by Penny Wylder
Six o’clock finally rolls around and I slip my phone into my small clutch and grab my keys before heading downstairs. When I step outside, my mouth drops open. There’s a limo parked in front of my apartment building, a driver waiting to open the door. Okay, this is a car, technically.
“Kara Bishop?” the driver asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s me.”
He opens the door for me, and I slide into the limo. I half expect Jet to be inside waiting, but he isn’t. The driver shuts the door behind me, and soon we’re cruising through the streets of New York. The inside of the limo is posh, all leather and wood. There’s a bar tucked into one side, and enough room to fit about ten people. I smile to myself as I lean back against the seat. So this is what it’s like to be rich and live in luxury. I can’t say that I hate it. And I’m going to enjoy it for the short time that I have it.
I get an amazing view of the city starting to light up as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, going uptown.
“Where are we going?” I ask the driver.
He glances at me in the rear view mirror. “Columbus Circle.”
Columbus Circle. Huh. I can’t really think of any place to go around there. Maybe Jet wants to take a walk through the park before the sun fully sets. While the limo is crawling uptown towards Columbus Circle, I pull my phone out again and text Jet.
I wasn’t expecting a limo.
The little dots that tell me he’s typing pop up almost immediately. They start and stop a couple of times, like he’s trying to decide what he wants to say. I wanted to send the best.
I laugh a little, and I feel the driver looking at me. I text him back. Hell of a way to make an impression.
When he texts back I can practically feel him smiling. I thought I’d done that already with the toys.
True. I type, I guess I’m just trying to figure you out.
I’ll see what I can do about that when you get here.
I smirk at the phone. I’ll hold you to it. By the way, when I do get there, I’m aiming to make an impression of my own with this dress.
I can’t wait.
That last response is immediate, and my stomach tightens. I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight, but I sense deep down that it will be great. It has to be. If it’s not it will be one of the great disappointments of my life, and I don’t want to think about that. I’d felt relaxed all the way here, but now that we’re approaching Columbus Circle the nerves start dancing in my stomach again.
The limousine pulls to a stop, and the driver hops out. He opens the door for me, and I step out to see Jet waiting for me, a tulip in his hand. He’s dressed in an impeccably cut suit, and my breath catches seeing how gorgeous he is. I’m not entirely sure that this is real life. These last three days have definitely seemed like a dream.
Jet looks me up and down, and the smile he gives me spreads heat from my stomach to every part of me. “You said you wanted to make an impression,” he says. “You succeeded.”
“Thank you.”
He hands me the tulip, it’s deep purple color matching the shirt he’s wearing under his suit. “You didn’t seem like a rose person to me.”
“You’re right,” I say, inhaling the fresh scent. “It’s beautiful.”
“So are you.” Jet reaches for my hand and pulls me closer to him. One hand slides to my lower back, the other to my neck as he presses a kiss against my lips. My entire body ignites with the contact, and I lean into him. His lips are soft and they taste perfect and I want more. His fingers press into my back, and I can tell he’s restraining himself. He pulls away from the kiss, and I follow him, not ready to let him go. He laughs softly. “I hadn’t planned on doing that yet. But I couldn’t resist.”
“I would be fine with you doing it again.” He kisses me again, this time it’s not soft, our mouths pressing together desperately, both of us trying to get closer. When he lets me go my head is spinning, and I grab onto his arm to keep my balance in my heels. “Wow.”
“I’m tempted to just keep kissing you all night,” he says quietly.
“But?”
“But we’ll miss our reservation,” he says, taking my hand again, drawing me towards the building in front of us.
I was so taken with him I hadn’t even noticed. The sign says Masa. “Wait, Masa?” I ask. This is one of the most expensive, most exclusive restaurants in the city. “How did you even manage to get a reservation here?”
“I have my ways.” He grins, placing my hand on his arm and guiding me inside.
The inside is dim, the decor sleek asian fusion with low tables and straight lines, accented with a gentle curving decor that hints at traditional Japanese art. I rarely eat sushi, but that’s because less expensive sushi never tastes very good. Here, I can’t even imagine. There’s barely anyone here—it’s still early for dinner, and the host leads us to a table with a view overlooking Columbus Circle and the park.
As we approach the table, Jet leans down and whispers something in my ear. “I have something for you.”
“Other than the tulip?”
He picks up a small black gift bag sitting on his chair. “Yes.”
I try to contain the size of my smile. “Thank you.”
“Not here,” he says, his hand closing over mine as I’m about to open the bag. “Go to the restroom, and put on what’s inside.”
He says it simply, like he doesn’t expect me to argue. He has that hungry look in his eyes and I want him to kiss me again. I already know I’m going to go put on whatever is in this bag, but I have to know something first. “Did you bring me out to dinner because you wanted dinner with me? Or because you wanted another one of these tests?”
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my neck, just below my ear. “I absolutely wanted to have dinner with you,” he says, barely a whisper. “And I wanted to have a little fun while I did it.”
His tongue flicks out against my skin, and a matching tongue of heat rolls down directly into my pussy. “I’ll be right back,” I say, having difficulty pulling away, and I hear him laugh softly as I walk away from the table.
I lean against the door of the bathroom, catching my breath. The way Jet affects me is insane. If I make it through dinner without jumping across the table at him, I’ll be lucky.
Locking myself into one of the stalls, I dig through the tissue paper in the bag to find a small box. It’s a toy—I knew it would be, and thanks to my research for work I know exactly what it is. I open the box to reveal the odd, purple shape of the We-Vibe Sync, a toy used most often by couples. But one of the features people really like is that the vibrations can sync with your music, or with your phone as a remote. So even if you’re far apart, your partner can still control it. It also comes with a close range remote, but I don’t find it in the box.
Then it hits me. He wants me to put this on. There’s no remote. He has the remote or has already synced this toy with his phone. And he wants me to wear this during dinner? In public?
I feel myself dampen, and I’m embarrassed by how turned on that makes me. I’m not totally sure that I’m ready for this, but the idea of it has me squirming. On the one hand, this could be really stupid and embarrassing. On the other hand, why the hell not? I adjust the toy, making it snug—I don’t want any chance of it falling out. When I slip it inside my underwear, I’m already wet, and it has no problem sliding in. It settles against me, the front of the toy resting on my clit, the inside portion resting against my G-spot, hugging me.
The last couple of days I’ve learned just how effective those two places can be, and I think that both at the same time might tear me apart.
This does make me wonder about him though—Jet. Who is he? I don’t actually know anything about him. I don’t know if I can trust him. The fact that a virtual stranger just asked me to put on a sex toy at dinner shouldn’t make me damp with anticipation, but it does. What if I’m entirely wrong about the vibe I get from him? But—another part of my mind says—you
r gut has never been wrong before. You spend most of your time in a bubble, researching and analyzing everything to death. This is an opportunity to be spontaneous. To be fun. Work with it.
Coming out of the stall, I nod to myself in the mirror. I’m going for it. Cutting loose, just this once.
I toss the box and the bag in the trash—I don’t think I’ll be needing them again. Then I steel myself to do something I never thought I’d do: go out in public wearing a remote control vibrator.
6
Jet is waiting for me as I make my way back to our table, and he pulls out my chair for me before taking his own seat. Sitting down pushes the toy deeper inside me, and I’m even more aware of it now. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
“This is surreal,” I say.
“What is?”
“This,” I say. “The limo, the restaurant, the toys.” I keep that last part under my breath. The menu isn’t long, and none of the items have prices attached. That only confirms that I could never afford to eat here in a million years. Only places that cost more than your arm don’t list prices, and only people who don’t need to worry about money actually eat there.
But the menu mainly consists of drinks, as the food is Omakase—or the chef’s choice—with various add ons: Omni Beef and a special dessert ice cream featuring white truffles.
“Do you like beef?” Jet asks.
I nod. “I do. I don’t think I could ever be a vegetarian.”
“Good.” He smiles. “The beef here is delicious.”
He signals a waiter with one hand, and he appears out of nowhere, practically silent. I open my mouth to greet the waiter, and freeze. The vibrator is turned on. It’s just a low setting, but enough to make my whole body tingle. Jet greets the waiter, and orders our meals, adding on both the beef and the ice cream. I barely hear him, I’m so distracted by the feeling in my panties.
The feeling disappears as the waiter leaves and another server appears with glasses of water. I immediately reach for mine, and Jet chuckles.
“So, Kara Bishop,” he says, “tell me about yourself.”
I finish downing about half of my water. “What do you want to know? Other than that I’m willing to take sex toys from strangers?”
He leans forward onto the table. “I want to know what I always do. Everything.”
“Okay,” I say, “but I want to know about you, too.”
He smiles. “Question for question, then?”
“I’ll go first,” I say, taking another quick sip of water. “What’s your last name?”
“Kincaid.”
“Jet Kincaid,” I say, rolling it across my tongue. “Nice name.”
He smiles, taking a sip of his own water. “It is now. Jet is short for Jethro. I didn’t like my name so I started going by Jet pretty early on. By the time I got old enough to change it, it was so second nature that I didn’t even bother.”
“Jethro?” I stifle a laugh. “I would never have said you looked like a Jethro.”
“I take that as a compliment,” he says, and suddenly the vibrations are back.
I manage to catch my gasp just in time, but my whole body jumps in surprise. Jet places his phone on the table, and I see an unfamiliar app. I was right, he’s synced his phone to the vibe. As I watch, he places his finger on the screen, stroking upwards. The vibrations flare in intensity, and I grip the edge of the table. He grins, moving his finger in a circular motion, the vibrations rising and falling in time with the movement. God, this is so hot. I can’t take my eyes away from his finger, wondering what I’ll feel next.
The vibe is pressing into my G-spot, and little waves of pleasure are rippling outward. I take a shaky breath, and the feeling is gone. He’s turned it off again. I was right before—if I don’t jump him before the end of dinner, I’ll be very lucky.
“How does it feel?” he asks, and it looks like he’s studying me.
The waiter appears with our first course, seared salmon and a garnish I don’t recognize. Jet thanks the waiter without taking his eyes off me. I wait for him to disappear before I speak. And when I do, I have to think about what to say. My reactions probably already tell him enough about how good it feels. Finally, I say “I like it. Even though I know that I shouldn’t.”
I take a bite of the salmon and almost moan. It’s easily the best fish I’ve ever had, buttery and so soft it nearly dissolves on my tongue. Only one bite in and I know that this restaurant has earned its reputation.
“Why shouldn’t you like it?”
“Because,” I say, as I take another bite of the salmon, “as previously stated, we don’t know each other, and I’m letting you play with me. In public.”
That wicked little smirk from the shop appears, and I feel that sense of curiosity. I want him to tell me everything that makes him who he is. “You like what you like,” he says. “There’s no shame in that. I think we put too much stock into ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t.’”
“I guess that’s true, but feeling that way doesn’t erase the stigma, or the embarrassment.”
His eyes narrow. “Why would you be embarrassed?” I see his hands move, and the toy buzzes to life inside me. This time the vibrations are not soft, they’re firm, and rotating, one side of the vibrator increasing in intensity while the other falls and vice versa. The result is a cycle of sensation bouncing back and forth between my clit and my G-spot, never letting me recover. “Kara,” Jet says softly, “why would you be embarrassed?”
I put down my fork, and it clatters a little too hard against my plate. I try to push the pleasure out of my head long enough to think, but my mind is going blank. What was the question? I squeeze down on the toy, thinking it might minimize the vibrations for a second, but it only makes it stronger. “It’s private,” I say, forcing words out. “I don’t want people to see me come.”
The toy turns off at once, and I huff out a breath, feeling the absence as both loss and relief. If he had kept it up for much longer, I would have come, and I was telling the truth. I don’t want people to see me.
Jet is looking at me like I’m more delicious than the food on the table, his eyes fierce with something I don’t name. “Anyone who sees you come should recognize how fucking gorgeous you are, and that what they’re seeing is a privilege.” His manner suddenly eases, and he leans back against the chair. “You are going to come before dinner is over.” He says it simply, as if it’s predetermined.
“We’ll see about that,” I say, challenging him. I’ve never been more confused about what I want to happen. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been in my life, and every time I feel the toy turn on, I’m more aroused by the fact that he’s teasing me here where anyone can see. But I don’t know if I’m ready to have an orgasm in the middle of a restaurant which is becoming more crowded with each passing minute.
He doesn’t respond, only smiles while taking a bite of the salmon. After a few minutes of silence he asks, “I want to know how you came to work in a sex shop.”
“It’s not a very interesting story,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to hear it.”
A waiter appears with wine, and I use it as a distraction, taking a sip of the glass he serves me. “I was working at a market research firm, and they downsized. The way the economy is right now, there are more people than jobs. At first I was only applying at other market research firms, but when that didn’t work after six weeks, I started applying everywhere. Pleasure Chest is one of the first places I got an interview.” I finish the little spiel with a shrug. “I went with it because I like researching new things, and…almost everything in that shop is new.”
“Maybe a few less now.”
I laugh. “Definitely.”
Jet raises his glass of wine, and we touch our glasses together in a toast.
“I hope you don’t find my next question offensive,” I say, “but you are single, right?”
“Yes, I am single.”
A small knot in my sh
oulders releases with that confirmation. “I just had to make sure. You want to know how I feel about the toys, and the only reason I could think of was that you wanted to buy the toys for someone else.”
He nods. “I am very single. I should have made that clear earlier. The only person who has my attention is you.” His hand goes to his phone, and as if to prove his point, the toy flares to life, a truly intense buzzing that forces a sound from me. I’m approaching an orgasm so fast, that I shift my hips, trying to ease the pressure just a little. But the toy doesn’t move, and I know that Jet is right—I am going to come before the night is over. Just as I’m about to go over the edge, it stops, and I gasp, suddenly breathing hard and trying to keep my composure as the waiter comes and replaces our salmon with a plate of sushi.
“How close were you?” he asks.
“Way too close,” I say. “For that, I get an extra question. What do you do for a living?”
He unwraps a pair of the chopsticks that the waiter brought. “I’m a businessman.”
“That was impressively vague.”
“Thank you.”
I pull out my own chopsticks, and the sushi is absolutely amazing. “If you won’t tell me more than that, can I at least ask if your visits to the store have something to do with your business?”
He nods. “In a way they do, yeah.”
“But you’re not going to tell me what it is.”
He thinks for a moment. “I will. But not yet.”
“Okay,” I say, studying him. I can’t think of a reason for secrecy, but then again, we did just meet.
“What did you do before the market research?”
I make a face. “I was a perpetual student. I really like learning, and so it was a lot of fun. But now I’ve got a lot of degrees I can’t use and a lot of student debt to show for it.”
“How many degrees do you have?”
I count in my head. “Three bachelor’s and a master’s.”
His eyes go wide. “What subjects?”
“Well,” I say, going for more wine, “I did two of the bachelor’s at once, Art History and Communication. After that I did the third Bachelor’s in Marketing. I did a Master’s in Education with an emphasis on literature.”
