Oh, but I am. The shade will look lovely as a handprint on your ass if you don’t stop messing with me.
Spanking wasn’t something I was ever into. Wasn’t being the key word. Yet the thought of him stinging my ass had my body humming. I was growing aroused from a text. Jesus. This man was dangerous. Needing a break, I tossed the phone on my bed and dug back into my closet. A little black dress shoved in the back caught my eye. I’d bought it for a funeral. I cracked myself up thinking I should have worn it the other night for my date with Aspen. When I slipped it from the hanger, my phone was flashing a new incoming text message had arrived.
Graham: You’ve stopped responding. I’m going to take that to mean you’re busy fantasizing about my hand swatting that fine ass.
He had an uncanny ability to turn a simple question into something dirty.
Soraya: I’m busy trying to figure out what to wear. Which brings me back to the original question I texted, where are we going?
Graham: I made a reservation at Zenkichi.
Soraya: In Brooklyn?
Graham: Yes, in Brooklyn. There’s only one. You said you lived there, and since you refuse to let me pick you up, I chose a place close to you.
Soraya: Wow. OK, great. I’ve wanted to try that place. It’s sort of a pain in the ass for you to get to from your office, though.
Graham: Fitting. Since you’re such a pain in my ass. See you at 7.
The subway station was about a block and a half from the restaurant. When I turned the corner, there was a black town car pulling up outside. I have no idea why, but I ducked into a doorway to watch the person get out. My gut told me it was Graham.
My gut wasn’t wrong. A uniformed driver got out and opened the back door, and Graham stepped out onto the sidewalk. God, the man oozed power. He was dressed in a different expensive suit than he was wearing this morning. The way his suits fit him, there was no doubt that he had them custom made. Although it wasn’t the fancy suit that he was wearing that gave him the air of supremacy; it was the way he wore the suit. Standing in front of the restaurant, he stood tall and confident. His chest was open and broad, shoulders were back, legs apart and firmly planted. He looked straight ahead, not fiddling with his phone or staring at his feet to avoid eye contact. One hand was in the pocket of his trouser pants, his thumb outside of the pocket. I liked the thumb hooked on the outside.
I waited a few minutes, and when he eventually looked in the other direction, I slipped out from the doorway. When he turned back and caught sight of me, I became self-conscious of my walk. The way he watched every step I made, a part of me wanted to run the other way, but the other part of me liked the intensity of his stare. A lot. So I tapped down my nerves, added some sway to my hips and decided I would not be a mouse to his cat. I would be the dog.