31 Flavors of Kink

by Leia Shaw

  I’m an 8. Close enough. I’ll meet you outside in ten.

  Close enough? Oh hell.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later, Nick opens the door and steps inside. I’ve been standing in the hallway, careful not to sit and wrinkle my dress, for twenty minutes. My fingertips ache. Made fidgety by anxiety, I’ve smoothed down the wrapping paper and curled the ribbon over and over on the one present I got Nick. The ribbon has gone frizzy. Already my toes are crying out for release from the close-enough-sized shoes. He looks me up and down, and his eyes fire up like little lanterns. It makes me smile.

  “You look beautiful, honey,” he says and kisses my cheek. “I’d kiss your lips, but I’m afraid to ruin your lipstick.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, and it doesn’t taste very good either.”

  “A present?” He eyes the flat rectangle.

  “I’ll give it to you when we get to wherever it is we’re going…which is?” I tilt an eyebrow.

  “Uh-uh. Secret. You’ll find out soon.”

  We stand awkwardly for a moment; then he reaches into his back pocket. “Here.” He hands me an envelope. “I’m going to get changed, and I’ll be right back.” He turns for the stairs, then stops abruptly. “Read that.” His gaze drops to the envelope in my hands, and I nod.

  As soon as I hear him stomping around upstairs, I open the envelope. It’s a Valentine’s Day card. Inside is a generic message, but underneath, written in his handwriting, it says:

  You know I’m not great with words. But you should know my feelings about you have never changed from the moment I said “I do.” And I would say it a million times over no matter what. I love you. Nothing in this world can change that.

  A tear slides down my cheek. My God. I can’t believe I ever thought he would cheat on me. What was I thinking? Trust me to turn my own weird kinkiness into some kind of conspiracy where Nick ends up at fault. I still have the problem with what to do about my craving for bondage and pain, but…that can wait. I got me a wonderful man, and right now, I feel like I don’t deserve him.

  I haul in a long, sniffly breath.

  “Why are you crying?” Nick’s voice pulls me back to the present.

  I look up, then throw myself into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. “I-I’m so sorry.”

  He strokes my back while I try to pull myself together. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your pretty makeup.”

  I pull away quickly. “Crap. You’re right.” Using a finger, I wipe my tears away, careful not to smudge my eyeliner.

  Nick chuckles and grabs my hand. “You’re still beautiful. And we have to go, or we’ll be late.” He grabs our coats while I find my purse.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Melting Pot.”

  I turn to look at him. “The trendy fondue place? I’ve been wanting to go there since it opened a year ago.”

  He smiles. “I know.”

  My brows descend “But you need a reservation to get in there.”

  His smile turns cryptic. “And?”

  I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “How long have you been planning this?”

  Wordlessly he helps me into my coat and keeps that same mysterious smile. I pick up the present again and clutch it to me. My one paltry effort at romance.

  “How long?” I push.

  “Come on. We’re late.” He swats my ass and motions to the door.

  I grumble because I know he won’t tell me.

  On the way to the car, I feel a little irritated with myself at this added burden to my mountain of growing guilt. He hatched this Valentine’s surprise while I did nothing but doubt his trustworthiness and buy him a silly present.

  Like a perfect gentleman, Nick opens my car door. I pause and look at him, searching for the right words to say. “I…I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you—”

  “I know.” He plants a soft kiss on my lips. “We’re both to blame. But let’s move on now, okay?”

  I smile slightly and slide into the car. Okay. Moving on. To what?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Dinner reservation for the Beckhams,” Nick says to the snotty-looking host with a long nose.

  He eyes us suspiciously, slowly twirling his silver pencil, as I strangle my giggles. By the time he tucks the pen into the breast pocket of his starched black shirt and swivels on his heel to lead us to our table, I’m ready to burst.

  “Beckham?” I whisper in Nick’s ear as we follow Sir Snobbynose to our seat.

  Nick shrugs. “That was my attempt at being funny.”

  I give him my best saucy smirk when we sit in our booth. “You’re as bad at being funny as I am at doing a striptease.”

  It takes him a moment to think through my statement, and then he narrows his eyes at me. “Look at your menu, Mrs. Beckham, and quit giving me a hard time.”

  I chuckle and lift the menu in front of me. But before I browse, I take a good look around for the first time. Our booth is secluded in a corner far from the entrance. The upholstered seat is a long angular C shape, and we’re bumping our knees together at the corner. With the subdued lighting, and somber reds, browns, and black, the moody decor is either lifted from this month’s magazine of romantic and cozy, or it’s from the mind of a brooding demon with a lazy fashion sense. I can’t decide which.

  As long as the waiter doesn’t return brandishing a pitchfork, I don’t care. I’ve been dying to try out the food at the Melting Pot ever since Jessie raved about it before she broke up with her ex-boyfriend.

  In the middle of the table sits a silver pot on top of a burner—currently empty, but it looks promising. The menu here revolves around various dips that go into it. Depending on the course, it’s either savory or sweet, and I can’t wait to try it out. We order, and the waiter bows magnificently, then sails off to the kitchen.

  “So? What do you think?” Nick asks.

  I look around the room again. “Looks fun. I hope the food is good.”

  My stomach grumbles. The Spanx are possibly crushing my intestines.

  He smiles. “I heard that. You’re hungry at least.”

  I shrug. “Emotional distress makes me lose my appetite. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  He gazes down at his empty plate. “Sorry about that.”

  “Moving on, remember? It’s not all your fault.”

  We launch into conversation about everything—work, the weather, new movies we’d like to see. A whole month’s worth of conversation takes us to the food arriving.

  I take a deep breath and place the present in front of him.

  “I get to open it? Finally.”

  I shrug. “I thought of giving it to a waiter, but…you turn it on at the back. It’s not much.”

  The last bit of paper is ripped away, revealing the picture frame that is simple brushed steel. Nick flicks the switch. The first of a slide show of pictures from his hiking and caving adventures comes to life. The colors seem bright as day in the dimly lit room.

  “Ahh.”

  “It’s nothing. I mean compared to coming to this restaurant and a house of balloons.”

  “Shhh.” Nick puts his finger on my lips. “I love it. Reminds me of good times. Come here.” He pulls me close, and we kiss. Though brief, the brush of his lips on mine makes me want to cuddle in close.

  “Put your arm around me.”

  “Done. Thank you, Sid. Thank you.” I feel him breathing softly into my hair. Peace settles on us like a drift of early snow.

  And the food is just as delicious as I’d hoped. Breads and various vegetables make up the appetizer.

  As we spar over the first chunk of bread, Nick murmurs, “I’m going to come home earlier when I can, and I won’t go to happy hour for a while.”

  “Really?” I look up, surprised. The relief at him making the first move relaxes me. “Then I promise not to make fun of your boss’s name anymore.” Under my breath I add, “Though foggy nights will always remind me of her.”

  “What?”<
br />
  “Nothing. Here, try this.” I shove a piece of bread in his mouth.

  His eyes turn to slits as he chews. “Be nice,” he scolds when he’s done.

  I chuckle and take another sip of crisp white wine, then try the artichoke dip. The bread is crunchy and brown on the outside, soft inside, and tastes as rich as molten gold.

  “That comment I made about your job…” He pauses and gives me a stark look of sincerity. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry and wanted to hurt you. I know you work just as hard as I do. I had no right to devalue that.”

  The sting of hurt comes back a little, but I choke back my tears and poke at my food. “Do you want me to go to school? Get a degree? Be like you?” I went immediately into retail after high school, figuring I could never afford tuition. The idea of college has always intimidated me.

  “Only if you want to. But not so you can be like me. We don’t need another me. I would support anything you wanted to do.”

  I smile, and he returns it. I know he’d do anything for me—he’s always encouraged me in whatever path I wanted.

  “Anyway, it’s something to think about,” he says, stuffing another piece of bread in his mouth.

  We munch our way through the appetizer, past the main course, and wait for the dessert to arrive. And still I haven’t figured out how to bring up what bothers me the most—the way our sex life seems to be hurtling toward a bottomless pit of doom. We have talked about everything but this. I want—no, need—what he doesn’t.

  Luckily the wine has spread a warm glow though me. I can do this, right? Live my life and just subsist on the crumbs of good sex that come my way once a year or so? Can’t I?

  I stare at the tablecloth.

  “Hey.” Nick cradles my chin and makes me look up. “Why the sad face all of a sudden?”

  Am I that transparent? I wrestle some more inside, then can’t help myself whispering, “Sex.” I frown miserably at him. “I know. I ask too much.”

  He shakes his head adamantly. “You need to stop saying that.” His eyes crease at the corners. “I have a surprise at home.”

  My spirit perks up a bit. “A what? A sex surprise?” I imagine a golden-haired Adonis emerging naked and erect from under the balloons with a flogger in hand. Not likely.

  “Maybe.” He lowers his hand beneath the table, and I feel his fingers at the hem of my dress. “You’ll have to wait and see. Unless…” His hand creeps farther toward my crotch.

  Things down there stir. “Unless what?” I ask, surprised at the rasp in my voice.

  “Unless you’d rather I order you to strip naked so I can tie you to the table and ravish you?”

  Even though it’s impossible and ridiculous, and scary to think of lying naked in a restaurant, the image flashes to me. Spread-eagled, with my ankles and wrists fastened down. Nick standing over me, his hands on my breasts while he slowly kisses his way down to where my mound is bared and my pussy waits for him to touch it. And I can’t do a thing to stop him.

  I swallow. The room is suddenly hot.

  And now I’m wet, and tingles spread slowly over my skin, livening my flesh. “That would be nice. But we might annoy the waiters. Dessert first?”

  Nick chuckles. “I think instead I’ll just stick my finger inside you and get you off.” He tilts his head, moves his fingertips under the hem of my dress. I feel like a submarine captain about to track a torpedo. Two and a half inches, two inches, one and a half. Then what? Liftoff? God. My inner walls squeeze down at the thought of him touching me there—with people only yards away. Is he daring me?

  Spanx! Crap, I forgot about the Spanx. I scoot away and mumble, “Uh, bathroom.” I grab my purse and make a quick retreat to the women’s room. What will save me in there, I have no idea. But I need a moment to consider my options.

  Do I really want to get naughty in a restaurant booth with Nick? I can feel my wetness through the underwear. Well, my libido seems to have answered that question. So the only option is to take off the Spanx.

  I open the handicapped stall where I’ll have room to wiggle myself out of them. Whoa! Too dirty. Seriously, don’t people know how to flush?

  The next stall over is decent but cramped. It’ll have to do. I lift my dress and begin the process of liberating my curves. I grab the waistband and yank. And yank and yank. Down, down my body. At my hips, I reach some resistance. I wriggle them back and forth, but the stall is so narrow I knock into the walls. I widen my stance, hovering above the toilet. Balancing on my too-small heels proves challenging. I grunt and curse under my breath. Sweat drips down my nose. But I am going to get these damn things off if it’s the last thing I do.

  Taking a more aggressive approach, I shove my hands under the waistband around my hips and pull down as hard as I can. Then I hear a loud rip and freeze. I look down. The lacy red underwear Nick got me is torn through at the side.

  “Shit!” I hiss. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  The sound of a throat clearing comes from the stall next to me. Double shit! Someone walked in between my grunts and thumping about? It probably sounds like I’m giving birth in here.

  With a deep breath, I renew my struggle, and the Spanx finally slip down to the skinnier part of my legs, and I gingerly step out of them. It would be just my luck to trip on my heels and fall into the toilet.

  I shove the Spanx into my bag and study the pretty underwear, ruined and hanging off my hip. The idea of going commando with a skirt on is frightening. And titillating. But since I don’t carry a sewing kit in my purse, I don’t have a choice. Commando it is. I slip the underwear off and stuff those into my purse too.

  As I walk back to the booth, the air hits my pussy, making me feel strange…and naughty.

  Nick’s forehead creases when I approach. “You okay?”

  Act like nothing has changed, I coach myself. “Yes, fine.” I give him a small smile and slide into the booth, careful to tuck my dress under my backside. “Why?”

  His brow smoothes, and he looks amused. “Well, you were gone a long time. And your face is all flushed.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I know I must be as red as a traffic light. Just great. “I wasn’t… I’m not…” Aw, crap. “Woman issues,” I mumble, gulping down the rest of my wine.

  He puts a hand up. “Say no more. But can we continue where we left off?”

  Where we left off? With him about to give me an orgasm in the restaurant? I almost say no. Chicken! Time slows. The room seems to hang on my decision.

  What’s the saying? Pull up your big-girl panties? Well, I don’t have any, do I? I lick my lips, give him a flirty smile, and inch closer. “Yes.”

  I’m still not sure I’m ready for this. There’s the Mile High Club for airplanes; do they call this something too? The Gourmet Orgasmer doesn’t have the same ring to it. The Culinary Come Club? Nick puts his hand on my thigh, under the dress, and reaches my groin in about two seconds flat. I stiffen.

  “Are you…” He glances at me, eyes widening, while delving just a little deeper between my legs. “Damn, Sid, you don’t have any—”

  “Shh!”

  In an attempt to delay him, I mutter my question. “Is there a name for getting naughty in a restaurant?” Then I do a tiny squirm and squeeze his hand. Move again, damn you.

  “What?” He nudges me with his thigh at the same time as his long finger presses apart my nether lips. I dissolve. Our lust seems to be a sizzling cloud encompassing me and him and everywhere our bodies touch.

  I let out my breath, slow and easy.

  He’s nonchalantly dipping stuff in the chocolate sauce that turned up while I was gone. While his other hand dips into me. And I’m sitting here summoning my ability to talk from the back of my mind. My dirty, kinky mind.

  I almost coo as he starts to move that finger faster, back and forth in my slippery cleft.

  Is anyone watching? Mouth parted, I look around. No one is staring. But the tablecloth might not be quite covering what Nick is doing to me.
Panic screams to the surface. An exhibitionist I am not.

  “Nick!” I jam shut my thighs on his fingers, trying to stop him moving.

  “What?” He chews and swallows, then smiles at me.

  “Not here. Please?”

  “No?” He lowers his voice. “You’re wet. Maybe you could just try not to squeal?” Then he tweaks my clitoris. I jerk.

  I scowl at him. His finger wiggles, right on top of my clit. I shut my eyes and say, in a strangled tone, “No. Absolutely not.”

  “You sure?”

  Hell. How can anyone not see? I let my gaze sweep the room rapidly before moaning quietly. “No.”

  Wiggle goes that finger. I catch sight of him licking sauce off his other hand, see his tongue curl out for a millisecond and think of where his other fingers are—his now very wet fingers. He’s toying with me, but oh my, I want him to.

  He leans in, pressing at my shoulder with his while addressing his question to the table. “No, stop? Or no, keep going?”

  “Um, keep going.” I bend over the table, part my thighs, then blindly fish a piece of something from the tray.

  This is so naughty—I would never ever have imagined I would go through with this, but something about that very naughtiness accelerates my arousal. My clit burns with a little pumping storm of energy, of excruciating lust. He doesn’t go inside me. The angle must be wrong, but he’s concentrating on my swollen clit. No longer content to just rub the slick nub back and forth and sideways, he grips it with finger and thumb and squeezes it rhythmically.

  Head bowed, chest aching from trying not to pant and groan, I catch a breath, then another. I feel the heat rise to a bursting pinnacle. The table’s edge anchors me. Holding it tight with both hands, I rock into a body-quaking orgasm so intense a spurt of liquid leaks from between my folds. A moan edges from my lips; then something squishy is jammed in there, and instinctively I close my mouth and finish my orgasm in silence.

  I sit there, taking deep, measured breaths that make my ribs hurt a little. I swallow whatever is in my mouth and lick my lips. My heart slows. From under my slightly sweaty brow I survey the restaurant. No one is looking. I hope.

  “How’s the cheesecake?” Nick asks as if everything is normal.