Revenge In The Hamptons (Revenge Is Best Served Hot (Powerful Women Series))

by Morian, C. C.

  “No you won’t. You couldn’t. I’m already married, and I have a lot of ice cream, because I don’t care if my ass gets a little bigger. You can’t afford that.”

  Mike called me a few days later. Just long enough of a delay to make me wonder if he was going to, and I could not help but think that he had made me wait on purpose. But he called instead of texting, which earned him a few points. If he had sent a let’s hook up text, I would have left Liz a message with barfing sounds.

  On the phone Mike sounded okay, a little harried maybe, but it was the middle of the work day, and for all I knew he was in the midst of something and still took the time to call.

  I was trying not to get my hopes up, they’d been dashed too many times. But when Mike asked me what kind of food I liked and seemed genuinely interested, he got another point. And when he offered to go with me to a new chick flick that I wanted to see, I actually began to look forward to our date.

  Date was how I thought of it. I know many of my friends, some of them well beyond their college years, still thought in terms of getting together, or even hooking up. Just for sex. Me, I was still enough of a romantic to think of it as a date.

  But I did resist the urge to get too prepped. I wasn’t going to get my hair done or anything. Mike and I were going to be meeting up right after work; I wouldn’t have time to make it back to my apartment to change, and I was not going to bring date clothes to work—if this turned out to be a bust, I’d feel even worse.

  I considered wearing my usual, business conservative outfit; after all, I wanted Mike to see the real me. I’m sure he wasn’t going to be thinking of what suit he wore to work for our date. On the other hand, there was no need to be too conservative. Liz was right; it was easier to be better looking than not, unfair as that may be.

  I settled for a pencil skirt with a pleat, and a dressier blouse and slightly higher heels than I normally wore to the office. It was summer, I didn’t need stockings, my tanned legs good enough to get away with it even at work. I didn’t have the best legs; they were okay, it’s hard to have elegant legs when you are petite. Fortunately I had good Irish genes, which gave me extra slim hips, which set off my boobs even more. And I had been told on more than one occasion that my green eyes were my best feature, even when I knew the guys were more interested in my tits. All in all, an outfit that wouldn’t look too corporate, but not one that would scream to my co-workers that I was going on a date. I didn’t want to have to explain anything to anyone today, or even worse, tomorrow.

  It was a Wednesday, not normally a date night, but Mike had explained he was going to the Hamptons that weekend. Which of course immediately made me think of the wild and crazy beach scene. I’d been to the Hamptons before, and even let off some steam a few times, but didn’t really go for the looseness that I’d witnessed. I wondered if Mike was into that.

  Mike said he had a meeting in midtown, and even though I was downtown he offered to pick me up, which was sweet but nuts—it could take an hour each way at that time of day. So we agreed to meet at the restaurant, which again took some of the date mood luster off of the evening. But this was New York, and this type of rendezvous was pretty normal.

  Liz had explained what Mike looked like. She didn’t have a photo, she’d just met him once. “An Italian stallion,” she had said, which immediately made me think of old Rocky movies, a guy with chest hair poking out of shirt with an extra button undone, a hint of a gold chain. Yuck. But that image didn’t go with his job, which I knew for a fact required brains, and also brought in the big bucks. And I don’t think Liz would have called someone like that good looking, even if she, in her wilder college years before Gerry, might have had some good times with a hunky stallion, Italian or otherwise. In fact, Liz didn’t even know Mike was Italian, his last name could have been any one of a number of ethnicities, or his grandparents might have changed it.

  I got to the restaurant first, right on time, a miracle considering the vagaries of New York City traffic. I didn’t see any Italian stallions waiting outside, or anyone else for that matter. The hostess told me that Mike hadn’t arrived, and I had that momentary panic that I’d been stood up. She offered to seat me, but the only thing worse than being stood up at the entrance was being stood up after being seated, when everyone in the restaurant realizes you were stood up. The walk out would be worse than any college walk of shame back to a dorm, something I’d done only once in my life and had vowed never to repeat.

  So I told the waitress no thanks and decided to take a walk around the block. I had barely left the restaurant when a private car service pulled up and a man got out of the back. He reached back into the car for his jacket and briefcase, giving me a perfect view of the tightest butt I had ever seen. His slim hips and waist made his shoulders look broader than they probably were. The first word that came to mind was lithe, and his fitness was confirmed as his shirt strained against his muscular back as he twisted around.

  When he turned to face me, I could see that he was really good looking. Not any kind of real life Adonis, the Roman god of virility and masculinity. He had a brushy mustache, which normally wasn’t my thing, but it fit his face perfectly, matching his dark eyebrows and dark eyes. Overall, he wasn’t beautiful like a model, nor gorgeous like a movie star. But there was something very pleasing about the overall package. More than pleasing, actually. Downright sexy.

  When he saw me he gave a little smile, not a full set of teeth showing, more like a cocky grin. His eyes were more alive than his smile, and I sensed that if he turned those eyes on one of the Hamptons women, they’d trip over themselves to cross a crowded room. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he did that to every woman, but then I realized he might be recognizing me, and I was probably looking like a smitten schoolgirl.

  Which I was. I had said over and over that it wasn’t just looks that attracted me, that I wanted someone who was interested in more than just my looks, but right now, none of that mattered. For some reason, this guy was hot, and my body wasn’t open to a rational argument from my liberated female mind. It was as if he exuded some kind of chemical that spun its way toward me, and even though he didn’t fit any picture I had ever painted in my head of the perfect looking guy, I felt my knees grow a little weak.

  “Hi, I’m Mike. You must be Tessa.” His voice was strong, exuding confidence. He came over and shook my hand and gave me a friendly hug.

  The minute Mike touched me I felt a tingle up my arm, not the proverbial jolt of electricity, but more like a shiver, like I was touching something unknown, and it was affecting my body. And my hormones. For the first time, and I mean ever, I felt my nipples harden without having been touched during sex. I had to fight the reflective urge to reach up to cover them, I thought everyone would certainly notice, Mike was right in front of me and would see. . .

  I mumbled something, I don’t know what. I have no recollection of how I responded to his apology for being late, and what I said in reply to his first few questions. Something about going inside. Mike held the door for me and I walked a little dazed into the restaurant, although still aware enough to worry about what Mike was thinking about my ass.

  I had to breathe deeply as I walked, willing my breasts under control, thankful that I was wearing my work jacket.

  What was so weird was that I wasn’t the swooning type. Sure, I liked checking out a good looking guy, and I had my fantasies. And my boyfriends, mostly, had turned me on when we were having sex. But I wasn’t one to jump right into sex in what I was hoping would be a long term relationship; I had dated Ward for months before we even fooled around a little. When I was younger I’d had sex a few times with guys I knew but wasn’t really dating—no one seemed to date in college—but those never felt like one nighters, and none were with strangers. I resolved after that to make sure I was comfortable with a guy before I did anything, and try to save the sex for guys who might have long term potential. But after being with Mike for a just a few minutes, without knowin
g much about him at all, the path from my brain to my feminine parts had been short circuited.

  After we sat down and ordered drinks Mike casually grilled me in the typical New York way, where did I go to school, what did I do. It was pretty normal, checking the pedigree, I’d done it myself, and Mike did it in a nice enough way. He had been to all the right schools, dropping the name of his prestigious college and business school in an offhand manner. His attitude was just a little cocky, matching his grin, maybe from someone else it would have been off putting, but right now I couldn’t really think straight, and was cutting him a lot of slack. I rationalized that guys didn’t get to be as successful as he was without being confident.

  “So Gerry tells me that you’ve known Liz since college,” he said.

  “We met freshman year.”

  “I bet you have some stories to tell,” said Mike, with just a hint of playfulness, like he was insinuating that Liz and I had done something risqué, or downright inappropriate.

  Which of course made me immediately think of a few things that we had done, maybe not the kind of things Mike was implying, but the insinuation served to shock me back to the present. I could play this game with him. “That all depends. What stories would your friends from college tell about you?”

  “Me? I doubt anyone remembers me.”

  The obviously fake self effacing comment made me smile in spite of myself, I was still trying to match his repartee. “If you do something crazy enough, everyone will remember you.”

  “Is that your story? You did crazy things?”

  “Is that what you think?” I asked.

  Mike’s eyes turned serious, and he appeared to be studying me. I held his gaze as long as I could, I’d been on the receiving end of a stare many times, and normally had no problem. But after a few seconds my eyes flicked away, I couldn’t help it, it was as if he was undressing me right there in the restaurant.

  When Mike spoke his voice had changed a little, I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, or he had come to a conclusion, or he had seen something, maybe in my easy defeat in the eye contest. “No, I don’t think you were the crazy type,” he said, quite seriously.

  “Maybe I’d surprise you,” I said, not wanting him to write me off as completely boring.

  “I meant that maybe you’d do some things that you might consider crazy, but a lot of other people wouldn’t.” Mike picked up his wine, and added, as if an afterthought, but with that playfulness back in his tone, “You’d have to do something really wild for that. The bar is pretty high these days.” His vague comment suggested something outlandish, like an orgy.

  I blushed, not exactly sure why, it wasn’t as if he had said anything overtly sexual. But his entire bearing, his voice, his tone, all suggested that everything he said had another meaning, another purpose. A sexual purpose.

  The rest of the dinner went like that. We talked about the usual things, work, friends we might have in common, what we did on weekends. And although I could never prove it, or maybe even explain it accurately, everything Mike said had this overtone of sexuality. Normally that would have turned me off, but he was so subtle about it, and funny, it worked for him. And on me.

  But I didn’t like talking about sex, especially on a first date, and I purposely ignored all his double meanings, always responding seriously and innocently. Maybe he was used to sexual banter with other women, but he wasn’t going to get that with me, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t fake it if I tried. Sex was something for the bedroom, not in a public restaurant on a first date.

  I did wonder why he wasn’t married or didn’t have a girlfriend, but I had learned that question was definitely off limits on a first date. None of the answers were any good, and the question always seemed too condescending, or too . . . desperate. It could either mean, What’s wrong with you? or Are you available for me?

  Or maybe Mike had a girlfriend, or lots of them, and he was just looking for another score. Which would be par for the course, for New York, and especially for me.

  I gave Mike credit for one thing, I didn’t catch him staring at my tits a single time during dinner. In fact, except for the sexual innuendos that I might in fact be imagining, I couldn’t really tell if he was just very attentively polite and not really interested in me at all. Maybe he was thinking, I’ll kill Gerry for setting me up with her.

  I sat up taller, which was pretty hard when you are my size. I didn’t know where this was going to end, if anywhere, but I was going to look my best. Liz was right, I had a tough wish list, and on paper, Mike checked off a lot of the boxes.

  Plus he had those eyes . . .

  Near the end of dinner I got the sense that Mike had kind of made a decision about me, and while he remained pleasant, he had crossed me off his list. I wasn’t sure which list, the I could marry her, or I could fuck her list. Or both. The realization shook me more than I expected. I knew so little about him, and if he was willing to make a decision so quickly about me, it meant he was pretty shallow.

  Still . . .

  Everyone hates to be considered boring, and I was no exception. Maybe a little shock and awe was called for. As matter of factly as I could muster, I asked, “How old were you when you first had sex?” It was the first thing that came to mind that might shock him, and while I think I pulled it off, an alarm bell rang in the back of my head.

  Mike cocked his head, as if he had seen something new in me. But he didn’t miss a beat. “How are we defining sex?”

  “Is there more than one way to define it?” I immediately realized I was at the risk of slipping into a quagmire here, and I was just buying time.

  “Well, there’s sex, and then there’s sex,” Mike replied, as usual saying nothing and everything at the same time.

  “So you didn’t have sex before you had sex,” I said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Just getting the question straight.” Mike looked thoughtful, as if he was trying to remember when it happened. Something that might be understandable for a guy, but impossible for a woman to ever forget.

  “You realize,” Mike said, “that if I answer this question I could ask you the same thing.”

  “You could. It doesn’t mean I’ll answer. And besides, would a gentleman ask a woman a question like that?”

  “Who says I’m a gentleman?” Mike gave me those eyes again, the serious look with the hint of a smile. “I think the question would be, if you decided to answer, would you be truthful? In my experience, women tend to be a little—creative in their definition of the first time, to match what they think it should be. Or should have been.”

  “Oh? So you’ve had a lot of experience—,” I paused, just to see if he’d give some indication of thinking I was talking about sexual experience, and if his reaction would tell me how much. But Mike just waited calmly, so I continued, “having this conversation?”

  Personally, I’d only had a similar conversation a few times, mostly with my girlfriends, and just once with a guy. And Mike was right, I had lied, I hadn’t counted what happened the night after my high school prom, the messy handjob in the back of the limo, because that’s not how I thought my first sexual experience should be.

  “You seem to think I’m a gentleman. A gentleman would never kiss and tell.”

  “So you are going to avoid the question?”

  “I’ll answer both of them. Sixteen and seventeen,” he said.

  Did he mean he had sex at sixteen, and he’d slept with seventeen women? I was still trying to get my head around that when I realized he was talking about how old he was when he first had sex, and when he first had sex.

  Mike had a little smile on his face, probably knowing exactly what had gone through my head.

  Now I was stuck. Both ages seemed pretty reasonable. Although I didn’t know whether to actually believe him. I, on the other hand, hadn’t actually done the deed, the full sex thing, until I was almost twenty two, which made me sound like some kind of prude. If I told him the truth about that, he pro
bably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  I considered evading, but wanted to see his reaction. “Twenty two.” I left out the prom handjob.

  “About what I expected.”

  Now that wasn’t something I expected. “Didn’t think I was good looking enough to get a guy before then?” I flared.

  “No, I’m sure you were just as pretty in college as you are now. You just don’t seem the type.”

  “The type? To what, put out?”

  “To take it lightly. Sex. How many serious boyfriends have you had?”

  What Mike was really asking was, How many men have you slept with? I didn’t want to go there. “This is getting a little personal. You know, for a first date.”

  “You started it.”

  “You men are all alike. If a woman only has sex with a few men, she’s a prude, or frigid. If she has a lot of sex, she’s a slut. That doesn’t seem to apply to guys.”

  “I’m not like most men. And do you really think that all men are alike?”

  My first reaction was to say no, of course not. But I thought about my boyfriends, and it wasn’t unreasonable to think they had mostly been in it for the sex. “Well, you tell me. What do you think of a woman who only wants to have sex with a guy after she gets to know him and thinks she’s in love?”

  Mike grinned. “She hasn’t met me.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Mike shrugged. “Just the facts.”

  “Are you going to be serious about this or not?”

  “Are you? If I answer this question truthfully, will you tell me how old you really were when you had sex? Any kind of sex?”

  “I told you.”

  Mike looked away. In that one small gesture, I felt that he had written me off. I had failed some kind of test, even though I had avoided answering the question that would have labeled me as either a stuck up bitch or a whore.

  We finished the rest of the dinner making small talk, the moment gone, the sexual banter no longer in play. As I felt Mike lose interest, even though I was having mixed feelings, I fell into the usual human psychological trap of wanting to be wanted. It was one thing to decide I didn’t want to be with someone, it was another thing to have someone make that decision about you.