Stuck-Up Suit Page 5

  When I slowly moved toward her, she walked backward toward a large, concrete pillar. I backed her up against it and wrapped my hands around her cheeks, planting my lips over her mouth. She opened for me as my eager tongue went in search of hers. All life around me disappeared. The sound of surrender she made into my mouth egged me on to kiss her deeper. Her warm, ample tits felt like an electric blanket on my chest. The cold metal of her tongue ring against the heat of my own tongue sent what felt like spasms through me. If we weren’t in public, I couldn’t imagine being able to stop at just kissing her. I wanted nothing more than to take her on this platform.

  She pushed me off of her and cleared her throat. “How did you know it was me?”

  I caressed her bottom lip with my thumb. “I’m not answering that until you tell me who that guy was kissing you.”

  “That wasn’t a kiss. It was a peck on the cheek. It was my friend, Tig. He met me for an early breakfast this morning.”

  “Friend, huh?”

  “He’s very married. His wife is also a good friend.”

  “So, there’s nothing going on there?”

  “No, but if there were, I wouldn’t owe you an explanation.” She wiped her mouth, which was likely still sore from my attack. “So, tell me how you knew it was me.”

  “The feather on your foot, genius. Your feet were in the picture of your legs. I used that tattoo to identify you. I’ve been watching you for days. You were apparently doing the same to me.”

  She didn’t deny that she knew who I was the entire time.

  I moved my mouth closer to hers. “Did you like what you saw? Is that why you kept texting me? When I first realized it was you, I couldn’t believe how fucking beautiful you were.”

  “So, all that talk about you thinking I might have been ugly was—”

  “A crock of shit. I’m so unbelievably attracted to you, Soraya. And your body right now is telling me you feel the same way about me.”

  “It doesn’t matter how good-looking you are. You’re a dangerous human being.”

  “You have no idea how dangerous I am when I want something. I will stop at nothing to get it. And there’s nothing more that I want right now than you. But if you can honestly tell me that you have no interest in me, I will walk away, and you’ll never hear from me again. If the fact that you’re shaking in your boots right now is any indication, you’re feeling exactly what I am.”

  “I don’t want to feel this way about a guy like you.”

  Hearing her say that was a real buzz kill. What the fuck kind of a human being did she take me for? I might have treated people like crap from time to time, but I wasn’t a goddamn criminal for Christ’s sake.

  “Let me tell you something, Soraya. I may not be the nicest guy on the planet or even the best fit for you. In fact, I know I’m not. But you can’t deny what’s going on between us. There’s only one end to this.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Me buried deep inside of you.”

  “That can’t happen.”

  “Every damn night, I dream about that fucking tongue ring swirling around my cock. You’re all I can think about. In fact, you were all I could think about before I even saw your gorgeous face. But after that happened, I was a goner.” I caressed her cheek again. “Just spend time with me.”

  “If I told you I don’t want to sleep with you, would you still want to see me?”

  Closing my eyes briefly, I opened them and said, “I would respect that.”

  “I’ve been hurt too many times in my life. I’ve vowed not to give myself to anyone that way again unless I was sure of their intentions. So, if you want to be with me, then there’s no sex. You want to talk to me? Fine. You want to get to know me? Fine. But it stops there. Is that what you really want?”

  “I want it all, but I’ll take what I can get…for now.”

  “So, when is this gonna happen?”

  “Tonight. I’ll pick you up, and I’ll take you on a real date that doesn’t involve someone’s decomposing body in the next room.”

  “You’re such a romantic.”

  “I’ll go along with the no-sex thing, but mark my words. When the time comes, I’m not gonna be the one begging for it.”

  ***

  FOR THE REST OF THAT DAY, the prospect of seeing her later consumed me. To pass the excruciating wait, I decided to write to Ask Ida.

  Dear Ida:

  I’m seeing a woman who has made it clear that she doesn’t want to have sex with me. The thing is, she doesn’t know what she’s going to be missing. I’m thinking there must be something I could do to change her mind? –Stuck-Up Suit, Manhattan

  About an hour later, a response showed up in my inbox.

  Dear Stuck-Up Suit:

  I get the sense that perhaps you just assume that all women should want to open their legs to you. I am guessing there is a reason that this woman feels that having sex with you would be detrimental to her well-being. Maybe try getting to know her for a while, give her a reason to trust you. Prove that you are invested. In the meantime, YOU should invest in a nice cold shower. Sounds like you’re going to need it.

  CHAPTER 7

  SORAYA

  SORAYA: WHERE ARE WE GOING?

  I’d left work an hour early to get ready. More than half the clothes I owned were in a heaping pile on my bed. Normally, whatever mood struck dictated my outfit. I wasn’t finicky. To me, style was an expression of your own individual personality, not following the latest trends from the runway or from one of the Kardashians. So it was freaking-me-the-fuck-out that I was on my tenth outfit.

  Graham: To a restaurant, unfortunately. Unless you’ve changed your mind. I’m more than accommodating if you’d prefer I feast on you at my place.

  If it were anyone else, all of the little pervy comments would piss me off. But for some reason¸ Graham’s made me smile. My answer to his invitation to screw was always to screw with him.

  Soraya: Actually, maybe I have changed my mind.

  Graham: Give me your address. I’m still at the office, but can be there in ten minutes, wherever the hell you live.

  I chuckled at his desperation. As much as I thought he was full of himself, there was something very endearing about the honesty he displayed wanting to be with me. Normally, to a guy like him, showing desperation was a sign of weakness. It almost made me feel bad about toying with him. Almost.

  Soraya: I meant about us having dinner tonight. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.

  Graham: Bullshit. If you don’t show up, expect a knock on your door.

  Soraya: You don’t even know where I live.

  Graham: I’m a very resourceful man. Try me.

  Soraya: Fine. I’ll be there. But you only gave me an address. Where are we going? I need to know what to wear.

  Graham: Wear whatever you’re wearing right now.

  I looked down.

  Soraya: A hot pink lace bra and G-string? Where are you taking me, a strip club?

  It was a solid five minutes before he responded.

  Graham: Don’t tell me shit like that.

  Soraya: Not a fan of hot pink?

  Graham: Oh, but I am. The shade will look lovely as a handprint on your ass if you don’t stop messing with me.

  Spanking wasn’t something I was ever into. Wasn’t being the key word. Yet the thought of him stinging my ass had my body humming. I was growing aroused from a text. Jesus. This man was dangerous. Needing a break, I tossed the phone on my bed and dug back into my closet. A little black dress shoved in the back caught my eye. I’d bought it for a funeral. I cracked myself up thinking I should have worn it the other night for my date with Aspen. When I slipped it from the hanger, my phone was flashing a new incoming text message had arrived.

  Graham: You’ve stopped responding. I’m going to take that to mean you’re busy fantasizing about my hand swatting that fine ass.

  He had an uncanny ability to turn a simple question into something dirty.

>   Soraya: I’m busy trying to figure out what to wear. Which brings me back to the original question I texted, where are we going?

  Graham: I made a reservation at Zenkichi.

  Soraya: In Brooklyn?

  Graham: Yes, in Brooklyn. There’s only one. You said you lived there, and since you refuse to let me pick you up, I chose a place close to you.

  Soraya: Wow. OK, great. I’ve wanted to try that place. It’s sort of a pain in the ass for you to get to from your office, though.

  Graham: Fitting. Since you’re such a pain in my ass. See you at 7.

  The subway station was about a block and a half from the restaurant. When I turned the corner, there was a black town car pulling up outside. I have no idea why, but I ducked into a doorway to watch the person get out. My gut told me it was Graham.

  My gut wasn’t wrong. A uniformed driver got out and opened the back door, and Graham stepped out onto the sidewalk. God, the man oozed power. He was dressed in a different expensive suit than he was wearing this morning. The way his suits fit him, there was no doubt that he had them custom made. Although it wasn’t the fancy suit that he was wearing that gave him the air of supremacy; it was the way he wore the suit. Standing in front of the restaurant, he stood tall and confident. His chest was open and broad, shoulders were back, legs apart and firmly planted. He looked straight ahead, not fiddling with his phone or staring at his feet to avoid eye contact. One hand was in the pocket of his trouser pants, his thumb outside of the pocket. I liked the thumb hooked on the outside.

  I waited a few minutes, and when he eventually looked in the other direction, I slipped out from the doorway. When he turned back and caught sight of me, I became self-conscious of my walk. The way he watched every step I made, a part of me wanted to run the other way, but the other part of me liked the intensity of his stare. A lot. So I tapped down my nerves, added some sway to my hips and decided I would not be a mouse to his cat. I would be the dog.

  “Graham.” I nodded as I stopped in front of him.

  “Soraya.” He mimicked my business-like tone and nod.

  We stood looking at each other on the sidewalk, a safe distance between us for the longest minute in the history of minutes. Then he growled, “Fuck this.” Stepping forward into my space, he wound a fistful of my hair around his hand, used it to tilt my head where he wanted it, then his mouth devoured mine.

  For a split second, I tried to resist. But I was an ice cube trying to fight the heat from the sun. It was impossible. Instead, I melted right into the blinding light. If he hadn’t wrapped his other hand snuggly around my waist, there was a good chance I’d have been on the concrete. My mind wanted to fight him at every turn, but my body couldn’t resist giving in. Traitor.

  He spoke over my lips when he finally released my mouth. “Fight it all you want, you’ll be begging one day. Mark my words.”

  His arrogance brought me to my senses. “You’re so full of yourself.”

  “I’d much rather be filling you.”

  “Pig.”

  “What’s that say about you? You’re wet for a pig.”

  I tried to push back from the grip he had wrapped around my waist. But it only made him clutch me tighter. “I’m not wet.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Only one way to verify that.”

  “Back off, Morgan.”

  Graham took a step back and raised both his hands in surrender. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  Inside, Zenkichi was dark and not what I had expected. The traditionally dressed Japanese woman led us down a long hall that was made to feel like outside. The walkway was lined with rocks and slate stones, as if we were walking a path through an outdoor Asian garden. Both sides were lined with tall bamboo and lit with lanterns. We passed an opening to a large seating area, but the hostess kept going. At the end of the hallway, she seated us in a private booth, enclosed with luxurious, thick drapes. After she had taken our drink order, she pointed out the buzzer built into the table and told us we would not be intruded on unless we wanted to be. Then she disappeared, pulling the curtains closed. It felt like we were the only two people in the world, instead of inside a busy, posh restaurant.

  “This is beautiful. But odd,” I said.

  Graham took off his jacket and settled into his side of the table with one arm casually slung over the top of the booth. “Fitting.”

  “Are you saying I’m odd?”

  “Are we going to fight about it if I say yes?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then, yes.”

  My brow furrowed. “You want to fight with me?”

  Graham tugged at his tie, loosening it. “I find it turns me on.”

  I laughed. “I think you need counseling.”

  “After the last few days, I believe you may be right.”

  The waitress returned with our drinks. She set a highball glass down in front of him and a wine glass in front of me.

  Graham had ordered Hendrick’s and tonic. “That’s an old man’s drink, gin and tonic,” I said as I sipped my wine.

  He swirled the ice around in his glass, then brought it to his lips and looked at me over the rim before drinking. ”Remember what arguing with me does. You might want to look under the table.”

  My eyes widened. “You aren’t.”

  He smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “Go ahead. Put your head under. I know you’re dying to take a peek anyway.”

  After we both finished our drinks, and some of my nerves had started to calm, we finally had our first real conversation. One that wasn’t about sex or tongue rings.

  “So how many hours do you work a day in that big fancy office of yours?”

  “I usually go in by eight and try to leave by eight.”

  “Twelve hours a day? That’s sixty hours a week.”

  “Not counting weekends.”

  “You work weekends, too?”

  “Saturdays.”

  “So your only day off is Sunday?”

  “I actually sometimes work in the evening on Sunday, too.”

  “That’s nuts. When do you find time to enjoy yourself?”

  “I enjoy my work.”

  I scoffed. “Didn’t sound that way when I stopped in the other day. Everyone there seems afraid of you, and you refused to open the door.”

  “I was busy.” He folded his arms over his chest.

  I did the same. “So was I. I took two trains to personally deliver that phone, you know. And you didn’t have the decency to even come out and say thank you.”

  “I didn’t know what was behind the door waiting for me, or I would have come out.”

  “A person. A person was behind the door. One who went out of her way for you. If I were a sixty-year-old married woman with blue hair, you should have come out to thank me.”

  He sighed. “I’m a busy man, Soraya.”

  “Yet here you are on a weeknight at only 7PM. Shouldn’t you be working until eight if you’re so busy?”

  “I make exceptions when warranted.”

  “How big of you.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You want to look under the table, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Tell me something else about you. Aside from you’re a workaholic with a superiority complex who drinks fancy drinks. All of that, I could have guessed from my observations on the train.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. I’m an only child.”

  I mumbled under my breath. Gee, I never would have guessed that one.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How about you?”

  “One sister. But I’m not speaking to her at the moment.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Bad blind date.”

  “She fixed you up?”

  “Yep.”

  “With the guy who took you to the funeral? What was his name, Dallas?”

&nb
sp; “Aspen. No, she didn’t fix me up with Aspen. I picked that disaster all on my own. She fixed me up with a guy she used to work with. Mitch.”

  “And it didn’t go well, I take it?”

  I fixed him with a stare. “I nicknamed him High Pitch Mitch with the Itch.”

  He got a chuckle out of that. “Doesn’t sound so good.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  He squinted at me. “And will I have a nickname tomorrow?”

  “Would you like one?”

  “Not if it’s anything like High Pitch Mitch with the Itch.”

  “Well, what did you have in mind?”

  The wheels spun in his head for about thirty seconds. “Morgan with the Big Organ?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You can fact check under the table at any time.” He winked.

  I continued to try to get to know him, even though all roads led to between his legs. “Any pets?”

  “I have a dog.”

  Remembering the little dog from my snooping in his cell phone, I said, “What kind of a dog? You seem like the type to have a big scary one. Like a Great Dane or a Neapolitan mastiff. Something representative of what you keep goading me into looking at under the table. You know, big dog, big d—”

  “The size of a dog is not a phallic symbol,” he interrupted.

  So, it was his cute little dog in the pictures.

  “Really? I think I read a study once that said men unknowingly purchase dogs that represent the true size of their penis.”

  “My dog was my mother’s. She passed away when he was a puppy, twelve years ago. ”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. Blackie is a West Highland terrier.”

  “Blackie? Is he black?” The little dog in the photo had been white.

  “He’s white, actually.”

  “So why Blackie? To be facetious? Or is there another reason for the name?”

  His response was clipped. “There’s no other reason.”

  Just then, the waitress served our dinner. I ordered the Bonito Shut fish entree, basically because the menu said it was for adventurous eaters only. And Graham ordered Sashimi. Both our dishes looked more like art when they arrived.