by J. T. Marie
But something has changed; we’ve grown up and grown apart, and the thought of rediscovering her all over again makes my stomach flutter in nervous anticipation. I remember her body against mine, her lips on my skin, and at the same time, I can’t wait to discover what she tastes like now, how she’ll feel in my arms again.
As she leads me to the convertible, I laugh. She gives me a questioning grin. “What?”
“I figured this had to be yours,” I say, running a hand along the car’s rear spoiler.
Meredith’s hand slips down to rest in the small of my back. “And why’s that?”
Suddenly I’m all too aware of her hand on me, just inches above the curve of my ass. My body flushes at her closeness, and a sweet ache blossoms in my clit. The muscles between my legs clench with eager lust.
I bump my hip against hers playfully. “Because it’s sleek and sexy. Just like you.”
My heart hammers in my chest and her hand fists in the fabric of my dress as she leans in close. “God, I’ve missed you,” she murmurs, her breath feathery on my cheek.
Before I can reply, her mouth covers mine. Gently she parts my lips with her tongue and dips into me, tasting, teasing, kissing me. I raise a hand to lean against her shoulder and brush over her breast instead. She moans into me, pressing me back against the convertible, urgent in her need. “Lara,” she sighs, pushing against me. The hand on my back slips lower, cups one meaty buttock, and squeezes hard.
I spread my legs so she can step between them, and she raises a knee into the V of my crotch. My cunt throbs against the sudden pressure. I grab the lapels on her jacket and reel her in, closer, my body molding into hers. “Mere…”
That’s as far as I get before her lips crush mine. I want this, I want her, and part of me doesn’t care if that happens out here where anyone could see us, or in the backseat of her car, or in her office or bed. I need her, now.
She obviously feels the same. The hand on my ass dips down and under the hem of my dress, and then her cool flesh rubs over my leg, up my thigh, to press against a damp patch in my panties. With one finger, she strokes me through the thin fabric. “Am I getting you wet?” she purrs against my neck.
I moan as her finger pops under the elastic crotch. For a moment she glides over my slick juices, then she prods into me, slipping easily into my hot wetness. My knees go weak and I melt into her as I draw in a hiss of breath. “Ah, yes.”
She finger fucks me for a moment, in and out, again, again, and trails tiny kisses along my jaw, breathing heavily in my ear. Her knee pushes up against my crotch, pinning me between her hand and her body, and I’m on tiptoes now, half on the car, one foot propped up on the bumper, the metal hot through my dress. So it’s happening here, here, where anyone can walk in on us, out here in the open. The thought makes my pussy throb and my legs spread wider apart, letting Meredith’s finger in further. Yes.
Then her wet finger tickles over my perineum and up between my buttocks, my dress riding up until her hand slips free. She smooths the fabric back down and nuzzles against my neck.
“Don’t stop,” I sigh.
She holds me tight for a moment, breathing in my scent. Then she nips at my earlobe before pulling back. I grip the lapels of her suit jacket to keep her close.
Tenderly Meredith kisses the tip of my nose, then takes my wrists and unfastens my hands from her jacket. “Dinner first, honey,” she says, coy.
I pout as I push myself away from the back of her car. “I thought you were hungry for me.”
She gives me a playful smack on the ass. Even through my dress and panties, I feel the sting. “Baby, I am. But you’re dessert.”
* * * *
We take her car, as I thought we would—it’s flashy and sleek, and riding in it with the top down makes me feel incredibly sexy. It’s hot out, too hot for the convertible, really, but Meredith turns on the air conditioner, as well, which creates a cold air bubble around us. “Isn’t it kind of a waste to run the A/C with the top down?” I ask.
Meredith laughs. “Just because we want to look cool doesn’t mean we can’t be cool, too.”
Can’t argue with that.
It’s rush hour, so Meredith stays off the interstates and busier highways, and instead winds through tree-lined one-way streets as she heads away from the heart of the city. With the top down, the wind and noise are too loud to let us chat, and whatever’s playing on the radio is lost between us. But the sun is warm above us and, for the moment, nothing exists except Meredith’s hand on my knee. As we drive, that hand eases up my thigh, pushing my dress out of the way. Even after all these years, her touch is still electrifying.
I want to ask her where we’re going, but I don’t want to shout to be heard, so I lean back in the passenger seat and trust she knows where she’s going. A short time later, she pulls into the parking lot of a classy French restaurant. “Watch your head,” she tells me as the convertible top slides back into position. Then she’s out and around the side of the car before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt. With a little bow, she opens my door and offers me a hand. “Milady.”
I giggle as I let her help me out of the car. “Who says chivalry is dead?”
She tucks my hand into the crook of her arm and leads the way to the front of the restaurant. The menu is tacked in one window, so I tug her over to take a look. “Ooh, fancy,” I joke. “You know a place is très expensif when there are no prices on the menu.”
“You know the right way to say it is trop cher,” Meredith says. “I was in the same French class with you for three years.”
I give her arm a little squeeze. “So you should know I don’t speak French. All I did was pass notes to you when Madame Dubois wasn’t looking. I’m surprised you remember anything from back then.”
“Oh, I don’t remember high school French,” Meredith assures me as she opens the door to guide me inside. “But it sorta kinda was my major.”
She catches me off-guard. “Not business or something like that?” I ask. “I’m surprised.”
“I was a double major,” Meredith admits. “French and English. Then I realized I’d never make any money with either of them and got a two-year degree in marketing.”
“Then you started your own company,” I add, “and then after what must’ve been the shortest interview ever, you hired me.” I hug her arm, cuddling up to her. “So do you welcome all your new employees this way?”
“Only the ones I want to impress,” she jokes.
I arch my eyebrows. “So…impress me.”
I can tell by her sideways smirk that she accepts my challenge. With a slight wave, she calls the maître d’ over.
“Oui, mademoiselle?” he asks. “That means—”
“Je sais ce que ça veut dire.” She speaks the words flawlessly, as if French is her first language. “Nous aimerions un stand privé, s’il vous plaît.”
The maître d’ blinks at her, confused.
Meredith’s smirk turns catty. “Unless you don’t speak French?”
“Non, non, je fais,” he hurries to assure her. “Si vous me suivez.”
I don’t follow the conversation—my French is atrocious. But from the way he grabs a couple of menus off the host station and heads off, I figure he wants us to follow.
As we do, Meredith asks softly, “Impressed yet?”
“Getting there,” I admit.
Her smile warms. “Wait until I order for us en français impeccable.”
In her voice, the words are exotic and sensuous, and my whole body throbs as they roll off her tongue. “I really must not have been paying attention in French class,” I tell her, “because I don’t remember you sounding half this sexy back then. Unless they teach French differently in college.”
“Oh, I learned a thing or two in college, all right.” Meredith pats my hand where it rests on her arm. “But I told you, that’s after dinner.”
Now that sounds like a promise.
* * * *
We’re seated
in a dark, cozy table in a back room, far enough away from the other diners that I can actually hear the quiet classical music playing overhead. A quick look at the menu has me wishing I remembered high school French better—the only thing in English I can recognize is the restaurant’s address. Why even bother trying to read it? I close the menu after giving it a quick onceover.
Meredith gives me an amused glance. “Already know what you want?”
“I’m going to let you order for me,” I say. “See if you know what I’d like.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” she purrs.
Beneath the table, one of her feet brushes up my calf. Her toes tickle over my skin; she must’ve kicked off her heels when she sat down. The touch makes my arms pimple into goose bumps, and delight shivers down my spine. “Meredith!” I keep my voice low as I look around to make sure no one’s watching us.
Who am I kidding? We’re alone back here—even the wait staff seems to have forgotten us.
She slides her foot up, stretching, around my knee and over, higher, to rest her heel on the cushion of my chair. Now her foot is propped up between my legs, and when she points her toes, they press into the lap of my dress. A few inches more and she’d be toeing my sweet spot. Right here, in public, where anyone could see.
“Merry,” I chide, catching her toes with one hand. She’s wearing pantyhose under her slacks, I can feel the satiny smoothness of the nylons against my palm. “Not here.”
“Why not?” she teases. “You said to impress you.”
“You said I was dessert,” I remind her.
Behind me I hear footsteps, so I gently push her foot off my chair. As it falls to the floor, Meredith straightens up and flashes a winning smile past me to the waiter who’s brought us glasses of water. “Bonsoir, mesdames,” he says. “Je m’appelle Serge. I’ll be your server tonight.”
“Mesdames?” I ask coyly. “Whatever happened to mademoiselles?” I over-enunciate the final s.
It’s Meredith who answer. “The plural is mesdemoiselles, and it’s a sexist term that’s no longer used.”
With a frown, I point out, “But madame means a married woman.”
“Now it’s just a form of address,” she says. “The same way we use Ms. in English.”
I concede, “Well, you are the French major.”
The waiter gives us a wide grin. “Hey, me, too!”
Reaching out, Meredith covers his hand with hers and smiles up at him. “You might want to change that, sweetie, if you don’t want to be working here for the rest of your life.”
I nudge her foot with mine beneath the table. “Oh, hush. Don’t listen to her. She has a French degree and her own business.”
“Because I went back and got something else.” She turns her head slightly, enough to tell me she’s finished talking about this, and asks the waiter, “What are the specials today?”
Quickly he reels off a list of dishes in French, none of which I recognize. I must have a dazed look on my face because Meredith laughs. “What do you recommend? In English, please.” Her foot bumps against mine playfully under the table. “I may have majored in French, but my lovely date here didn’t.”
“Oh, so now it’s a date, is it?” I tease. “And here I thought you took all your new employees out to dinner.”
The waiter arches his eyebrows suggestively. “Oh la la. For a first date, you can’t go wrong with le boeuf Bourguignon.”
I meet Meredith’s gaze. “Oh, I think we’re well past the first date stage. Wouldn’t you say?”
She gives me a sultry smile. “Let’s call it a second first date, then.”
Works for me.
* * * *
Meredith orders for us both, and I’m surprised that, after all the time that’s passed, she still knows exactly what I like. Or rather, what I might like; I’ve never eaten French cuisine before. We start with cheese crepes smothered with mushrooms and a creamy béchamel sauce so delicious, I want to lick the plate. The next course is a heady onion soup gratineed with more cheese, served with a spinach salad garnished with grapes, cherries, walnuts, and champagne vinaigrette.
As each dish is served, I quiz Meredith for the name of it in French. Then I hold up different ingredients and ask what each is called. The words trip off her tongue flawlessly—crêpe au fromage de chèvre, soupe à l’oignon, salade d’epinards. Everything sounds so sexy in her sultry voice. For the main entrée, she orders two different dishes for us to share—the recommended le boeuf Bourguignon and moules marienières ou à la crème, steamed mussels with cream in a garlicy wine sauce that’s simply heavenly. I sop up the sauces with the thick, crusty bread the waiter keeps bringing to our table.
Over dinner, Meredith asks, “So, tell me.”
“Hmm?” I manage around a mouthful of food.
She shakes her head. “Swallow first.”
I do. “Done. Tell you what?”
“What have you been up to since I saw you last?”
I know she means since high school, but it’s more fun to pretend to take her literally, so I do. “Hmm, let’s see…” I spear the last mussel from its shell and pop it in my mouth to chew on thoughtfully. “Well, I went home, called my mom to tell her I got the job—she asked about you, by the way—then logged online to like your company page on Facebook—”
“No, not today!” Meredith laughs.
“You said since you saw me last,” I point out. “That was this morning when I came in for my interview. Which was the easiest I ever aced, let me tell you.”
Playfully she kicks my leg under the table. “You know what I meant.”
“Didn’t we go over this already?” I twirl a piece of bread in the mussel’s creamy sauce, then take a bite. “What are you looking for anyway? A detailed list of ex-girlfriends, or something? A calendar of who I slept with where and when?”
“No, just…” With a shrug, she brushes her hair behind one ear. “I don’t need specifics, but…”
I try not to smirk. “But you’re nosey, I know. It’s all coming back to me now.”
“You didn’t really forget, did you?”
There’s a tremulous undercurrent to her voice, something I can’t quite place. With a slow smile, I tell her, “Honey, I could never forget you. We just…I don’t know, grew apart.”
Her chin puckers, her lips pooch out in a slight pout. God, is she ready to cry? Over me?
Reaching out, I cover her hand with mine. Under the table, I kick off one of my shoes to rub my foot against hers.
“Merry, babe.” I squeeze her hand gently. “We’re together again, right?”
With a quick nod, she assures me, “Yes, yes. You’re here now. That’s what matters.” Brusquely she runs a finger under first one eye, then the other, as if wiping away tears or any mussed makeup. “So, how do you feel about dessert?”
“I thought you were having me for dessert,” I remind her.
She laughs, delighted. “True, but that’s for later. I’m thinking something chocolate for now.”
Chocolate always sounds wonderful to me. “I’m thinking you’re right.”
“Then we’ll split a mousse,” she says, suddenly speaking past me to the waiter who is approaching our table once again, “and how about two glace des îles to round things out? Then the check, s’il vous plaît.”
As he leaves, I ask, “Two what?”
“It’s an after dinner drink,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it. Kahlúa and rum and ice cream.”
I have to admit, “What’s not to like?”
* * * *
If I thought dinner was delicious, it pales when compared to dessert. The mousse is the fluffiest, airiest, most decadent thing I’ve ever tasted, and I savor each bite, moaning every time I swallow. “Lord, girl,” I sigh. “I don’t know why you aren’t still living in France. If I could eat this every single day, I’d die happy. And weigh about three hundred pounds, too.”
“You’d get tired of it eventually,” Mered
ith tells me.
“Maybe, but I’m willing to give it a try.” I let the last spoonful linger on my tongue, where it slowly dissolves to trickle down the back of my throat. “We are coming here again.”
“We can make it a sort of anniversary thing,” she suggests.
I shake my head. “Oh, I’m not waiting a whole year to come back. Maybe we can have a month-aversary, or something.”
With a laugh, Meredith says, “Or a week-aversary.”
“Now you’re talking.” Taking a sip of my glace des îles, I fall back against the chair and let out a throaty sigh that could’ve been cut from the iconic restaurant scene in When Harry Met Sally. “Woman, I swear. This is delicious.”
Meredith smirks. “Told you.”
I take another sip, this one deep enough to make the straw suck against the bottom of the glass. “I hope you like big girls,” I joke, “because if we come here every week, I’m going to put on weight.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll still love you no matter what.”
I’ll still love you…the words burn inside me, making me flush with warmth. Still. As in she never stopped loving me, despite the years behind us.
Now that she’s said as much, I realize I still love her, too.
Suddenly it’s too much, too soon. Our playful flirting throughout dinner takes on a deeper context, and I’m scared of the implications. Not only are we not really friends anymore, but she’s technically now my boss. Being coy and cute is one thing, but add love into the mix and things have gotten serious quick.
Am I ready for that? All kidding aside, is it even what I want?
Pushing my chair away from the table, I stand a little too fast. The alcohol from dinner rushes to my head, making me woozy. “Whoa.”
Meredith reaches for my hand. “Lara? You okay, honey?”
“Fine, just…” Just what? I don’t know. I need some time to myself, a moment to think, to make sure I’m okay with what’s happening here between us. I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “I have to use the restroom. I…I’ll be right back.”