“You just have to be confident,” she tells me from beside me, apparently catching my worry on my face.
“I was hoping the dress would make me confident,” I reply.
“It should!” she exclaims. “You look phenomenal. Besides, you don’t wear the dress, the dress wears you.”
I turn a skeptical look towards her.
She sighs, then explains, “People see the dress as an extension of the person wearing it. If you feel sexy in it, and your aura shows that, you’re going to give that impression. Capiche?”
“Aura,” I repeat, turning back to the mirror.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom countertop. My breath catches as I look down at the name on the caller ID. “Is he here?” Bella asks excitedly.
I freeze a moment, then in one quick gesture lift the phone to my face. “Hello?” I answer, sheepishly.
“Your chariot awaits,” his deep, honey-coated voice responds.
I give a light chuckle, breathless, then reply airily, “Be right down.”
I turn to look at Bella who wears the biggest grin on her face. “Are you excited?” she asks.
“I’m not really sure,” I tell her. “I can tell if I am beneath being terrified.”
She puts a reassuring hand against my bare shoulder. I feel her warm, sisterly touch transmitted there. Bella has always been there for me, despite being more conventionally pretty, successful, and sought after. She’s a genuinely good person. “He’s into you,” she reiterates from an earlier conversation (in which I doubted her - still do). “Nobody asks the intern out for a business dinner. It’s because he wants you, Ame. So, strut your stuff! Show him he was right, make the man drool.”
I close my eyes and exhale. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you so much, Bella.”
“Of course,” she replies. “Now, don’t leave him waiting! Go!”
A grin breaks out across my face. “Okay!” I snatch my matching purple clutch from off the bathroom countertop and head for her door, taking the elevator down to the lobby and exiting out to discover the most handsome man I’ve never seen awaiting my presence, leaned against an impossibly sleek and shiny sports car.
Alton Cox lifts the passenger door with a grin, his eyes tracing my body. I feel the heat of his vision crossing over my skin and can’t help but feel melted by it. He looks incredibly dapper in his suit, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone to expose that smooth, hard chest of his. I want to lay my face against it, but I swallow my attraction to remain coy as I approach. If I didn’t, I think I’d unravel into a gushing fit of compliments. Sometimes I get to talking too much. That’s probably why I started writing. This moment feels like a page ripped straight from something I’d write - except better.
I step up to him and smile politely.
“You look ravishingly beautiful, Ms. Lane,” he whispers. “A dress that accentuates your body’s most admirable features.” He hand touches my side, and with the cutouts, his fingers make direct contact with the skin of my hip. My lips part to exhale, breath stolen by the sensation. I see his eyes capture the moment. I blush. So much for remaining coy.
“Thank you,” I say softly, and quickly seat myself into his car, feeling a bit of wetness between my legs. He has the ability to instantly turn me on, something I’ve never experienced before. Because of that, there’s some things that...well...I’ve never experienced before (namely, that). The thought of the two of us racing towards an inevitable intertwining has me terrified - in the way that tingles in your skin.
But I can’t let him get to me. I came out here to become a writer, I have to stick to my goals. The chance of having my first time with this incredibly attractive, successful man (in my industry) can’t threaten my ambitions. Also, what would he think of me? Giving it up to him, probably like so many women before. I still don’t even know if he actually likes me. I have to play this cool. I have to earn his respect, first. If something else follows, we’ll play it by ear.
As he sits beside me behind the wheel of this luxurious, sexy sports car, I feel my ears heat up, along with the rest of me. I bite my bottom lip looking at him gripping the top of the steering wheel with his left hand while he shifts the gear with his right.
God, I want him to handle me like that.
Amelia, get it together.
So Alton Cox can take me apart.
Ungh.
Chapter 4
Alton
That dress. My god, that dress. When she crossed the threshold of her friend’s apartment building and stepped into the pink hues of the Los Angeles sunset spilling across the sidewalk, my whole body ached. She’d done her makeup, done up her hair, and she was beautiful. Her eyes caught mine and I could feel the world shrink around us.
When my eyes fell south to take in her outfit, I wanted to sweep her away and steal her to my home for the night. It clung to her frame, accentuating everything I loved about it. Her hips were presented boldly, and with cutouts on either side of it, her incredible skin invited my gaze. From just above her buttocks to just beneath her breasts, the missing ovals teased her glistening, smooth, tan body. When I guided her to her seat, I had the opportunity to feel it, and I experienced the silky texture. Amelia, I want to envelope you and feel every inch of your silky smooth skin in my hands, rubbed against my body.
I make short work of the distance between where I picked her up and the ritzy lounge we’re headed to, twisting the wheel and interweaving this sports car between fellow motorists in a dazzling display of the maneuverability of this year’s model. I’m quite happy with my purchase, and even more ecstatic with how it impresses Amelia. I turn my head to see her excitedly grinning, her hand cautiously pressed against the glovebox, but still laughing with the thrill of it. I’m like a boy around her, anything that gives rise to a smile becomes an opportunity to bring her joy. But I want more.
“Amelia,” I call to her.
She turns her head. The streetlamps turn on to reflect in her eyes. “Yes?” she replies.
“You write romance stories.”
“Uh huh,” she responds flirtatiously.
I grin. “Do you pull from personal experience to craft your tales?”
She giggles lightly, brushing stray hair strands back behind her ear. She shakes her head at her legs, which gives me the chance to ogle them again. Two thick, smooth, tan thighs exposed in the short dress. She rubs them together a little and I imagine my hand squeezed between them. Then she looks back to me and I correct my gaze to meet hers. “I haven’t had much personal experience to draw from,” she tells me.
I furrow my brow, an inquisitive inspector. “How’s that?”
She cocks her head to the side. “I think that statement speaks for itself.”
I raise a single brow. “Hm. Difficult to believe. So you’re telling me you’re single, Amelia?” A thinly veiled attempt at pertinent information.
She clears her throat and blushes. God, I love when I make her cheeks redden. “That is correct, Mr. Cox.”
“Alton,” I correct. “If you’re going to be my companion tonight, you’ll have to use my first name.”
She nods. “Alton,” she repeats. “So inquisitive, Alton. Perhaps I should ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away,” I offer. I’ll be an open book to you, Amelia, I think silently.
“Is there a Mrs. Cox?”
I grin, then shake my head.
“Is there a prospective Mrs. Cox?”
I smile, and shake my head again.
“A man such as yourself--”
“What sort of man is that?” I’m not above flattery. And any comment coming from her would be like purring in my ears.
“Rich,” she begins, “successful. Well-dressed, direct. Incredibly built. Handsome.” I turn to look her in the eye, and I’m caught in it. The rustle of air whizzing past the car falls to a distant hum, the world shrinks again to the size of the car’s interior, its two occupants locked in an enchanting gaze, inside which nothing has changed,
and everything has changed. Her hair is still brown, but its radiantly brown. Her skin is luscious and glistening, but inside the glimmer, a hint of something magical, dazzling, alive. Her eyes are still beautiful, doe-like circles, but they command invisible puppet strings attached to my heart, making it pound inside my chest.
Safety demands I return attention to the road, and I see the taillights of the next car in front of us fast approaching. I kick the breaks, and we squeal to a stop just before collision. In the ensuing silence, I listen to Amelia’s breaths, quick and shallow, racing. I turn to face her, the rush of the moment decays panic into excitement.
“Well done,” she says, smiling.
“No,” I tell her.
“No?” she repeats, confused.
“No Mrs. Cox. No prospective Mrs. Cox.”
The light turns, I kick the gas with equal force and zoom into the other lane, tearing down Santa Monica towards the lounge, quite enamored with my company.
Chapter 5
Amelia
After our playful, borderline dangerous (but all the more exciting) ride to the restaurant, my head feels light and spins. I take a moment to breathe before the valet opens the door for me to exit. I stand on solid ground and remind myself I’m not floating off into the atmosphere. Though the vantage point atop the hill the restaurant is perched on does little to convince me. Stretched out beyond the edge of the driveway is the entire city, glistening beneath the night sky. My mouth opens in awe before I feel Alton (first name basis now) press his hand against the small of my back, his thumb extended to gently caress the skin of my hip, at which I bite into my bottom lip. I feel like it will be swollen before this night is through.
I turn my face up to look at him. His handsome face, chiseled jawline dotted with dark stubble, angle down to look into my eyes and weaken my knees. “Ready, Amelia?”
The valet drives the car away and we pivot towards the entrance of the exclusive night club behind us. I’m so not ready. “Yes,” I lie.
A host leads us to the back of the club, past the dancefloors and darkened tables, lit by romantic candlelight, all the while Alton’s hand remains against my back. I don’t want him to remove it. I want to feel his touch against my skin for as long as I can, to have it guide me into his arms, and beyond. I’m wildly attracted to this man, and my body is, too, seemingly all on its own.
We arrive at a designated table in the back, a VIP section behind velvet ropes where only a few tables, populated by presumed business elites, rest. We find our booth, bottle of champagne already cooling in an ice bucket before a seated man who rises to greet us.
“Paul,” Alton says, shaking the man’s hand firmly. He’s older, likely sixties, with a reddened face (a tone that extends through his bare scalp), and a white beard. He seems jovial enough, and I’m put at ease, until he turns his attention to me with a raised brow and an up and down glance.
“I didn’t know you had a woman hanging off your arm these days,” he says. I smile politely, hoping the dark room hides my blushing cheeks. I offer my hand and he shakes it.
“This is Amelia,” Alton says to Paul.
Paul turns to face him, nodding satisfactorily. “Good job.”
I think for a moment Paul is a little old-fashioned with gender relations, in spite of his manners, which is off-putting. But then, as we shuffle into the booth, Alton’s hand on my skin, I realize he didn’t correct Paul. He’s letting Paul think we’re dating. Is that what this is? Am I his fake girlfriend for the night? My mind spins between responses, whether to be insulted or into the game, I can’t determine. When we settle, Alton’s hand slips between my knees with a familiarity I can’t help but question. Has he done this before? But it’s intoxicating, his touch, the heat of his large, masculine hands (you know what they say about large hands). Stop it, Amelia! Ugh!
They begin chatting about money, and I realize, after having spent four years studying movies, I haven’t the slightest clue how they really get made. Observing Alton, though, demonstrates what an incredibly adept business man he is, navigating conversations about demographics, foreign sales, and release dates with aplomb. He knows his stuff, and whenever Paul asks a question, he seems to answer three more without Paul having to ask. It’s attractive, Alton being so confident, so knowledgeable. But I still can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling this is all a sham at my expense.
I suddenly feel Alton’s hand surge up my leg to the very edge of my dress. I glance towards him, but he remains focused on his target across the table. He’s flirting, I realize, covertly. I can’t help but part my legs to allow a further push along my thigh. His fingers explore wantonly, spreading out over my flesh, made soft and slightly wet with a sheen of perspiration. It lubricates his advances, and quickly I find his hand almost at the end of my thigh. My mouth opens as I feel blood surge to the place he approaches. I split my legs wide enough the dress slips halfway up my ass and the cover of my thong is entirely accessible. He takes full advantage, still holding his conversation as his hand rubs against it, cupping my intimate zone and softly rubbing against it. I become increasingly wet, dampening my panties, which his fingers press against with greater determination. Then I feel his pinky tease a bold move, curling around the edge of the fabric and tugging downward to expose my--
I press my heels against the floor and lift my ass a touch out of the booth and seize the empty bottle of champagne in both hands. “Oh!” I say, “Where is that waitress? She hasn’t been around in a half hour, perhaps I should go to the bar and grab another.”
I turn to Alton who grins back at me, causing me to blush so hard I doubt its hidden by the club’s dark lighting. But then I smile back, incapable of denying his infectious smile. In a brief moment, our eyes giggle like school children sharing a secret no one else knows. But we’re not children, and the secret is very naughty.
“That would be nice,” Paul replies, breaking our gaze. “If you don’t mind.”
I turn back to him and nod. “Not at all,” I reply, then tug at the end of my dress as I stand to exit the booth. I look around and find the bar towards the far wall where a young bartender is mixing cocktails, his arms raised to shake a martini beside his head. I head off towards him, eager for a breath. I don’t know what’s happening, I can’t tell if Alton is screwing with me or if he really wants me. I’m terrified to let things progress, because I don’t know what will happen. What if he just wants to sleep with me once? (If he even wants to sleep with me at all.) I’d have to leave the internship. (But what if he wants more?) What do I want? God, for a moment, I hate him. Because I think I might want to fall in love with him.
Chapter 6
Alton
I watch Amelia saunter off towards the bar with a drunken step, though I know it isn’t the champagne, she’s only had a single glass. It’s what I’ve done to her. Her intoxication is contagious, seeing how I affect her in turn gives me a buzz. Hell, it’s more than that. I’m drunk with her. All this time, the bullshit script has been spilling out of my mouth, turned to honey in Paul’s ears. I know what financier's want to hear, it’s easy for me to feed it to them. I’ve always been good at it. I’ve also always been good with women, affecting them wherever I went. I know it’s the confidence, the physique, my face. I’m not being cocky, it’s just the truth. What’s different is I’ve never put it all to use in pursuit of something I truly wanted. That’s changed tonight. In spite of myself, in spite of what I’ve told myself, to refrain from pursuing Amelia, my body, my heart compel me.
“So, let’s talk about percentages,” I hear Paul suggest, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together above the table. I nod and smile, though my eyes remain on Amelia, making her way through the crowd, patiently, politely interweaving her feet through theirs.
“Of course,” I reply, in a daze. She’s so gentle, in all things. Though it’s not weakness, I can tell it’s genuine. They say midwesterners are a polite people. I’ve found them to be passive aggressive, generally. What I see
in Amelia is novel. A way of approaching people with a set of manners unparalleled. You don’t find that often. More often, what you find are layers - inches of filth surrounding the center of a person. They’ve built their filthy coats over years of disappointment, betrayal, or simple failure. The world doesn’t treat us kindly, which is why I’ve been determined in my endeavors. It’s kept me from becoming weighed down, turning into a depressive. How someone could be so sweet, charming, and genuine without crutch, without facades, I haven’t the slightest clue. It’s perplexing, and enchanting.
I outright ignore Paul in favor of even the distance view of Amelia reaching the bar, pushing her body up on her toes to bend forward over the bar. With a ginger lift of her wrist and a wag of her finger towards the bartender, she meagerly requests service. I rub my chin to keep from laughing, so enamored with her interactions.
Then the bartender comes, a young fellow, modest build, shy of what I’ve crafted.
Chill, Alton.
Sometimes I become competitive when I perceive competition. But he’s nothing.
Until I see him smile at her, place his elbows against the bar and lean close. I can see on his lips, he’s asking her to repeat her order. It’s a ploy. He wants her lips as close to him as he can get them.
He takes his hand and places it against her shoulder. He’s touching her. Why? No.
“Excuse me,” I say to Paul as I lift out of the booth and part the crowd on my way towards the bar.
Chapter 7
Amelia
I repeat my order to him again (for the third time) his ear nearly close enough to taste. It is ungodly loud in this place, especially up by the bar, where the conversations concentrate. In the rest of the club, people dance, forego conversation for free, bodily expression. I’ve never been much of a dancer, but something inside me might compel me tonight. I feel like I could do all manner of new things, I feel afloat, I feel dizzy (in a good way), I feel--
Alton Cox Page 2
