The Hard Sell

by Wright,Lulu

  Win.

  I’m about to pile my hair up like I always do, when I pause. No sloppy bun tonight. The hair has gotta match the dress.

  I work some gel into my waves and make them beauty pageant big. I add a clichéd smoky eye because it’s the only makeup trick I know. But it’s actually an ideal look for this dress. Finally, I add my Red Hot Mama and stand in front of my bedroom’s full length mirror.

  Damn. Not bad for a $10 dress. Or for someone who never learned to properly girl.

  I almost don’t hear the door. It’s 6:45. My sexy stick-up-his-rear stockroom manager is the kind of guy who believes if you aren’t fifteen minutes early you’re late. I give one last spritz to my hair and go to the door.

  I can’t see Jack behind the flowers. He must have depleted the greater Philly area of its supply of red roses. “Thank you. These are beautiful.” I take the vase from him and carry it with some difficulty to my kitchen as he trails after me.

  “Nice place,” he says, and I don’t miss the slight smirk in his tone. Crap. I probably should have tidied up the front room for Mr. OCDly Organized’s visit. It’s not like it’s messy, but it’s not pristinely spotless the way his place is.

  Whatever. He’d best get used to it, since this is what he’s getting dating me.

  As I set the vase on my kitchen counter and lean in to smell one of the roses, he wraps his arms around my waist from behind and kisses the nape of my neck. He’s freshly shaved, and his cologne blends perfectly with his own masculine scent. “You are beautiful, Lily.” His breath on my neck gives me goose bumps. He runs his hands down my sides.

  “You know,” I murmur. “We don’t need to go out. We could just eat in.” I spin around to wrap my arms around his neck. He grins and leans in to kiss my lips, slowly. I love the way he kisses. Like he’s taking his time, tasting every inch of me.

  “We could,” he admits. “But it doesn’t look like you’re prepared to cook, to be honest.” His eyes dart around my kitchen again.

  Okay, so, there are a couple dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed. And no cookware in sight. And a very over-used microwave stacked with canned soup, which I basically live off of for a few months out of the year.

  “Not a fan of Campbell’s’?” I ask.

  He loosens my hand from around his neck and brings my fingers to his mouth to kiss between the knuckles. A sexy shiver rushes up my arm and through my body. I did not know that was an erogenous zone. “No,” he says, his eyes on mine, sparkling with mirth. “The sad soup collection only motivates me more. I want to take you out for a proper meal for once.”

  The tux clad maître de gazes down at his podium tugging at his mustache.

  “We have a reservation for 7:30,” Jack says with a smile. Rather forcefully, for a reason I can’t guess.

  The man glances up then beams with delight and recognition. Next thing I know, the guy is practically bowing.

  At Jack? What the hell is going on?

  “So good to see you, sir. And how is your family, Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Well,” Jack mumbles. He looks mortified and fidgets as his ears turn red. Naughty boy. I press my lips together to suppress a chuckle.

  He used Mr. Hamilton’s name to get us a reservation. Smooth move. I can’t imagine how Hamilton would flip if he knew, but at the same time, it’s kind of sweet. Jack putting himself on the line just to impress me.

  “This restaurant is one of the best in Philadelphia at the moment,” Jack whispers as the maître de gathers two menus. “It was named one of the top 50 in the country just last month by Wine and Spectator.”

  I squeeze his hand and smirk at him. “So the impersonation was necessary, huh?”

  If possible, his cheeks turn an even darker red. He’s kind of cute when he’s embarrassed.

  The maître de steps from behind his podium. “This way please,” he says with another tug of his stache.

  Jack places his hand in the small of my back as we walk through the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever walked through. Well-dressed couples clasp hands and trade lusty gazes over the small, intimate white clothed tables in soft light. The sweet whisper of a harp chimes from the corner of the dining room.

  I squirm a little in my $10 dress. But it’s also kind of thrilling. People don’t even do a double-take to see me. Ha. Who says you need to spend a ton of money to elbow with rich snobs? Just the color black and an air of confidence is enough to fool most of them.

  The maître de sits us at a table in a corner and hands us our menus. The back of my chair faces the wall and the table is so small that my knees brush Jack’s under the table. “Bon appetite,” the maître de says with another little bow in Jack’s direction.

  “So, Mr. Hamilton.” I smirk across the tiny table at him. “Are you looking forward to visiting Center City?”

  “Oh, yes.” Jack unfurls his napkin with a snap and cocks an eyebrow at me. “I can’t wait to see your underwear, Miss Brook.”

  I trail my fingers along his wrist and give him a naughty smile. “Of course, Mr. Hamilton. I can’t wait to give you a … personal tour of my favorites.”

  But when I break his gaze to glance at my menu, my joking tone stutters to a halt for a second. All I see is French, French and more French. What I don’t see anywhere on this thing are prices.

  Jack takes the menu from me. “Do you trust me to order for you?”

  “Trust you to? I’m relieved.” I grin a little. “I’m worried I might order frog legs by mistake.”

  Jack laughs and shakes his head. “Frog legs, no. I am going to order something special, though. I hope you didn’t have your heart set on escargot for appetizers?” He lifts an eyebrow.

  I stifle a laugh, and spread my hands before him. “I am in your hands tonight, Mr. Hamilton.”

  As Jack arches his eyebrow at me, the waiter arrives and clears his throat. “Mr. Hamilton. Good to see you, sir.”

  Like I said. Doesn’t take much to fool rich people. Or, apparently, the waiters who serve them. This guy is acting like he recognizes Jack, probably hoping for a better tip. Ha.

  I listen as Jack banters in French with the waiter. I’ve got to say, hearing Jack speak French is possibly the sexiest thing I’ve watched in a while. His voice changes when he speaks it, becomes almost a purr. When he finishes and the waiter leaves, he winks at me.

  “You’re staring,” he says.

  I will not deny that accusation. I wink back at him, then sigh. “I wish I had learned another language.”

  His eyes brighten. “I can teach you.” He catches a loose strand of my hair in his fingers and twirls it. “Cheveux,” he whispers as he looks into my eyes.

  “Cheveux?” I repeat.

  He leans closer and touches my mouth while staring at it. “Bouche,” he says in a low deep voice.

  “Bouche.”

  He bites his lower lip and I watch his eyes drop to breasts. “Seins,” he growls.

  I shake my head and take a sip of wine. “How do you say inappropriate?”

  “Inappropriée,” he practically purrs. He catches my hand and kisses my inner wrist. It tickles, but feels wicked too. Goosebumps rise along my arms. “Speaking of inappropriée, did you know the French call an orgasm le petite morte?” He kisses my inner wrist again, then cups my hand to his face and closes his eyes. “The little death.”

  “Makes sense.” With my free hand, I graze his thigh under the table and his face flickers with a smile. “You damn near kill me every time.”

  Jack’s eyes open and he holds my stare, his amusement morphing into pure desire. He blinks slowly and licks his lips. “I love watching you come,” he whispers. “You have no idea how crazy it makes me. This thing between us. This intensity. I have never …” He bites his lip again and holds my gaze.

  I feel so beautiful right now. Aroused, yes, but more than that. There’s a sensation flooding through me that’s pure emotion, more than just a physical desire. “Me too,” I whisper. “I just lose myself with y
ou. I can’t help it.”

  He leans across the table to press his mouth to my ear. “I want you to feel safe with me,” he breathes. “I want you to feel cared for. Protected.”

  Jesus those eyes. “I want …”

  But the waiter is at our table to check if we need anything else, and we break apart, both of us a little breathless. His knees brush against mine under the table, then stay pressed against my leg.

  In no time at all, the waiter is back again with our meal—how did we get this so fast, with the whole restaurant packed?

  Jack has ordered us something called Coq Le Van, chicken in a thick red wine gravy. He waits for me to take a bite before taking one himself. “You like it,” he says with eagerness, before I’ve even swallowed.

  “I do,” I admit. The chicken is buttery smooth and soft, melt-in-your-mouth meat, and the gravy is sweet and savory all at once, an explosion of flavors that somehow all blend together perfectly.

  “It’s very well done. But I must confess, my Coq Le Vin is better.” He grins. “I’ll have to cook it for you sometime.”

  “If it’s better than this, I’ll gladly submit.” I wink at him.

  As we eat, we talk, sharing little details of our lives. He surprises me by opening up a little about his relationship with Crystal. Not much, just the bitter end. “I can’t believe she lied to me about being pregnant.” He shakes his head. “I was devastated.” His face is pinched in pain, so I rub his arm until he smiles again. “And then she held it over me, tried to force me to stay in a relationship with her … At work she acted like we were still dating, even though I told her it was over long before that.”

  Aha. So all that time he was hitting on me, and I thought he was with her … But knowing Crystal—thinking about the froyo she dumped on my head—I’m somehow not surprised she tried to trap him in a relationship with her as long as possible. I squeeze his arm gently. That must have been a rough time for him.

  “I know how you feel,” I murmur. “I caught my ex cheating on me. In the middle of the action, you might say.”

  He flinches. “That’s awful. How long ago was that?”

  I try to count back. It’s weird. It feels like so long ago, and yet, in reality, it’s hardly been any time at all. Somehow, it feels as if I’ve known Jack forever. “The day I started at Hamilton,” I admit.

  He blinks in surprise. “A month and a half ago?” He glances away from me and then back. “Are … I mean, that’s pretty recent …”

  I squeeze his knee under the table. “To be honest, it was kind of like you and Crystal, I think. One of those relationships that had been over for a long time before it finally crashed and burned. I never really … I didn’t actually like my ex, to be honest.”

  He holds my stare for a few minutes and then smiles slightly. “I guess we have a lot in common, huh?” He glances down at his dish and chases the last piece of chicken with his fork around the plate. “Not to mention a lot more to learn about each other.” Grinning, he gives me a sideways stare. “Besides every curve of your body.”

  I snicker and run my hand up his thigh with a challenging smirk.

  But his grin drops from his face and he rubs his mouth in concentration. “There’s a lot I want to tell you. About me. In time.”

  “OK.” I pick my wine glass up. “Then here’s to getting to know each other better.”

  We clink glasses and sip our wine. Watching him eat the last of his meal, I cannot get over how handsome he is. The bend of his cheekbones, his disheveled hair, his big hands … Everything about him right now arouses me. Even that drop of red gravy on his chin. I lick my finger, my eyes on his, and then reach across the table to swipe that little spot from his chin. His smile widens, and he catches my finger before I can withdraw it, and quickly licks my finger clean. His warm tongue circles the tip of my finger, teasing.

  My eyes dart around the restaurant and I see the other diners are busy with their own dates, their own meals, their own conversation. I eye the table cloth and its length affords a certain amount of secrecy, if I dare.

  Which, of course I dare.

  I pull my hand back from his, and, grinning, I squirm in my seat as though adjusting my dress. In reality, I’m wiggling out of my thong. Quick as a viper, I snag them off my knees with one heel, reach down to ball them up tight in my hand.

  “What are you doing?” Jack asks as I wiggle in my seat.

  “Nothing.” I sip my wine with wide, innocent eyes.

  After he puts the last bite of Coq au Vin in his mouth, I lean across the table again and slip my thong into his jacket pocket. He raises an eyebrow at me.

  “A present for you,” I coo. He reaches in his pocket, and I press my hand on his arm so he can’t take it out. “Guess what it is. No peeking.”

  He squints his eyes at me and I watch his fingers fumble in his jacket pocket until a sexy smile spreads across his face. “Inappropriée,” he whispers with a naughty twinkle in his eye. But he hasn’t seen inappropriée yet. Taking his hand, I dip it under the table and place it on my bare thigh, then fold my own hands on the table in front of me like I am at a meeting. “Go higher,” I whisper. “I dare you.”

  He looks out at the dining room as he drums his fingers up my leg. “Higher,” I urge.

  He walks his fingers up my thigh until he’s tracing the lips of my pussy. His hand feels warm and wonderful, but his face remains completely stoic. That only turns me on more, and I can feel myself getting wet.

  “Oh, Miss Brook. You kill me,” he murmurs.

  I part my legs just enough and he circles his fingers closer, closer, then finally presses the tip of his index finger inside me. With his free hand, he straightens his tie, even as he thrusts a little deeper inside me. Electricity shoots through me and my heart races as his finger explores me, sliding deeper and deeper as he leans across the table toward me. He stares at me with such intensity that it feels like he’s looking straight through my eyes into my chest. Speaking of chests, his rises and falls with deep breaths of excitement.

  Pulsing and contracting with such urgency, I hover on the edge of orgasm. I arc my hips and start to thrust onto his hand, with tiny motions. He closes his eyes and smirks. “What are you doing?”

  I take a sip of wine as I continue my assault on his fingers.

  “You are so naughty, Miss Brook. Maybe I should take a belt to your ass again.”

  My pussy responds to this statement itself without my permission, clenching hard, and Jack works his fingers with the rhythm of a bass player inside me. “You enjoyed that belt slap.”

  I nod ever so slightly because I can’t help it. Maybe he didn’t notice. But the circle of his thumb on my clit tells me otherwise. “My Miss Brook is a kinky little girl.”

  My Miss Brook. His thumb presses my clit a little harder, and I tremble. “I … I don’t know …” I am seriously about to hit the wall. My skin is flush, alive with heat and it’s all I can take to stop myself from panting. I am no longer responsible for my answers. “I have never explored anything like that. I just. I don’t know.”

  “You want to explore it. With me.” He is totally fingerbanging me under the table now and I feel the restaurant, the world melting away. “Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he whispers, low and urgent.

  I grab the edge of the table, a white knuckle grab because I am on the edge. I close my eyes, forcing myself to keep my voice low as I reply almost without thinking. “Spanking. Blindfolds. French Maid. Slave Girl. Ice. Massage Oil. Handcuffs. Kama Sutra. Anything, Jack, anything you want to do to me.”

  He cups my chin in his free hand and turns my face toward him, our mouths inches apart. “Do you trust me?”

  I nod because I can’t speak. My eyes dart nervously around the restaurant. Can anyone see me? Can they tell that I’m about to come right here, to lose my mind?

  I look back at him. I have never had a man look at me the way he is looking at me now and I think my heart will burst. “I am going to take
care of you. I will do anything to watch you come.”

  He’s watching that now. As my orgasm courses through me, I bite my lip to keep from shouting out, my whole body shuddering. He smiles like he just won the Powerball and our eyes meet in a tense, deep stare.

  The waiter approaches and recites more French. Dessert maybe. Jack doesn’t take his eyes off me. “We’ll take the check, monsieur.”

  When Jack walks me up to my apartment, I grab his hand to yank him inside. He won’t walk through the door. “Come inside.” I want to make him lose his mind the way he made me at the restaurant. I want to devour him. I want to fall asleep in his arms.

  But he’s poised at the entrance, smirking at me, and I already know this bastard is going to resist me. “I don’t put out on the first date.” He winks, then pulls me close, and puts his lips to my ear. “Some things are worth waiting for.”

  “But, I …”

  “Be at my place tomorrow night at 8. I have a surprise for you.”

  He kisses me, long and hard, and I ache for him. I try to hang on to his lapel, but he pulls free and hops down my steps, away. I should be furious, but somehow I’m way too turned on to be annoyed. I sink into a hot bath and let my fingers take over where his left off, fingering my pussy as I recall the way he took my jaw in his hand at the restaurant, and thrust his fingers into me. I fantasize about his surprise tomorrow night, and as I picture him bending me over a desk to spank me with a belt again, I come hard in the warm tub.

  My Mr. Hamilton imposter is full of surprises.

  Brenda frowns at the entrance to the Basics Department.

  I eye my fixtures and try to pinpoint why she is disappointed, but I only see merchandising perfection. The kind of display I’ve fantasized about for years. Ten butt forms on top of the fixtures display our range of crazy colors and sexy styles. Eye-catching images on the sides of the fixtures show off our hottest models in Flash Fit-wrapped packages. It’s an island of mannequins looking so hot a dead woman would pulse to life.

  Brenda clicks her tongue. “I mean, it looks great, but … You do remember that Mr. Hamilton is a real traditional guy, correct?”