I've turned my back on Hollywood, but I'm still in love with the ocean.
I strip off my clothes as I head to the birdcage-sized bathroom that features a shower so small I have to perform yoga to shave my legs, underarms, and other parts that I hope will get attention during the evening.
Once I'm out, I finger-comb my hair, letting it air dry while I do my makeup. My hair's my best feature--strawberry blond and wavy, and it complements the blue of my eyes.
I have a slim, athletic body, and I debate whether or not to own it and wear a silk tank with pencil slacks and heels, or if I should wear a low cut dress and enhance it with a padded bra and silicon inserts.
I'm still debating the point--dresses are sexier, but the effect can be lost if the guy gropes the fake boob--when I remember the package. I hurry to the futon where I'd left it, then untie the bow. The box opens easily, revealing another with a label from La Perla. I suck in air, then pull out the delicate bra and panty set.
Underneath that box is another bundle that turns out to be a turquoise wrap dress in the kind of soft, silky material that makes a woman feel luxurious.
A note is pinned to the dress:
Wear these. And heels, red if you have them.
Soon.
B
I smile, a little giddy. Blake knocked me off kilter today. His distance. That hard, unreadable look in his eyes. But considering the lingerie and the dress, I think it's safe to say that the night is looking very promising indeed.
I'm still debating which shoes to wear when he rings the bell. I don't have red, so my options are strappy black sandals or deep burgundy fuck-me pumps with heels so high a stripper would consider them impractical.
Naturally, I shove my feet into those, then try to hurry to the door. I fail, of course--I can't exactly sprint in these shoes--but the effect is that I seem casually in control. No need to rush. No hurry here.
I tell myself to own this calm and collected vibe, then open the door.
Immediately calm and collected is beaten down by hot and bothered. Did I say delicious earlier? That's woefully inadequate. He's wearing black jeans that hug muscular thighs, an untucked white tee with a V-neck that reveals a smattering of chest hair and a tailored suit jacket. His hair is slicked back, giving him a sexy movie star look, while his five o'clock shadow adds some bad boy appeal.
In other words, he's a walking, talking fantasy, and he's standing in my doorway looking like he wants to eat me alive, and all I can think is please, yes, please.
"You look great," I say, voicing the understatement of the year.
He says nothing, but he meets my eyes. Then his gaze dips lower and lower, leaving a potent trail of heat along my sensitive skin, as if his gaze is a physical touch, sliding in between the layers of this flimsy dress and making me wet.
He reaches the juncture of my thighs, and the sensation of being examined with such erotic precision is enough to make my core clench and my breath release in a low, needy moan.
His inspection doesn't slow, but his lips curve just enough that I'm certain he's noticed my reaction. More, it excites him.
Finally, his eyes linger on my shoes. And when he very slowly lifts his head to meet my eyes again, I see both approval and desire. "Are you ready?" he asks, and I manage a nod.
Right then, I'm ready for anything.
THE RESTAURANT IS THE kind where celebrities tend to gather. High end and trendy, where everyone watches everyone else, but pretends like they aren't looking.
I feel the eyes on us as we walk to the kind of booth that has a bench on one side and a table on the other. Blake guides me onto the bench, then slides in next to me. His hand rests gently on my thigh, and the touch discombobulates me so much that I miss the waiter's question.
"The lady will have a martini," Blake say
s. "Hendricks gin. Very dry. Extra olives. I'll take the same."
I glance at him, touched that he'd remembered my drink for all these months.
"I told you," he says answering my unspoken thought, "I remember everything." His fingers start to inch the soft material of my skirt up my leg. "Especially the feel of your skin," he murmurs. "The softness of it. The smooth sensuality."
I fight a whimper as his hand slides infinitesimally higher. "Please," I say, but I have no idea what it is I'm pleading for.
"I also remember how wet you get." His finger burns a red-hot path along my skin. "How sweet you taste."