Dr. Stud
"Well, it's nice to meet you, um, Mr. Riordan.”
Mr. Riordan. That's a nice touch.
I look down, noticing that we’re still holding hands.
“Oh,” she says softly and drops my hand, then balls hers into a small fist that she lets fall to her side.
“So… perhaps a drink? To start?”
“Excuse me?”
She takes a short, deep breath and squints at me shrewdly. “A drink? Doesn’t that sound like a decent way to start off?”
I find myself licking my lips. Did this woman just ask me on a date?
Her eyelids flutter softly, her long lashes trembling. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s such an interesting mix of hard and soft. There’s a firm set to her lips but her gaze is a touch unsteady. I know her heart is racing but her feet are still planted shoulder-width apart like a dedicated recruit.
“Whatever you like?” she persists. “I like American whiskeys, if that suits you.”
I am amused beyond measure. Here's this strange woman, parked in the CEO’s parking space, possibly doing fifteen thousand dollars worth of damage to my car. And yet, she's got the balls to ask me out.
What a delightful creature.
“I prefer Japanese whiskeys.”
She raises her eyebrows briefly, as though she considers challenging me. Then she merely replies: “Yes, I'd like to try them.”
I cross my arms, leaning against her car briefly. It is some kind of macho girl crossover, like a RAV4 or something like that. Something city girls get to make it look like they actually leave Chicago every once in awhile. Maybe go up to Wisconsin. Antiquing in Galena. Visiting relatives who live on one of those fucking farms out west like in Plano or something. I’ll bet this thing has never been west of California and Ashland Avenues.
“What about my car?”
She swallows. I see her throat undulate and not too subtly think blowjob in big neon letters in my mind. I’d like to slide down that throat. My cock twitches in agreement.
“I really don't think I did anything to your car. I think I may have just bumped it when I bent down to get the keys.”
“Bumped it?”
“Yeah, you know…” She does little pantomime, twitching out one hip suggestively.
“So you’re admitting it now? Looks like those hips could actually do some damage, you know.”
Her eyes narrow. I bet she's getting mad.
“You're messing with me,” she say
s. It's not a question.
I back away, letting my eyes trace her outlines from the gleaming tips of her Louboutin pumps to the subtle shadows of her nipples beneath the fabric of her dress. Calvin Klein, I’m fairly certain. Nothing wrong with that. He’s a nice guy. We played volleyball at his place on Martha’s Vineyard once. Memorial Day or something like that.
“Am I messing with you?”
She wrestles a polite little smile onto her face. I'm not sure what's going on there. To be honest, it sort of seems like she dislikes me, so I don’t know why she’s trying to get in my bed.
“I'll have a car come pick you up tomorrow at eight."
She scowls prettily. “You don't know where I live.”
“I own the HR department, though, don't I?”