Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Choos, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert breasts, surprised by the soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Ari tweaking and tugging them filled my head. A bolt of electricity ripped through my body.
Holding onto the armoire, I took off my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold the latter to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of Law and Order popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime.
Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Fucked-Up Pantyhose.”
Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole-in-the-wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and the bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the scent of my encounter. I loosened my ponytail, letting my thick hair fall to the middle of my back, and then lathered it up with my cheap drugstore shampoo. Impulsively, I rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, shocked that my bud was still so sensitive and swollen. A buzz of excitement shot through me.
After conditioning my hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my torso—a zebra print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my complexion was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Her best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!
With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair back into a ponytail, with no time to blow dry it, and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Ari licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that feel like? At the last minute, I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a recent birthday present from Lauren, who thought it might help me get some sex in the city. She couldn’t have been more right.
I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps and shimmied it down. It stopped mid-thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky fabric was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.
Don’t wear pantyhose. I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror. Damn! I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.
Remember, no pantyhose. Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Loomers, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Choos and gave a final look at myself in the mirror.
Sarah, plain and tall, in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. Pretty, and witty, and wise. But, damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance, as my landline started ringing.
Shit. Wearing my heels, I teetered to the kitchen but not in time for the call to go my voicemail. I played back the message and could faintly hear Lauren’s voice, the Black Eyed Peas singing, “I’ve Got a Feeling” in the background.
“Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.
I glanced at the wall clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with my mysterious Trainman.
8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed by me, several pausing to stare. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink, and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.
My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said: The grass can’t compete with the trees and I was just a tall blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful trees.
My heart was sinking, and my nerves were ticking like a countdown clock. And then, as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. A devilish grin flashed across his swoon-worthy face.
My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was casually dressed in jeans—the premium denim kind—and a black cotton T-shirt—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his little black dress and uncomfortable.
“Hi,” I said nervously, hating myself for my banality.
In my spiky heels, we were practically the same height, making him about six three. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places he had no right to be.
“The dress suits you,” he said at last with a glimmer of approval.
He offered me his arm, and my eyes fixed on his biceps. Perfect, not too big as if to shout professional weight lifter, but enough to let me know that he worked out. The rest of his body was equally sculpted to perfection. The outlines of his muscled thighs and calves were visible through the denim, and I could see the ripple of his abs beneath his fine cotton tee.
I hooked my arm in his, glad to have someone help me down the steps in these mile-high heels. Please don’t let me trip. Please! I prayed silently.
I made it to the street. A small victory. I suppose we were walking somewhere—there were lots of good restaurants in the theater district—but truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to walking more than a block in my stilettos. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still didn’t trust myself in them.
“My driver will be here any second,” said Ari.
Driver? What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Ari motioned with his finger to it and helped me step off the curb.
A tall uniformed man, with rich, ebony skin and the intimidating build of Mr. Clean, immediately came around the car and opened the passenger door.
“After you,” said Ari.
I looked at him with hesitancy, and then with as much grace as I could muster in my tight dress and six-inch high heels, I slid into the car. Ari climbed in after me. The door closed, and I was sitting, once again, next to my mysterious stranger on a train.
The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Soft black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark-tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating us from the driver. There was also a well-stocked bar. I’d never been in a limo before. Obviously, Trainman was rich. Very rich. Again the question: What was he doing with me?
He stretched his long, taut legs out in front of him, and I noticed he was wearing expensive black suede loafers with no
socks. I impulsively crossed mine—acutely aware that I was not wearing underwear. The thought made me press by legs tighter together. I wondered—was this some kind of defense mechanism?
Ari glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know?—and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his bronzed face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I wasn’t wearing pantyhose that pleased him? I dared not to ask.
The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with that of the car’s rich leather and wafted up my nose, making me feel lightheaded. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and the throbbing in my groin kicked up a notch with the movement of the car. Please don’t let me get carsick.
“I hope you like lobster,” he said, breaking the silence.
Oooh. That was a conversation starter. Me, who lived on ramen noodles and an occasional macrobiotic dinner out, courtesy of BFF Lauren, who was forever going through a raw diet phase, didn’t know the first thing about eating lobster. All I knew was that it was a big red shellfish, with big, scary claws, that I could never afford.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Good. We’re going to The Palm, my favorite restaurant.”
“Cool.”
This was not going well. Despite my intimate encounter with this gorgeous man only hours ago, I now felt at a loss for words. Remembering one of my favorite sayings—Speak only when spoken to—I peered out the tinted window, gazing at the spectacle of cars, cabs, and pedestrians that made New York the city that never sleeps. A thought crossed my mind. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. Somehow, I thought Ari’s piercing blue eyes could see right through me yet mine couldn’t penetrate him. He made me feel naked.
His sultry voice diverted my attention. “Would you like a drink?”
“Um, a Coke would be nice.”
“Come on, Saarah. You can do better than that. It’s not a school night,” he said in a tone that was half-amused, half-mocking.
With a smirk, he reached for a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and poured some into two crystal goblets. He handed me a glass and then clinked his against mine.
“Cheers. To you and a fine meal.” His eyes stayed fixed on my face.
My heart hammering, I put the goblet to my lips and took a sip of the wine. It was chilled and delicious. It didn’t taste like the acidic or oversweet “house wine” I occasionally ordered when I was out with Lauren. No, it tasted perfectly balanced and velvety. As I swallowed, I glanced at the label on the bottle; it was in French. So, Trainman liked fine cars, fine wines, fine food…and fine women?
The limo was heading east on Forty-Second Street, the driver expertly weaving in and out of the insane Friday night midtown traffic. I imbibed more of my wine.
“So, Saarah…”
There he was, saying my name with that slow, sexy lilt. My breath caught in my throat.
Holding his glass of wine in one hand, he slowly ran the manicured fingertips of the other down my right leg, all the way down to my ankle. His caress gave me goosebumps.
“So, you didn’t wear any pantyhose,” he purred, his hand rubbing up and down my ankle.
I swallowed hard. Or any panties. I was too aroused to say anything.
“I hope you’re as hungry as I am.”
“I’m famished,” I squeaked. Suddenly, I was craving a heaping portion of his cock. My stomach emitted an embarrassing growl.
He responded with that amused smile while his hand glided back up my leg and made its way under my little black dress. His middle finger toyed with my magic button that turned on the heat. I was getting hot. Very hot. And very wet.
“You’re salivating. You must be starving.”
I bit down on my glossed lips to suppress a moan.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
Hesitantly, I parted my lips. Removing his hand from between my thighs, he slid his middle finger, wet with my sex, across my tongue.
“Just a small taste of what’s to come.” A roguish glint danced in his eyes.
Never having tasted myself before, I had to steady the wine in my hand at the unexpected experience as shock and pleasure flowed through my body. Every nerve in my body was buzzing. I feared one way or another I was going to end up with a large, wet stain on my new black dress if we didn’t get to the restaurant soon.
The limo turned north on Third and shortly after pulled up behind a cab in front of The Palm. The driver got out and our door swung open. Ari gracefully slid out and I followed, aided by his hand. My stomach rumbled again. I really was hungry.
Inside, The Palm was a noisy, bustling restaurant with white-clothed tables and a colorful array of caricatures of well-known celebrities lining the walls. As we walked toward the check-in area, a jovial heavyset man, with half-moon glasses, greeted my companion with a warm handshake.
“Good to see you, Mr. Golden. Your regular table is waiting for you.”
So now, I knew Trainman’s full name. Ari Golden. Fitting for the golden-haired warrior. Later tonight, I would google him and find out everything there was to know.
Holding my hand, Ari followed an attractive, mini-skirted hostess who kept looking back at him, past the jammed bar and table after table of chicly dressed couples and businessmen devouring monstrous lobsters. I managed to keep up on my heels and again prayed I wouldn’t do something embarrassing like breaking my ankle in front of all these rich people.
Several striking, well-dressed women stopped Ari along the way, eyeing me curiously. Ari politely acknowledged each of them with a quick smile and a nod. Former strangers on a train?
The circular booth to which we were led was in the far corner of the restaurant. It could easily accommodate four more people, but we had it all to ourselves. I slid all the way into it expecting Ari to sit across from me, but much to my surprise, he positioned himself practically next to me. In fact, he was so close to me, I could feel his heat. My heart pounded.
A waiter came by and Ari ordered for the two of us: two Manhattans, Caesar salads, and a four-pound lobster to share.
I was happy when the Manhattans arrived at our table. I still felt super-nervous being with this intimidating man. I didn’t know what to talk about. I took several consecutive gulps of the drink. The chilled, velvety liquid, another first, went down smoothly and loosened me up. A little.
Twirling his Manhattan cherry by the stem, Ari eased into conversation.
“Sarah is a beautiful name. It means ‘princess’ in Hebrew.”
My mother had told me that once, but I was the last thing from being a princess. Tomboy, geek, plain Jane, yes. But definitely not a princess.
“Thanks,” I said in a tone that was more dubious than flattered.
He plucked the cherry from his drink and flicked it with his tongue. “I’ve seen you a few times before at 30th Street Station.”
I gulped. Had he been spying on me?
He popped the cherry into his mouth and swallowed as my mind whirled with unsettling thoughts. He’d stalked me?
“Were you visiting someone there?”
I nervously nodded.
“Oh, a boyfriend?”
“No, my mom,” I replied, taken aback by his question and his confrontational tone. “She’s being treated for cancer at Penn’s medical center.”
Without warning, all the emotions I had bottled up broke loose. Remorse. Fear. Hopelessness. Grief. I don’t know what caused it. The wine. The Manhattan. The cherry. Or a combination of all three. Tears that had been welling up in my eyes on and off all day streamed down my cheeks.
Before I could apologize for my emotional outburst, Ari leaned into me and brushed them away with his thumbs. With a tenderness that surprised me.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffed.
“Don’t be.” His voice embodied genuine compassion. “I lost my father to cancer several years ago.”
So we did have something in common. Or close enough. Fingers crossed, my mother would be cured and go into remission.
“What kind?�
�� I asked hesitantly.
“Lung.” Sadness filled his voice. “He was a smoker.”
“My mother has lung cancer too, but she never smoked a day in her life.”
Anger from this unfair fate rose fast and furious inside me. Just in time, the Caesar salads arrived. I picked at mine, my appetite suddenly gone. Ari dug into his, sheepishly gazing up at me with each forkful.
“Saarah, cheer up!” It was almost a command. “Here comes the lobster.”
My eyes grew wide at the sight of the humongous red-shelled creature that our waiter set down in the middle of our table. Alongside the platter, he added a couple of nutcrackers and pickers as well as a side of melted butter. Tying ample plastic bibs around our necks, he bid us, “Bon appétit.”
My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the lobster and Ari’s lit up face. I had never eaten lobster before and truly had no clue where or how to begin. Thank goodness, my gorgeous companion was a god. And a mind reader.
“Watch. Use the nutcracker and start with the tail. The most succulent part.” Squeezing the utensil, he skillfully cracked the creature’s tail and then plunged one of the slim two-pronged forks into the meat. “Taste,” he ordered after dipping the snowy meat into the butter.
I opened my mouth and let him feed me the buttery piece. Oh, God, it was good. Rich, melt-in-your-mouth good. I instantly wanted more.
“Your turn.” A wry smile lit up his face. “But I want you to crack a claw. The next best piece of meat.”
Naughty Nelle Page 31
