Sugar & Salt

by Pavarti K. Tyler

  He grips her tighter with his large hands, pulling her up to his lap where he grinds up against her.

  “I knew you’d taste good,” she whispers between nips.

  “And I knew you’d been thinking about me.”

  She feels his smile against her mouth, and laughs despite herself before changing the pace of their embrace. She moves her hands to explore his chest, pushing his jacket out of her way and scratching her long fingernails along the open collar of his shirt. She pulls away from his lips to dip down and lick the tan skin of his neck.

  He grunts and pushes up against her again, holding her in place with his hands. His erection pushes against her hip.

  She shivers. Vibrations of want and need wrack through her, unsettling her sense of time and place.

  With agile strength, he lifts her off his lap and settles her back down on the seat, her head tight against the door. He positions himself between her legs, pushing them open so the right one rests on the floor and the other wraps up around his hips. He devours her neck, pinching her nipple and lowering himself down against her.

  “Yes.” The contact of his hardness against her cunt, her dripping desperate cunt, overwhelms her. She slams her head against the door, squirming away from the sensation, but he has her pinned.

  The door behind Janice swings open and the light above glares into her eyes, bringing them back to reality.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir.” Henry tries to close the door, almost ripping her hair out.

  “Where are we?” Greenpeace recovers himself before she does, straightening her dress up over an exposed breast as he sits up.

  Henry averts his eyes as she rights herself and steps out of the car. “Tahlia’s, sir. A table is waiting for you.”

  Greenpeace pats his driver on the shoulder as he exits the car, handing Janice her forgotten purse. “Thank you, I’ll call you when we’re ready to go.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  She gapes at the formal exchange—not at all what she expected from him. She had thought Henry was perhaps a temporary perk, or someone he had called for the evening, but their interactions were both intimate and guarded, like one might have had with a servant back when people had them.

  He offers her his arm.

  “Who are you?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

  They enter the dark restaurant through a door with a simple orange sign hanging above, reading “Tahlia’s” in elegant script. They’re in midtown, not the kind of upscale, pretentious place she would expect from a man with his own driver.

  “Mr. Salzmann, your table is waiting. This way, please.” The hostess eyes Greenpeace up, taking in his tailored suit and broad shoulders.

  In a city awash with hipsters in their skinny jeans, men like him stand out. Built like a boxer, his compact strength pulsates beneath a veneer of civility. He fits in and commands the room, but Janice senses the primal man bursting beneath the French-cuffed shirt.

  The memory of their kiss flares in her chest. He touched her with such confidence, nothing like the usual lovers she took—passive, or in awe, or so desperate to dominate that they expose their own weakness. Years of working in the sex industry desensitized her to most fantasies; now, she either provides release, or takes it. While she may not be paid for her services, the goal is always the same, the journey irrelevant. But this man drives her to heights with just a touch.

  Tahlia’s is beautiful with high ceilings, citrus colored walls, black furniture, and dim lighting to set off the exotic menu and high class art. A modern painting of a nude woman takes up almost an entire wall, and candles add an intimate glow to each table, as well as the discrete serving stations used by the wait staff.

  At their table, he holds a chair out for her, a wry smile on his lips. After pushing her seat in, he lingers for a moment, gently resting his fingers on the back of her shoulders. He takes a moment to unbutton his jacket and run a hand through his hair, as if just now considering his appearance.

  “Mr. Salzmann,” Janice greets him with a teasing grin of her own.

  “Only people at work call me that—just call me Salt.”

  “Interesting moniker. So are you? Salty that is?” She leans forward and stares him down.

  His eyes widen in surprise at her veiled come on, and he barks out a laugh.

  She takes in his wide smile and watches his eyes crinkle in a way that would be endearing were she open to such emotions. Instead, she recalls the sensation of his warm lips, and her skin vibrates.

  “I wouldn’t know. How about you?”

  “Most say I’m sweet, like sugar.” She shares too much. Danger lurks in the back of her mind as she divulges more about herself than he realizes.

  Their waiter approaches, his appearance immaculate, another sign of the quality Greenpeace... Salt prefers.

  “Good evening, my name is Robert. Would you like to start off with something to drink?”

  “Wine?” Salt tilts his head toward her.

  “That would be fabulous.”

  “Do you prefer a red or a white?” He asks, ignoring the waiter.

  “Red.”

  “Medium or full-bodied?”

  “How about something with a little spice?”

  Salt turns his attention back to Robert, who has been standing at attention. “Do you have a Carmenere?”

  “Yes, sir, we do. Excellent choice.” The waiter nods briskly and leaves them to peruse the menu.

  “Where are you from?” Janice’s curiosity diminishes her ability to be coy.

  “I thought you were testing the waters.”

  “I was, but now I’d like some details.” She sips her water and re-crosses her legs, unsettled by just how much she’d like to know about him.

  “Now that you know my name, everything else is fair game?”

  “Between that and the teenage groping in the backseat of a car.”

  “Some of the best gropes I’ve ever had were in a car.” He picks up the napkin from his place setting and spreads it on his lap.

  She considers the appearance of the napkin under the table; was there still a pole to pitch itself on? “I can tell.”

  “Can you now?”

  “You have a certain familiarity with how to maneuver in enclosed spaces.”

  “Have I impressed you?”

  She studies him as he raises that one infuriating eyebrow again. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you’ve merely made me wonder how many women have been in the back of that car.”

  “None.”

  “None?” The idea that this man with his striking eyes and strong hands hadn’t been dating is inconceivable.

  “None. It’s new.”

  She tries to hold it in, but the devilish sparkle in his eye is more than she can take. A cackling laugh spills out, spreading across the table and filling the room, and the low, vaulted ceilings struggle to contain her mirth.

  “All right, you win. I officially surrender.” She admits defeat between guffaws.

  “What now? What was that? I might need you to say it again.”

  “You win!”

  “Ah yes, there it is. Victory is sweetest when won over a woman.”

  “Didn’t Henry Miller say something like that?”

  “Miller wasn’t worried about victory, only orgasms.”

  She laughs again. “Mr. Salzmann, you truly are a surprise.”

  “Salt.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “What’s your last?”

  “Cane. Your turn.”

  “Devon. Lovely to meet you, Janice Cane.”

  “And you, Devon Salzmann.”

  “Now that the formal introductions are over, is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  “I believe you were going to enlighten me on the uselessness of recycling.”

  “Ah, that.” He quirks a sideways smile.

  “One doesn’t just let a line like that drop.”

  “Fair enough. First, tell me
why you do recycle.”

  “Because we’re supposed to. It’s about reusing the resources we have, so we don’t waste. I like the idea of using something for many different functions—matter reshaped into a new purpose over and over so we can be more self-sufficient, inflict less stress on the Earth.”

  “But you do know it doesn’t work that way, right?”

  “What doesn’t work what way?” Janice finds herself pulled in, despite his infuriatingly confident manner.

  “Recycling—we don’t really do that. That’s the myth, the propaganda. In reality, most of it ends up in landfills, or piled on barges floating out past the horizon. Did you know there’s an entire island called the Great Pacific Garbage Patch right above the Hawaiian Islands, made entirely out of marine debris? No one knows how big it is, because scientists spend so much time arguing what density of plastic particles should qualify, that by the time they agree, it’s grown even bigger.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nods. “Deadly. It was discovered in the late nineties and it’s still fucking there. Our sustainability, our science of self-sufficiency, isn’t half as evolved as the science of making more, getting more, buying more.”

  “Where are you from? I don’t get a New York vibe off of you.”

  “Why’s that?” He leans forward and cocks his head to the side, the change of topic an interesting diversion.

  “New Yorkers just don’t talk this way. You’re giving off more of a Massachusetts/Vermont vibe right now. Do you have a bottle of patchouli in your desk at work?

  “So, because I give a shit, I’m a hippy?”

  “But you don’t. You’re just pissed off and you’ve given up. If you gave a shit, you’d do something about your floating trash island.”

  “Perhaps. Maybe I don’t recycle because I’m saving all my plastic to build the first high-rise condominium there.” He settles back against his chair and waves his hand as if to say of course.

  “Your apartment must be a disaster.”

  “I have a storage unit. Anyway, I’m from Johannesburg.”

  “South Africa?”

  “Yes.”

  Janice studies his features for a moment, absorbing this new information. “Why don’t you have an accent?”

  “Too many international boarding schools.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Work.”

  “Oh, a business trip?”

  “No, why would I go to speed-dating for a business trip?”

  “Why would you go at all?”

  “Apparently to meet you.” He raises his increasingly adorable eyebrow.

  “Well, now that’s just... okay, well, why are you here?”

  “Like I said, work.”

  “But not travel?”

  “No, I live here, work here, date here, sleep here, and even eat here.” He nods in the direction of the approaching waiter and opens his menu.

  Robert, the waiter, sets down two wine glasses and presents the bottle for Salt’s approval. At the accepting nod, he fills one glass a quarter of the way.

  “Is the chef preparing the pappardelle tonight?” Salt shuts his menu as if he’d been studying it all along.

  The waiter nods. “Yes, sir, shall I put in your order?”

  Salt nods, and the waiter glances down at Janice, polite indifference on his face.

  She fidgets with her closed menu as the waiter stands at attention by the table. Greenpeace... Salt... did it again—unsettled her and threw her out of her comfort zone.

  “Um, how’s the duck?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t serve duck.”

  Salt snickers and sips his wine.

  She distracts herself with the distinct possibility the night will end in some level of violence.

  The waiter takes pity on her. “May I suggest the Chilean Sea Bass?”

  “Sounds lovely, thank you.”

  “Yes, that will go wonderfully with the wine.” Salt smiles, tipping his glass at her in mock congratulations. “Exceptional, thank you.”

  Robert neither accepts nor deflects the compliment, and proceeds to fill their glasses.

  Once the waiter departs, she throws her napkin at Salt. “That was not nice.”

  “What are you talking about?” He smirks again, seemingly enjoying her frustration.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Are you pouting? I get the sense you aren’t used to not getting your way. What do you do, Janice Cane?”

  “I run my own company,” she says off-handedly.

  “I see that.” He leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. The suit jacket pulls tight against his arms, but he seems perfectly comfortable nonetheless. “It explains a lot, actually.”

  “Does it?”

  “The jeans, for instance.”

  “I’m not wearing jeans.”

  His eyes drift down her torso to the table interrupting his view of her body. “You were last week.”

  “You remember what I was wearing?” She delights in the thought he had been thinking of her. Memories of relationships strife with emotional entanglements bubble up, but she pushes them down. Not one of those situations ended well. Speed-dating proves better than relationships on all counts except one: she hates to admit it, but she is lonely.

  “I told you, you interest me.”

  “Apparently.”

  “What kind of business do you run?” He squares his posture and leans forward, resting one hand on the table—an invitation to a touch.

  “Let’s start with you. I only just learned your name. Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

  “I’m not particularly interesting.” He leans back, his features relaxing.

  Is it possible this man has nothing to hide? “I don’t think I agree with that. Try me.”

  “All right. I was born in South Africa. My mother came from Australia at twenty-five, and my father was in the Prime Minister’s office.”

  “Government job?”

  “It offers good security.”

  “Great benefits.” She takes a sip of her drink. Spicy wine titillates her tongue, waking up her sleeping taste buds. The full-bodied flavor fills her mouth. This man knows his wine.

  “We traveled a lot growing up, because of what he did, and my mother didn’t really work, but took care of me and my sisters.” He shrugs.

  “How many?”

  “How many what?” He sips his wine and then brings his napkin to his lips. Such dainty behavior for one with such restrained strength.

  “Sisters.”

  “I think that can wait. I’d rather hear more from you. Where did you grow up?”

  “Not South Africa.”

  “I could have guessed that.”

  Did he see through her deflections? What would happen if she disclosed everything here and now, about her father, her business, and the man who’d broken her heart? For once, she could lay it all out, but what would that prove, other than the inevitability of him walking away? No one wants to be tied up with her long-term.

  “So you grew up with money,” she states matter-of-factly.

  “Is that important?”

  “To some.”

  “To you?”

  “No, less so to me. However, it does give one some insight into the man.”

  “Like what?”

  “Men who were raised with money tend to have less concern for those who weren’t.” She shrugs, confident in her analysis.

  “That’s quite a generalization.”

  “Based on significant observational data.”

  “I think your cross sample may have been tainted. Who did you use as a control?”

  “Everyone else.”

  “You’re a touch jaded, aren’t you?” He leans toward her like a confidant.

  “No, just a realist.” She has no desire to confess her sins just yet.

  “So of all these men who have let you down, did one in particular undermine your fa
ith in my gender?” He returns his hand to the table between them.

  She places hers in her lap, despite the tingle of longing in her skin. “Now that’s decidedly more personal than I’m willing to get over dinner.”

  “Perhaps breakfast, then.”

  She ignores his presumption and sips her wine. The restaurant sizzles with life—couples engaged in whispers and friends exchanging stories in exuberant tones. The citrus and black decor should be gauche, but instead sets an intimate atmosphere.

  “I have three sisters.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Hope, Faith, and Chastity.” He rattles the names off as if it were obvious.

  “They are not.”

  “They are.”

  “And you got Devon?”

  “Apparently my father wanted to name me Daemon, but my mother fought back.”

  “Are your parents particularly religious?”

  “No, just particular.”

  As they chat, the crowd at the bar becomes dense, and the hostess maneuvers through the waiting diners until she arrives at their table. “Mr. Salzmann, the chef would like to offer you a complimentary plate of our newest dish, an Asian Fusion rack of lamb. I’m sure you and your date will enjoy it.”

  He raises one eyebrow at Janice, gauging her interest. “Sounds lovely.” He speaks to the hostess, but his eyes never leave Janice.

  “Who are you?” She asks once the hostess leaves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Salt. Not everyone gets immediate seating at a place like Tahlia’s. The chef knows you by name? That’s not how things work in the real world.”

  “As opposed to what world?”

  “Whatever world you live in. Give me a straight answer for once—no more fucking around.”

  “You know, there’s something amazingly sexy about a woman who isn’t afraid to swear.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “And you are so delicious when you’re agitated.”

  “I’m just about agitated enough to leave.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I don’t like being fucked with.”

  “I find straight answers usually lead to conversations of a more serious nature than I am in the mood for tonight. I’ll make you a deal: you stay for dinner, we’ll laugh and chat, and if you want all the details about my boring life, I’ll tell you next Thursday. Just show up for speed-dating ten minutes early. I’ll be at the bar.”