by Virna DePaul
I have my doubts …
Tell me what you serve.
Do you want to taste?
Yes.
Do you like it spicy?
Yes.
I don't know if I should tell you what's on my secret menu. Can I trust you?
Please. Yes.
Shit. I'm begging. I lost my cool for two seconds and she has me begging.
Ok, I'm going to tell you.
I can't stop myself from palming myself through my pants.
I shouldn't tell you, but I'm going to.
I need more friction against my dick. I want Jenna's hand on it. Now.
Let's see if you can handle it.
Her fingers running along my length, twisting over the head, rubbing her finger along the slit …
My secret menu is...
I'm panting.
Chocolate devil cake.
Jenna sends an emoji of a red devil. Then another. And another. Finally, she sends a smiley face crying from laughter.
I move my hand off my pants and lean back in the chair with my beer. I drink slowly, shaking my head. Damn it, Jenna won this round. She's definitely won this round. I had the upper hand, and yet again my dick betrayed me.
Jenna’s in her apartment dying from laughter. Maybe she spilled wine all over herself, she’s laughing so hard. Maybe she spilled it on her breasts, and her nipples are straining against the thin, wet material.
I'd lick the sweet wine from her shirt. She’d beg me to take it off, to put my tongue on her heaving skin. I’d lap at her through the shirt until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She'd raise her arms for me to pull it off, but I wouldn't do that. I'd rip it instead, tearing it straight down the middle to reveal her hard nipples.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I can see a wet mark through my pants from my precum, and I've been stupid, stupid, stupid again.
My computer beeps at me.
Ok over there?
Jenna knows she’s gotten to me. I try to clear my mind of all the images of naked, desirable Jenna, to get back into the game, but I just can't. She is going to love this. But time for me to admit defeat and retreat to my bed. Or my shower.
Oh, Jenna in my shower. Her pressed up against the glass. Her breath as I plow into her fogging up that glass. The steam condensing on her ass.
Yes, I've lost. I lost, and I'm all right admitting it because I want to touch myself and I want to dive into these fantasies about her. About us.
I put my hands on the keyboard for the last time tonight.
I have to go.
I sign out and shed my clothes on the way to my bathroom. Jenna must be laughing right now. But I only hear her panting...
Moaning ...
Calling out my name.
11
Jenna
I've never wanted a red light more than I do right now.
As I approach a green light, I let up on the gas and cross my fingers for the yellow light to flash above, so I can slam on the brakes under the guise of 'safe driving'. Yet turn after turn, even fucking left-hand turns, I hit nothing but green lights.
Lee's restaurant is only a few miles away and I'm already squirming in my seat, pulling at my seatbelt that scratches my bared shoulders in this strapless dress. After my online encounter with him—I have to admit, it was still so fun thinking about how we’d flirted and I’d left him hanging—I’d called Lee as my true self and told him I’d come up with some ideas for how he could deal with the blogger situation. I’d asked him if he wanted to meet me at my office the next morning to discuss it (fine, I’d also fantasized that we had a repeat of what we’d last done in my office together) but he’d said no, he wanted me to come by the restaurant. Dress for dinner, he’d said. I’ll make you something special, he’d said.
And I’d been so excited by the prospect of us eating together, something we’d done hundreds of times over the years, but for some reason felt more momentous now. Something that felt like a date. In fact, it had felt so much like a date that I’d indeed dressed for dinner, thus my current predicament and desire for a red light.
I still hadn’t gotten one. I curse the traffic gods.
I need a red light so I can wipe off most of my eye makeup.
Back at my place, I’d leaned close to the mirror next to a growing pile of dirty Q-tips trying to perfect a smoky eye or a cat eye or whatever other looks I could. I’d balanced my phone against the faucet, trying and failing to follow along with the incredible beauty bloggers on YouTube.
“And just blend the shadow under the eye to create a soft effect.”
My effect was domestic violence victim. Cue Q-tip.
“Try steadying your hand by putting your elbow on a hard surface to apply the liner.”
But my elbow slipped off the counter, and the black liquid eyeliner streaked all the way across my forehead. That mistake took four Q-tips, both ends, to clean up.
“Line up the false lashes with your real lashes so no one can tell you're wearing the fake ones at all.”
I thought I'd applied them properly, until the ends popped up and it was abundantly clear I was wearing fake ones. No amount of Q-tips with eyelash glue kept them down in place, so I ripped them off. Then I spent the next ten minutes trying to clean off the glue without cleaning off all the makeup I'd spent the last hour painfully and unsuccessfully applying. Jesus.
I’d also shaved places I hadn't shaved in ages. Then I spent ten minutes fishing through my bathroom for the perfume sample the department store lady shoved into my hand on my way to the book store. I dabbed some in places I haven't dabbed in ages, too.
I know I look desperate. Actually, I look like a sad attempt at copying the models Lee dallies with. Pathetic dark eye makeup, pathetic slinky, strapless dress, pathetic stilettos.
Another damn green light.
And why? Why am I doing all of this? To make my heartbreak even more devastating when I finally crash? It’s like I’m climbing a ladder. Each attempt at false lashes for Lee is a rung. Every strapless bra I fight with for Lee is a rung. Each tree I killed from my Q-tip consumption for Lee is a rung. I'm climbing higher and higher, and the fall will be more and more painful.
I pull into a street parking space alongside Lee's restaurant. I duck my head and peer through the expansive glass windows to see if he’s there. When my search comes up empty, I sigh with relief. He must be in the kitchen or in the back of the bar. Either is fine with me.
I flip down the car mirror and smudge off as much glitter while still keeping a watch out for Lee. Trying too hard is bad. Being caught trying too hard to not try too hard is even worse. I tug my red strapless dress up as far as I can and then wiggle it down a bit more. I groan and pull it up. No, back down.
I’ve been wracking my brain for a way to win his investors back. There has to be something I can do. Despite how stupid I’d been to try and dress up, Lee and I are going to have a mature, adult conversation about business that involves no nudity, sexual innuendos, or suggestive smiles. How hard can that be?
I’m going to walk in there like I’m walking in to meet a client. I don’t jump on my clients’ bones. I am an adult. I am mature.
I am in control.
If I control myself, control my feelings, control my desire, I can't be hurt. But if I give up that control, if I put my feelings into his hands, if I put my desire in his grasp, he can hurt me.
Control is safe. Control is good.
I turn off the car, and right before I'm about to open the door, I stop. Biting my lip, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel and decide. After fishing for a hair tie in my glove compartment, I pull up my hair—which I’d blown out, ironed and curled—into my go-to bun. I push down the little fly-aways and nod at myself in the rear-view mirror.
That's the real Jenna. The Jenna that’s in control.
I blow out a breath, step out of the car and straighten my shoulders. I'm not going to be weak anymore. Lee and I had some very pleasant physical inter
actions, but that can’t continue.
I type in the code for the locked door to the restaurant, which is currently closed. The restaurant floor is dim as I walk past tables set with glasses and napkins, ready for tomorrow.
“Lee?” I call out.
“Bar, Jenna.”
I turn the corner. The back bar is in a dark, secluded part of the restaurant, with intimate tall booths on either side. Strings of little lights hang from the ceiling. Lee is facing away from me as I walk toward him.
“I'm trying out a new infusion,” he explains.
“Oh, I'm not drinking tonight.”
Drinking is what got me in this wretched mess in the first place.
Lee turns around with two shot glasses and his eyes widen. “Wow. Jenna. That dress is amazing.”
My insides quiver with pleasure, at his words and at the look on his face, but I clear my throat. “Those are shots.”
“They’re just tastings.” He winks and slides one shot glass across the bar toward me.
“Just the one,” I say, relenting. “No more.”
“Whatever you say, Jenna.”
He raises his own glass and his eyes pierce mine as we take the shots. It's whiskey infused with mint and berries. My mouth tingles, and I don't know if it's from the whiskey or Lee undressing me with his eyes. He reaches for the bottle to refill my glass, and I scoot it away from him. No more.
“So, Lee, I’ve been thinking about your predicament with your investors because of the, um, blog.”
“When are you not thinking, Jenna?”
I shake my head and plow ahead. “I have a few viable strategies we should discuss tonight.”
He walks around the bar, slowly dragging his fingers across the dark mahogany wood. “I don't want to discuss them.”
What? That was the whole reason I was here. Well, the reason I should be here. I put my briefcase on the bar between us as he steps closer. “Can we turn on some lights? I have a few documents I prepared.”
“I don't want to see your documents.”
I leaf through papers and try to ignore his fingers running down my arm. “If we act quickly we should be able to mitigate the consequences.”
“I don't want to mitigate anything.” He presses against me so I can clearly feel the hard outline of his erection. I swallow and try to read the proposal I wrote up.
“An aggregated analysis of monthly sales will show that the blog –”
“Jenna, what time did you go to work this morning?”
He squeezes my neck, and I hadn't realized how tense I was. He reaches up and swiftly removes my hair tie, letting my hair fall down to my shoulders.
“Um, six this morning.”
“And what time did you leave work?” he asks softly, unzipping my dress.
I shiver. “Ah, seven.”
He pulls the top of my strapless dress even lower. His fingers knead my back.
“So, why are you still working?”
The paper falls from my grasp as my hands fall to my sides, my knees weak. Lee turns me around so I'm facing him while gratefully leaning against the bar for support. He holds my face in his hands.
“Jenna, you need to stop and enjoy life more.” He leans in so his lips just barely graze mine. His breath is cool from the whiskey and sweet from the berries. “Let go,” he whispers huskily. “Let me do the work.”
I move my head forward, but Lee pulls back the same amount, so we're still close, but still apart. Barely apart.
“Will you let go, Jenna? Just for one night?”
I try to remember how I got here. I try to remember why I am here. What was it I was going to do? I feel like I should remember. But I don't want to. I see Lee's eyes. I feel his lips linger near mine. I sense his body yearning to press against mine.
His fingers move deftly behind me and my dress pools at my feet. Lee’s breath hitches when he steps back to see me in my bra and thong and heels. And nothing more. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but it sends a thrill down my spine and I find myself liking the way Lee licks his lips greedily.
“Will you let me take you apart?” he asks as he circles around me like one circles around a fine sculpture in a museum.
Is he looking at my ass? Does he like what he sees? I feel the air move as his fingers slide just above the line of my lace thong. He walks around to the front of me.
“Will you let me take control?”
I gasp as he grips my bra in each hand and rips it straight down the center, revealing my tits and my hard nipples. He cups one breast as my legs threaten to give out. His thumb runs over my nipple and I whimper.
“Well, Jenna?” Lee lowers his mouth to my nipple and swirls his tongue around the peaked bud. “Will you let me devour you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Take me. Please take me now.”
He crushes his lips against mine, and now I feel the heat of the whiskey. His hands skim my sides and squeeze into my waist, strong and firm. Suddenly, he lifts me up onto the bar and I lean over to avoid breaking the kiss. His teeth bite at my lower lip before kissing the side of my mouth, my cheek, down my neck.
His lips find the tender skin behind my ear and he nibbles as I wrap my legs around him. My head falls back with a moan. He drops down, dragging his nails across my whole body. I expect him to start reaching for my thong, but he doesn't. He grabs my ankles and lifts them. I let out a yelp as he twists me, so I’m on my back, laying flat out on top of the bar.
The wood is cold against my naked shoulders, but his hands are hot on my skin as he slides them down my chest and between my breasts. He walks to the end of the bar, his hands never leaving me even for a second. He puts one hand on each hip and scoots me forward, then gently lifts each of my legs and puts them on his shoulders.
His face is between my legs, and I feel his breath on my thighs. I prop myself up on my elbows to stare at him as he kisses the tender skin. He bites gently, making me gasp. He bites each hip bone before kissing right above the lacy line of my thong. My breathing quickens and my legs quiver as he uses his mouth and teeth to pull my thong down and off my legs.
I’m shaking from head to toe. I know it’s not going to take much to make me come. I could have come from Lee just circling around me, tracing his fingers over my body. At the thought of it, I reach my hand down to rub my clit, but Lee immediately catches my wrist.
“Put them above your head,” he orders.
I whimper and stretch my arms over my head. My back arches and Lee groans at the sight of my breasts pressed up into the air. I gasp when I feel something wet poured over my stomach and I lift my head to see Lee holding a bottle of whiskey. Expensive whiskey. His hot tongue laps at my stomach and I smack my head against the bar, desiring nothing more than to drag my fingers through his hair. But I grip the sides of the bar to keep my hands still as he tips the bottle over on my breasts.
I scream when he sucks at my nipples. I again lift my head to see him and he grins at me with his mouth still around my tit. He smiles devilishly before nipping at my sticky, glistening skin. I pound my heels against the side of the bar.
“So impatient,” he coos. “All your squirming is making me so hard, you have no idea.”
He palms at his very obvious erection.
“But tonight is all about you, lover,” he says. “I suppose I’ll just have to suffer through.”
Lee kisses each nipple and then moves back down the bar so that he’s positioned between my legs. I groan in anticipation as he grabs the bottle of whiskey. It’s warm against my pussy and my hips buck as he rubs it along my clit, my folds, my inner thighs.
“Goddamn,” he whispers, nothing more than an exhale of awe.
It turns me on more than he probably knows. Part of my mind thinks he uses that move on every girl he’s with. But I push that pesky thought to the side when I see him lowering his head.
His eyes raise to meet mine. He watches my reaction as he flicks his tongue against my folds. He smirks dangerously when I bite my lip.
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Then he buries his face in me and I fall back against the bar.
I reach for something to grab, knocking glasses over. They shatter, but Lee does not relent. His tongue darts in and out, teasing me and driving me closer and closer to the edge. A chair falls as my arms grab out for support.
I feel out of control. I feel completely and utterly out of control. I can’t find anything to hold onto and my back, wet with sweat, slides against the smooth bar and every time I squirm Lee only holds my thighs tighter. I can’t do anything but ride the wave of pleasure that come from his tongue against my pussy and it feels wild and dangerous and oh, so fucking good. I don’t know where I am anymore, who I am anymore. It’s all just heat, blissful heat. And it just keeps coming.
“Lee … Oh God, Lee … Stop or I'm going to come.”
I gasp as he plunges his tongue inside me.
“No, Lee, I'm going to come.”
I haven’t even touched him yet. He doesn't stop, his tongue darting and flicking, but his hand moves up to the bar searching for mine. I moan and whimper as I wrap my hand in his.
“Lee, I'm— I'm—”
His thumb rubs against my hand as I grip him tightly. He’s telling me it’s okay. He’s telling me to let go.
I squeeze his hand and scream as I do just that.
12
Lee
I'm sure the health administration appreciates me wearing my chef's hat in the kitchen. However, I'm not sure the health administration will appreciate me wearing only my chef's hat in the kitchen.
I don't care.
I look over at Jenna, humming to herself while chopping an onion on the other side of the stove. If I'm going down, she's going with me, since she wears nothing but a white apron tied around her waist. Her round ass bounces as she sways her hips back and forth, completely unaware that I've stopped searing the steak and instead turned around to lean against the counter and watch.
Her hair cascades down her bare back. I tugged it loose from that bun of hers within minutes of seeing her. The two dimples right above her ass drive me crazy. I want to press my thumbs into them, hold onto her hips, full and soft, and grab a fistful of that wild hair of hers. I want to pull it back, bury my nose in its scent. I’ll suck on the vein pulsing in her neck, biting her ear lobe.