by Portia Moore
I’m completely thrown off by his response. There aren’t many people in the world that would condone shoplifting for any reason. My face heats up as I think about where I would be if Vincent hadn’t been there to save me from the security guard. In jail, humiliated, hit with fines I couldn’t pay, or worse. He really saved my ass.
All of ours, if I am completely honest with myself.
An impeccably dressed waiter comes to our table, and Vincent doesn’t even glance at me as he orders wine for the table, speaking in fluent Italian. I catch the word “vino” somewhere in the string of beautifully accented syllables, or else I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea what he’s said.
My experience with wine is limited to the under-ten-dollars-a-bottle kind, that I can only buy with my fake ID.
“I don’t know how much you know about me,” I say quietly, and his eyes smile at me. I look down guiltily.
“I’m…I’m only nineteen,” I say, tearing my gaze from his.
“I don’t know if that would be a problem for you,” I add quietly, and he takes my hand, which is so small in his grip, and I look up at him.
“It’s not,” he says firmly, as if to kill any insecurity or further conversation about the subject. “Youth isn’t something to be ashamed of,” he adds, letting go of my hand. I realize how good it felt to have his on me.
“Are you in school?” he asks.
“No. Not now. I was waitlisted for a program I applied to and right now I’m working to save up all that I can for when I am able to start. I currently waitress at a place called Funbags. It’s like a knock-off crappier version of Hooters, but the money is okay most of the time, the hours are flexible for when I do start classes, and it’s the only place that bought my fake ID so I could sell liquor,” I laugh, slightly embarrassed.
“You’re better than that,” Vincent says, his face completely serious.
I stiffen a little, sitting up straighter in my chair. “It’s just temporary,” I say quietly with a half of a shrug. “And it’ll make for good stories. I hope to be an author one day.” He smiles at this.
“An author? That’s quite a dream. Did you always want to do that?”
I find myself relaxing several degrees as I tell him about how I’d come to want to write, the stories I wrote in school when I should have been paying attention in class. “I’m sure that had something to do with my grade in geography,” I finish, laughing. “But I still have a lot of those.”
The waiter arrives with the wine and I feel a small, needling worry that I’ve said too much, revealed too much…that he must think I’m a naive little bimbo. What was I thinking, telling a man like this about my eight half-finished stories?
“Here,” Vincent says, handing me the first glass that the waiter’s poured. The wine is rich, dark red, swirling around the wide bowl of the glass, and I reach for it hesitantly and steel myself for the first sip, not wanting to make an inappropriate face or let on that I hate it—if I do.
The thought runs through my head as I touch the rim of the glass to my lips, completely aware that he’s watching me. The warm liquid hits my tongue, and I realize that while it isn’t as sweet as I’m used to, it’s delicious. It’s rich, fruity, filling up my senses with the cherry and spice underneath it. I let it slide over my tongue and down my throat, Vincent watching me the entire time, a small smirk on his face.
“How is it?” He takes a sip of his own wine, swirling it in the glass and breathing in the aroma first. “Your first time tasting expensive wine?”
“Is it that obvious?” I feel myself flush slightly and wish for the first time that I was more graceful, sophisticated, more appropriate. For this place, the setting…this man. I know I shouldn’t want that, but something about him is intoxicating, like the wine that’s still lingering on my tongue.
The dinner passes by in a blur of conversation and rich food—a salad with goat cheese, strawberries and a sweet vinaigrette, lamb medallions in a delicious wine sauce with garlic potatoes and fresh herbs scattered over the plate, more cheese along with a dessert platter that held tiny ramekins of crème brulee with fresh berries, delicate flutes of chocolate mousse, and an assortment of other tiny cakes, each almost too perfect to eat. There’s a small part of me all throughout dinner that had wanted to hold back, not eat too much, not seem too eager—but I’ve never had food like this, and I don’t want to miss a bite. I eat slowly, but I eat it all. And Vincent seems to be enjoying watching me eat as much as he is savoring his own food.
I pause, my silver teaspoon hovering over the crème brulee. “Why are you doing this?” I ask cautiously. “All of this…it’s so much. So much on top of what you’ve already done for me.”
He shrugs. “You’re beautiful, innocent—despite your recent foray into crime. Innocence isn’t something I see often.” I see the touch of a smile play at the edges of his lips. “I want you to experience the things you deserve.”
“You don’t know if I deserve them,” I say, but he keeps going as if I haven’t even spoken.
“And I want to make love to you. Tonight, in my bed, in my home.”
I almost choke.
What did he just say?!
If I had food in my mouth, it’d be on the table by now.
I freeze, my spoon still hovering in midair. I envision myself—face red, eyes wide, and fingers trembling—but he’s the picture of coolness, like he just asked me if I’d like more dessert. Very slowly, I put my spoon down. I bite my lower lip, tasting the powdery flavor of the matte lipstick that Dena put on me. “I-I don’t know,” I say honestly, sounding like an idiot to myself. But I really don’t know.
I’m not sure if it’s the wine or the food. Everything about this night is intoxicating…but I don’t know.
My answer should be hell no. I don’t know him, this is all still overwhelming, and sex would only make it more so, but I can’t bring myself to say it.
“That’s not a no,” Vincent teases with a wicked grin. “Come home with me tonight. Let me show you pleasure that you’ve never imagined.”
My entire body goes hot.
“Maybe you’re underestimating my imagination,” I retort, feeling emboldened by his boldness. He grins.
“Maybe. But I’m certain that you have never experienced it.”
I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience, as if I’m looking down at the girl sitting at the table, wearing a dress that would have paid for six months of her rent, wearing makeup that she’d never put on before, eating food that she’d probably never have the like of again. I see her, and I think that she couldn’t possibly be me. But she would go home with him. She wouldn’t be too shy, or too concerned with what she should do. And for tonight, I am that girl. So why not? I’ve only had sex with two guys. One who refused to love me, and the other only to try to clear my mind of the first.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. But looking at this handsome, sophisticated, self-assured man in front of me who has done nothing but surprise and spoil me, I think just maybe he can get the job done.
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “Yes, I’ll go home with you.” I expect him to smile in satisfaction, but he doesn’t. He leans closer and the air leaves my lungs.
“If you come with me, I’m going to make love to you,” he reiterates, and there’s a smolder behind his expression that he’s contained all night, but I see it escaping now.
Make love? As if he were some character in an erotic book I read that wants to pay tribute to my body. When in reality, he’ll probably never think about me or call me again after tonight.
“Yes.”
He stands up and comes around the table. He takes my hand and looks down at me, his stark blue eyes boring into mine. “Say it, Rain. I want to hear you say it.”
If there was a single person in the restaurant beside Vincent and myself, I wouldn’t be able to. Even so, my voice is hardly a whisper as I speak. “I want you to make love to me.”
“Good.” He holds his
hand out. “Follow me.” And I do. All the way out to the waiting car, where I sit, trying to hide my nervous, trembling fingers as we drive. I can smell the spice of his cologne, mingling with the rich scent of the leather, and I feel my pulse speeding up in my throat. This would be like no other night I’ve ever had. I know this. This wouldn’t be fumbling in a backseat or laying down on a mattress with unwashed sheets, laundry scattered on the floor, stopping halfway because I’d rolled onto the remote and it was digging into my spine. This wouldn’t be awkward kisses and fingers working between my thighs until I was just wet enough for them to get inside of me for the five minutes that it would take them to come. I know this would be…more, somehow, but I don’t know what, exactly. I only know that the anticipation is already making me feel breathless, my heart pounding so loudly that I wonder if Vincent hears it.
Does he have any idea how inexperienced I am? He called me innocent, so he must have an idea. I’m not sure innocent is the right word.
Inexperienced for sure.
I can hardly keep from staring as we walk into the lobby of the building where he lives. There is marble everywhere, gold fixtures that I’m certain are real, a fireplace roaring at the far end with leather and velvet upholstered seating. There is a man standing just inside the elevator when it opens, and he nods the moment he sees Vincent, not even sparing a glance for me. He hits the button that will take us to the penthouse, and I swallow hard.
I’m doing this. I’m really doing this!
The apartment itself is breathtaking. The floors are lacquered wood, covered here and there with tasteful, expensive rugs. Vincent gently touches the small of my back, turning me towards the hallway. “This way, Rain,” he says, his voice suddenly low and husky. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
I can feel the effects of the wine still, slightly hazy in my blood, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I need to be clearheaded. Maybe he won’t realize how little I know about what I’m doing. I’m not a virgin, but I feel like one in this instance. I feel like he might be expecting something that I’m not able to live up to, and I regret not taking him up on the drink, which would probably loosen me up a little. Or how my stomach is feeling, making me want to throw up.
The bedroom itself is incredible—the same lacquered wood floors, with a California king bed against one wall, a padded leather headboard at one end. The bedding is done in tones of dark grey, and I see that the fireplace at one end of the room had already been lit. It startles me at first, and then I think, Of course. Of course he has staff.
I turn to face him as I hear the door close, and he walks towards me, stopping just before our bodies touch. I feel myself trembling as he reaches out, stroking a finger down my cheek. “So beautiful,” he whispers, and then he leans forward, his lips brushing over mine.
The scent of his cologne fills my nose, his soft hair falling forward to brush against my forehead as he kisses me, softly at first, and then his arm snakes around my waist. He hears my soft indrawn breath, feels me gasp, and then I’m pulled against him. His tongue runs along the edge of my lower lip. I breathe in again, my heart pounding, and it only takes the parting of my lips for him to kiss me deeply as I feel him press harder against me. I can feel his desire in every inch of his body, and it makes me feel hot and dizzy. This man, this handsome, rich, powerful man wants me. Wants me enough to choose a dress for me, take me out to dinner, to romance me, to bring me back to his apartment. Wants me so badly that he’s already rock-hard against my thigh, his breath warm against my lips as he pulls back, breathing hard. His eyes are dark with lust as his hand presses against the small of my back. And then he kisses me again, turning me towards the bed.
He hesitates for just a moment as his hand reaches for the zipper at the top of my dress. “You want this, Rain? You can stop now if this is too much. If it’s too soon. But I want you, and if you say yes, I’m going to take you in every way I want tonight.”
I can see in his eyes how badly he wants me to say yes…and there is no chance that I’m saying no. Something about all of this—about him, frightens me a little, warns me that this could never be simple, that there is no going back. But the air between us is electric, full of heat, and I know if I leave now I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I’ll wonder forever what pleasure waited for me in his bed. If he could be the one to claim my body and numb the place where my heart was, that someone else took already. So I nod, my throat too tight with nervousness to speak.
I feel him start to slide the zipper down, his fingers caressing the length of my spine as the fabric splits apart, inch by inch. I feel electric sparks with each touch, my breath coming fast and short as I try to think of how to act. How do I come across as sophisticated, worldly, the kind of woman that a man like this is used to taking to bed?
But then again, it seems as if the fact that I’m none of those things might be what had drawn him to me in the first place.
He slides the dress off of my shoulders, slowly moving the material past the curve of my waist, his fingers following the shape of me. When he reaches my hips, he feels the soft slide of satin under his hands, matching the black bra.
I shiver as he lets the dress drop to the floor, and I see a dark glint in his eye as he steps back and motions for me to step out of the dress. His fingers go to the buttons of his shirt, and I watch as he undoes them one by one, enjoying the expression on my face as he shrugs it off, revealing a hard chest lightly dusted with dark hair, broad shoulders, and muscled arms that flex as he reaches down for his belt buckle. I can see the thick ridge of his dick pressing against the fabric of his trousers, and I bite my lower lip, eager to see the rest of him fully nude.
I see him spring free, longer and thicker than anyone I have ever seen before, rock-hard, eager for me. It sends a fresh wave of desire through me to think that I caused it, that I’m the reason why he is so aroused, so ready.
“Go to the bed,” he orders, his voice a low growl in his throat, and I shiver, obeying him, walking towards the massive bed. I can feel his eyes on me and it puts a sway in my hips, an arch to my back that I don’t normally have. I feel beautiful, desirable, like a piece of art finally taken off of the shelf. I climb onto the bed and feel his hands on me, turning me over onto my back, and then gripping my wrists. I feel the slide of silk on my skin, and then he is binding my hands to a strap below the headboard. My heart beats faster for a second, a mixture of desire and fear, but his eyes are gleaming as he looks down at me, and as mine sweep over his muscled, naked body, I can do nothing but whimper softly, my back arching as I tip my chin up, wanting him to kiss me.
“I want you to enjoy this to the fullest,” he whispers silkily. “I want you to give yourself over to it entirely.”
I can’t move. I can’t think of anything to say as he stands back, looking at me with a satisfied expression on his face. I can only imagine how I look, bound with my hands over my head, stretched across the bed in cheap but pretty lingerie—the one bra and panty set that I own that costs over $40. He breathes in as he gazes at me, still fully aroused, and I gasp softly as he climbs onto the bed, straddling my legs and surveying me laid out in front of him.
He reaches out, brushing his thumb over my lips, and they part without my thinking about it, wrapping around him as my tongue flicks out to run over the tip of it. He smiles. “Good girl,” he says softly, and then trails his fingers down my jawline, over the line of my collarbone, down to the space between my breasts.
The bra clasps in the front, and with one quick motion, he has it undone, spreading the cups apart so that he can run his hands along the curves of my breasts, cupping them in his hands before he bends down, running his tongue over one hard, peaked nipple. I gasp, arching my back and pressing myself against his mouth, pulling at the silk ties that hold my hands. I want to touch him, I want to run my hands through his hair and my nails over his skin, and it’s sweet torture to be bound here, helpless at his mercy. I watch as
he kisses the space between my breasts, running lips and tongue over my other nipple before continuing down my body.
There is no part of me that he doesn’t touch, with his lips or his hands. I’ve never experienced anything like this, never had any man try to bring me to such heights of arousal. When I think back to the boy I loved before, it was intense and emotional because it was special, because I’d have given anything in the world to be with him—including my virginity. But this is different. It’s completely primal.
Vincent works his way down my body until I’m writhing and panting, hips arching, each breath coming in small, short gasps. He pushes my legs apart and slides my panties down, moving between my thighs, and I can only watch as he grips them, his hands sliding over the soft skin as he kisses his way up the inside, his breath warm against me as he moves up to the place between my legs where I’m wet, hot, and aching.
He grins at me, a dark, lustful smile as his mouth hovers there. “I’m going to make you come, Rain,” he promises me, and it’s clear that he means it. “But don’t until I tell you that you can. And then I want you to come as many times as you’re able.”
As many times? It’s going to happen more than once?
My entire body is quivering with arousal, and I desperately want him to touch me, to do anything at all.
And then his mouth presses between my legs, his tongue sliding over me in a long, slow stroke that seems to touch every part of me, and I gasp, my thighs spreading even wider as I arch up against his mouth, grinding my hips against him. He grabs me, holds me down, his tongue swirling in circles around my most sensitive spot as I gasp, moan, and cry out, feeling the muscles in my body quiver and tense as I hurtle towards the edge of something unknown and powerful, something that threatens to engulf me in a frightening wave of sensation.
“Vincent,” I moan, tossing my head from side to side as I feel him slide a finger into me, and then two, curling against the inside of me, moving in slow strokes as he presses against a spot that sends waves of pleasure radiating throughout me. The pressure is almost unbearable, my body screaming with the need for release, and I moan his name again. “Please, please…” I have no idea what I’m begging him for, only that in another moment, it won’t be my choice or his. I’m going lose myself to that wave of pleasure that threatens to break over me, whether he tells me I’m allowed to or not.
