Love to Love Her YAC (28 page)

“I was referring to your mouth turning into a
chardonnay sprinkler, you idiot,” she says in mock petulance as she
punches Ruthie in the shoulder.  Ruthie, seemingly
unmoved by Corinne’s show of violence, looks back at me. She
shudders.

“And
I
was referring to that atrocity
currently operating as Rhiannon's sausage casing.  Where the
hell did you get that?” She reaches for the bottom of my garment, a
tight, black satin dress with spaghetti straps.

“Oh, come on Ruth,” I say, easing away from
her reach and twirling around to inspect my backside. The dress
really
isn’t
jaw-dropping, if we’re being honest.  That
said, it isn’t nearly so bad as she’s making it out to be – in my
opinion.  Maybe it’s a
little
unflattering, sure. 
No dress is perfect. 

Truth be told, I don’t exactly have much to
choose from.  The only “formal” clothing I really have
includes a summery floral dress I bought to wear for rush my
freshman year of college (sororities ended up being antithetical to
my personality), a wintery woolen skirt and coat set (“for
interviews,” my mother had insisted when she forced me to buy it),
and this, a dress I’ve owned since high school.

“It’s
vintage
,” I say defensively.
“Plus, black is timeless.”

“You are aware the Y2K aesthetic does not
qualify as vintage, correct?” Ruthie stands up and starts yanking
on my zipper.  “As for
timeless
, sure.  You
wouldn’t happen to have any platforms, would you?  You want me
to give you a zigzag part?” 

I roll my eyes.  “Okay, fine.  I’m
out of ideas, though,” I respond, collapsing in the chair next to
her.  “This is
hard.
Maybe I’m not cut out for
dating.”
 

“
All
I’m saying is you need to wear
something that shows off your assets.” 

Corinne snorts, clearly to the inebriation
threshold where sophomoric puns are entering the realm of
funny.  Ruthie lifts an eyebrow at her in amusement.
“Yeah
,
very funny Corinne. 
Assets
,” she
repeats.

7:00 PM

M
inutes later we
trooped over to Ruthie and Corinne’s apartment (Franzia in tow)—but
not before threats were made to burn the dress I had on. The girls
spent close to ten minutes systematically rooting through Ruthie’s
wardrobe in search of something more flattering.  Now, with
little time left until Blake comes to pick me up, my
assets
find themselves on full display—both figuratively and literally. In
their infinite wisdom, they settled on a dress that’s one size too
small for Ruthie—which means it’s
two
sizes too small for
me.

Corinne and Ruthie ardently emphasize that
this is, in fact, a good thing. What was knee-length on Ruthie cuts
off mid-thigh for me, and the gauzy fabric is snug enough to draw
attention to all the “right” places. The dress is backless with
satin straps that crisscross my shoulders before plunging boldly
down between my breasts. This deep sapphire number sure is a
number—
and a very expensive number, at that.  “Don’t
you
dare
spill anything on this,” Ruthie says severely as
she zips me from behind. “Seriously.  I will harvest your
organs and use the money to finance the dry cleaning.”

I examine my reflection in disbelief.
Hopefully the old adage that “less is more” turns out to be based
in truth.

7:45 PM

I
t ended up being
worth it to see the look on Blake’s face when he came to get me. It
was the proverbial Hollywood,
sauntering-down-the-stairs-in-slow-motion to meet your
fine-mother-effing-specimen-of-the-male-sex date before
prom.  Or spring formal.  Homecoming. Whatever. 

Seriously,
what a response
! When Blake
had first suggested an official
date
date, I was frankly
just thrilled to have another excuse to dress up—but seeing the
look on Blake’s face as he took in the view was
truly
the
icing on the cake. 

We’re sitting diagonally across from each
other on two sides of an L-shaped booth. I’ve spent the entirety of
dinner in a pleasant cross between stroked-ego and wine-induced
euphoria: he literally has not taken his eyes off me the entire
meal.  And of course, as much as my attire may leave little to
the imagination where my body is concerned, I am harboring a
certain
secret
… The thought of his reaction when he unwraps
his “present” later on this evening has me wanting to rush through
dinner so we can get back to his place as quickly as possible.

Surveying his expression, I can tell Blake
has something on his mind; he’s doing that thing he does when he
wants to ask me a question.  That restless grin—a smirk that
alternates with a look of pensiveness—coupled with a sort of
obnoxious tendency to stare off into space as if there's something
terribly interesting over my shoulder.  

I kick his foot under the table and he
mock-scowls back. “What?” I ask him, grinning.  “I know you
want to say something.  You’re acting all daydreamy. 
Spit ‘er out, partner.”

“I was just thinking you look really
beautiful tonight,” he responds, his smile growing so big it’s
bordering on disingenuous.

“Oh, come on Blake,
beautiful? 
I
know that’s not it.” I put my elbows on the table and cradle my
chin, reconsidering. “Well, actually, I
do
know I’m looking
like a sex bomb tonight.  But that’s not what’s on your
mind.”

Flushed with wine, flirtation comes
easy.  I’m all smiles, and I find myself making subtle
adjustments to reveal parts of myself to maximal effect. 
Teasing him like this is just so damn
easy. 
Crossing
my right leg bunches up the hem of my skirt, exposing a good half
foot of my thigh—I catch his eyes flicker to the smooth expanse of
flesh and then follow the curve of my hip past my waist.  It
lingers on my breasts before settling on my lips (which, thanks to
some help from Corinne, are painted a provocative shade of fuck-me
red).

“My, aren’t we modest?” he laughs, shaking
his head and putting down his fork.  I roll my eyes and break
off a piece of bread. Blake drops his voice before
continuing.  “Actually, I was just thinking about what I want
to do with you tonight.” 

“Oh?” 

“You want me to tell you?”  He’s looking
at me like he’s totally serious; I’ve never seen him like this, and
it’s too much.  I laugh. 

“Of course.  Does it involve baking you
a pie?  Watching football while massaging your feet,
perhaps?”

Blake straightens up and wipes his mouth with
his napkin.  He shifts back in his seat, getting comfortable,
then looks me straight in the eye.  Suddenly I feel a little
awkward; his gaze pierces through me and for a minute it seems as
if he’s
actually
going to start talking about it. And then,
to my surprise—and initial horror—he does.

“We’re going to go back to my place,” he
starts, his voice a low bass, his words measured and
deliberate.  His unrelenting gaze causes me to squirm in my
chair and my heart to pound a little harder.  I’m sure the
coquettish smile is gone from my face. “I’m going to wait in the
living room.  You’ll see yourself into the bedroom.”

Still unsure how to react, I emit a short
chuckle and chirp, “Right-o, captain!”  This elicits no
response whatsoever; the harder I try to read Blake, the more it
seems like he’s being serious. 

After a moment my insubordination finally
prompts a reaction—he smiles, but it’s an entirely different kind
of smile, a knowing, impish
smirk
. It sets me on edge, but
in a thrilling kind of way.  I want to hear where he’s going
with this, but a huge part of me is totally paranoid we might be
overheard.  That same part of me has also deduced this isn’t
the sort of thing I would
want
overheard — not in polite
company, at least.  Not in the middle of a French restaurant,
where we’re surrounded by strangers.

He leans forward on his elbows. “When I get
into the bedroom, I want you to undress for me.  Completely.
Slowly—I want you to strip.  I want to see you,” he pauses,
his voice dropping further.  “And I want you to lie down on
the bed.” 

I wiggle self-consciously as I glance around.
“Blake,” I whisper, touching his arm. “Blake, someone’s going hear
you.”  His skin is hot against my touch. He grins as my head
swivels, appraising the intimate atmosphere in the room.  Not
awful, I conclude—but still definitely not the right place. 
Two other couples are seated in fairly close proximity.

“No one will hear me,” he murmurs, taking my
hand in his.  Thank
God
we’re seated in the corner;
idly I wonder if he requested this table in advance.  His
self-assurance would seem to indicate this is not as new an
experience for him as it is for me.  Suddenly, I feel
overwhelmed—consumed, even—by his presence, by the wine, the
lushness of the gold and red interior. 

The indistinct hum of the other couples’
voices raises the possibility my concern is unwarranted; they, like
us, are utterly engrossed in their own exchanges.  I catch
bits here and there; the first, an older man and woman, seem to be
somewhat vocally at odds regarding the tip. The second, who seem
closer to our age, are engaged in repartee that would seem to rival
our own in terms of intimacy.  The woman laughs throatily as
she rubs her stockinged toe against her partner’s calf. 
So
much for subtlety
.

Blake rubs his thumb down the length of my
index finger, bringing me back to him and sending a slight shiver
down my spine.  “I want you,” he says softly—the intonation of
his voice reverberates through my body—“to lie down, naked, on my
bed.” His gaze slides to meet mine.  “I want you to lie back,
and spread yourself for me.”

I swallow and notice my throat feels
constricted.  Our eyes are locked, and all I can concentrate
on is the feel of his index finger as it draws lazy circles in my
palm; little electric currents shoot up my arm.  He closes his
hand over mine and returns it to my lap, but he doesn’t let go
right away.  When his palm comes to rest on my upper thigh,
the
only
thing I can think about is how much I want him to
touch me.  With all my might, I will that hand to move
northward—to slip under the hem of my skirt, inside my panties, and
touch me, feel me,
stroke
me.  I
know
he knows
how aroused I am right now, and for a brief second I believe he’s
going to oblige; he gently squeezes my thigh and my whole body
jerks.

“
Shh,”
he smiles, squeezing me
gently.  “I’m not done yet.  Do you wanna know what I
want to happen after that?”

This is fucking
killing me. 
The
entire room has ceased to exist, insofar as I’m concerned.  He
stops massaging and runs a single finger up the inside of my thigh.
Again I squirm as I feel his finger trail slowly down to my knee
and then back up—up, until it reaches my skirt, where it traces a
line around the hem, then slips under only fleetingly before
resuming its course back toward my knee.  The sensation is so
intense I almost knee-jerk and kick the underside of the
table.  I finally exhale, slowly.  “Yes?” I respond,
barely audible.

He continues, “I want you to touch
yourself,” and I feel myself involuntarily clench up, tight. 
I shift uncomfortably; if
he
won’t touch me, I may have to
start grinding on the cushion.  I close my eyes and litanies
of mental images sear the insides of my eyelids.  “I want to
watch you touch yourself.  I want you to imagine me, touching
you.”
Ugh
,
I’m about to explode. “
…And I want you to
make yourself come for me.”  His touch is back at the hem of
my skirt where it started, and I’m feeling so tense I could
scream.  

“Will you do that for me?”

I try again to swallow but fail. “That
doesn’t seem very fair,” I barely eke out, opening my eyes. 
His gaze is so intense I’m taken aback; my response doesn’t elicit
the smile I thought it would. 
He’s being serious—or is
he? 
“Don’t you want in on the fun?” I ask him unsteadily,
trying to discern any kind of hidden agenda. 
Nothing. 

Finally he smiles, devilishly, and I feel his
hand slip all the way under my skirt until his fingers make contact
with satin.  I suppress a moan; how easily I’d forgotten where
we were.  I glare at him, but his hand doesn’t budge.  I
want
it to move.  God, how I want him to rub, flick his
fingers—
anything—
but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in
closer.

“Watching you,” he whispers, his words hot
and sticky in my ear, “is all I want.  Trust me, it’s enough
fun.” Fuck him.  Fuck
me. 
He’s
torturing
me right now, and what’s more he seems to be relishing it.  My
entire body tightens as his fingers begin to move—
God
bless
it.
One finger presses through my panties against my clit,
while his thumb traces a line over my folds: down an inch, up two,
then pressing against my opening.  I can feel him through the
satin; I’m wet—soaking, even—and his thumb slides up and down,
smooth against my wet, sticky, heat. 

I’m about to
die.
  I’m about to
abandon all hope and tear off my clothes and have him fuck me right
now—right
here,
on this table.  I want to feel him
inside me; I want to dig my nails into his back.  I want to
feel his lips on my lips and his teeth on my nipples.  I want
to feel his tongue on my clit and his hands on my body and his cock
inside me.  I want to moan and cry and laugh and scream at
this moment, but he’s just staring at me,
touching
me like
this, saying nothing.

And then, he stops.  Just
stops. 
Smiling, he withdraws his hand, and sits
back.