by Daryl Banner
“It’s a nice night,” Brant murmurs lazily, still gazing off.
Then, I’m not sure what comes over me. Maybe it’s his nervousness. Maybe it’s mine. Maybe it’s the flirty employees and an uncharacteristic bolt of jealousy that cuts through me. But suddenly, I let my foot slip out of my shoe, then gently and slowly run just the tip up the inside of his smooth, jeaned leg.
Though Brant continues to stare off, I can tell by the flicker in his eyes that my little action does not go unnoticed. I see him trying to fight away a smirk on his face, pretending not to feel it.
I let my toe run even higher, reaching his inner thigh.
He purses his lips innocently, still gazing off as if totally oblivious … except he seems to open his legs a bit more.
My foot welcomes the invitation.
Soon, my foot’s ascended so high, I can visibly see his breathing change by the rise and fall of his chest, which grows more dramatically by the second.
Then he snaps his eyes to me and grips my foot under the table in one motion.
I gasp, surprised.
Now it’s Brant wearing that signature cocky grin of his.
“Foot massage?” he murmurs quietly.
I narrow my eyes.
Then, he pulls my foot right to the destination I may or may not have been crawling towards all along. Upon pulling my foot into his crotch, Brant bites his lip into half a scowl and moans lightly.
Yes, he’s hard as a rock.
Then he brings his other hand down and begins to massage my foot, his eyes never leaving mine as he mashes his thumbs in all the right places. I can’t even begin to describe what his strong hands do to me. I fight an urge to squeeze shut my thighs, then fight another urge to open them wide and wrap Brant in them. The whole table seems to be magically growing smaller. If I close my eyes, I could imagine we were somehow sharing the same chair.
“Feel good?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I moan slowly.
“Is this winning me some points?” he asks. “I’m trying to redeem enough to get you in my bed.”
I flip open my eyes, glaring at him. Of course I find him grinning obnoxiously.
To that, I ignore his massage and, instead, gently push my foot even further into his hardened crotch. Brant loses all trace of his cockiness, his eyes going wide and his mouth gaping. I feel his cock flex under my foot. Yeah, I have his manhood at my heel now; I basically own him.
“Earn a few points by letting go of my foot,” I tell him politely.
“But you’re—”
“Or not?” I taunt him.
He lets go at once, despite my foot being pressed firmly against his junk. He looks like a man I’m about to arrest, his face showing surprise and his hands hovering tentatively in the air.
I suppress a smile of amusement, then work my foot deeper, giving him a “foot massage” of my own.
He shuts his eyes and clamps his fingers to the edges of the table. A deep groan of approval escapes his throat. I grin, encouraged by his reaction, and continue to use my foot to help out with his not-so-little “situation” down there.
Then he brings a fist to his mouth and bites it. “You’re making this impossible,” he says through his clenched teeth, muffled.
“Making … what … impossible?” I ask innocently.
“Making it impossible for me to—” I push deeper into his crotch, which seems to push a moan out of his lips. “For me to behave myself.”
“We’re behaving,” I assure him.
Then his eyes meet mine, and boy do they smolder. I’ve never seen blue eyes smolder the way his do in this moment, burning me with their daring, sexualized fury. His eyes have that “I’m gonna get you back” look to them. I suppose that’s the sort of look one earns when one so brazenly plays with fire.
The very next moment, a server—who is a boy with cherry cheeks and bleached blond hair—appears with our orders, announcing them as he sets each plate in front of us.
My foot never leaves Brant’s crotch. Brant’s gaze never leaves mine.
“Bon appétit,” says the server, oblivious, then departs.
And as I continue to torment Brant beneath the table with my cruel toes, I’m just another diner in the restaurant, innocently cutting into my steak and slipping the first bite past my lips. “Mmm,” I moan, our eyes still locked on one another. “Delish.”
He shuts his eyes again, issuing a small moan of his own as I continue to drive him crazy under the tablecloth.
“Aren’t you going to try yours?” I ask lightly.
“You’re evil.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” He struggles to pretend like nothing’s amiss, grabbing his fork and knife like a caveman and gracelessly cutting himself off a chunk, stabbing it into his mouth, and chewing demonstratively. Then, through his mouthful, he blurts, “Tasty.”
“Orgasmic, even,” I suggest.
“Explosive,” he agrees, his wetted eyes growing more and more crazed by the second.
I lean forward a bit and bring my voice down. “This is pretty mean, isn’t it?”
“The meanest,” he agrees.
“Especially when I still turn you down for sex after this.” I take a forkful of mashed potatoes, moaning as I eat them. “Wow. These are particularly succulent.”
“You’ll turn me down? Really? After working me up?”
“Try the potatoes.”
“Babe, I’m going to have the worst case of blue balls …”
“Potatoes,” I repeat, tapping my plate with my fork.
He scoops up some potatoes just as mannishly, shoveling so much into his mouth that his cheek bulges. Then he chews, his unblinking eyes locked on me as I continue to massage him.
“You have so much tension down there,” I note.
“Let’s skip dessert,” he says through his bite.
“But that’s my favorite part.”
And then I pull my foot back. I see him lurch forward, as if pulling my foot away had more of an effect on him than putting it there in the first place. His jaw hangs open, staring at me in disbelief across the table. I innocently return my attention to my plate.
He sputters before finally getting his question out. “Who are you?”
I just smile and enjoy my meal above the table, as I’ve finished enjoying the one beneath it.
Finally, after a few more bites of his steak, he shakes his head and says, “You’re like night and day, Nell.”
I swallow my mouthful. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, just days ago you turned me into your art exhibit and … I’m pretty sure the message behind that was you didn’t want anything to do with me. And then, through a great effort—”
“That wasn’t quite the message.”
“Through a great effort of mine,” he presses on, “I convinced you somehow this afternoon to actually interrupt your busy artist schedule go on a date with me.”
“Still haven’t declared this a date yet.”
“And now you’re … so fuckin’ frisky that I’m feeling caught off-guard. Me. Brant Rudawski. I’m caught off-guard. I’m blushing and shit. This isn’t me.”
“Your last name’s Rudawski?” I ask, then take a sip of my water.
He sets down his utensils, eyeing me from across the table. “Forgive me, Nell. I’m just gettin’ a lot of … mixed messages. I know you’re into me. You have to be into me. Basically everyone is. Even dudes.”
I chortle into my glass, then experience a sudden wave of regret. I don’t mean to lead him on so strongly. I’ve always been a bit like the kitty that races up the curtains, then can’t figure out how to get back down. I can’t resist an impulse when it takes hold of my mind. Those impulses are the reason I’m an artist.
They also happen to get me in trouble.
“When we first met,” I reason with him, changing my demeanor to something a touch more serious, “I think it’s clear to say I got a certain impression of you, Brant.”
“A naked one,” he agrees.
“Second time I met you, I got a similar impression.”
“Another naked one.”
“So forgive me,” I say, lowering my voice and leaning forward, “if I might need a little time to sort out whether it’s you playing me, or me playing you.”
He nods slowly. “What you’re telling me is, you want to get the hell out of here and play a bit somewhere else?”
His leg is bouncing excitedly under the table. His eyes gleam with a hunger I know has nothing to do with the steak he just crammed in his mouth. I worry that I’m pushing my luck here with a guy I barely know, once again following in my dad’s footsteps, being totally fucking reckless and irresponsible.
Why do I always do this? Why am I such a glutton for danger and darkness? Why is the good girl in me always wanting to do bad things?
“Yes,” I answer him, a challenging smirk on my face. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Chapter 9
Brant
I drop the keys twice on the way back to the car.
I can barely say anything on the ride over except stupid shit, like asking how she thought the steak was, or whether the restaurant felt too cramped for a Monday. Who cares, Brant? You’re driving to her place! And if you play all your Kings and Aces right, you’ll win the Queen!
“Here,” she murmurs.
I pull to a stop in front of a tall building just past the bridge over Jefferson Brook. I’m a bit turned around and possibly too intoxicated by horniness at the moment to process whether or not this is the nice side of town. From the look of the seemingly abandoned vehicles and boarded-up stores down the road, I might make a guesstimate as to which side I’m on.
She opens the door to a rundown warehouse-like building and we start ascending a narrow staircase which goes on forever. I’m about to complain until I realize I have a beautifully hypnotic view of Nell’s tight ass all the way up the approximately nine hundred flights. I think that’s enough motivation to shut up and bear the sore thighs. I could almost feel thankful for the lack of a working elevator.
We finally arrive at a sliding metal door, which she unlocks and pulls open with a heavy grunt. She flips on a switch inside, which actually lights up an array of different sized and shaped lamps that line one wall, giving the long room a multihued glow of various oranges and ambers. She lives in an industrial loft that overlooks the Jefferson Brook and the buildings below through its wall of windows that stretch the length of two walls—as we’re in a corner of the building. I’ve never been to New York City, but instantly I could believe I was there right now, staring out the window of some high-rise. I might be wrong, but I think I can even see Klangburg University in the distance. That is, if I’m even looking in the right direction.
“Want a drink?”
I turn away from the window at the inviting sound of her soft voice. She’s in her kitchenette, which is a modest L of countertop, a stove that’s seen better days, and a fridge that groans like it’s clinging to its last breath. Beyond the kitchen is a shadowed space I can’t see too well and a bed farther off by the window. I don’t even see the door to another room, leading my mind to wonder where the hell the bathroom is. I’m not used to such an open living space. I envy it, considering my own cramped living situation.
“I’m good.” I offer a smile, tucking my hands away in my pockets. “This is quite the pad you got here.”
“It’s alright. I hate the lighting in the evening; sun’s right in my face. Horrible for work.” She pulls out a bottle of something, cracks it open on the side of the counter, then kicks it back. I watch her in half-admiration, feeling as if I’m discovering a new facet of her every damn second. I’ve learned more about her tonight than I did all last week.
And I even still have my clothes on.
“You do your work here?” I ask.
“Yes, some of it.”
She takes another swig, leaning back against the counter. It’s very difficult not to stare at her sexy thighs, imagine the warmth between them, and reckon how horny it’d make me to put my face in all of that. Just the thought stirs my cock.
“Want to show me your work?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you that much in a hurry to get chained up naked and turned into another art piece again?”
I grin, a jolt of excitement coursing through me. Honestly, I might totally go for that exact situation again, provided it’s just her and I in the gallery. “Cuffed,” I correct her sassily, unable to resist giving her another onceover with my hungry eyes.
Nell chuckles, then pushes herself off the counter and heads for the shadowy area. I follow, our footsteps echoing all over the room. This loft has to be twice the size of my apartment. How does she afford a place of this size off-campus? I immediately answer my own question, figuring that in a rundown neighborhood like this, even a makeshift loft probably doesn’t go for much in terms of rent.
Or maybe she’s the sole heir to some family fortune and I’m a total judgmental prick.
She flips a switch, startling me, and three overhanging lights I didn’t notice before now bring into existence a cemetery of easels and tiny platforms upon which half-finished structures are perched. I see what looks like a big clay animal without its head—either a puppy or a pig, judging from the tail. There’s a giant papier-mâché spiked heel shoe, painted a glossy black. My eyes move to the easels and I see only two of them that carry drawings. Upon closer inspection, I realize one is a painting, in fact. It’s on a tall canvas—a familiar painting.
“Hey,” I say, pointing at it with recognition. “It’s a naked woman with ‘censored’ over her mouth.”
“I had to paint the idea first,” she explains, coming up to my side, “before making the … the piece of art I never quite showed.”
“Because you showed me instead.”
She smirks, but it looks more like she’s trying not to smile. “I much preferred the live version.”
“Me too.”
I study the painting. It’s not that I didn’t previously think Nell was a good artist, but I’m kinda surprised by how good she actually is. The painting looks totally professional. The shading on the woman’s legs gives her such a depth, it’s like she’s stepping right off the canvas. Her thighs are gorgeous and full, just like Nell’s, and her pussy is smooth and delicately pink. I stare at that particular area, surprised to find myself admiring its beauty more than being turned on by it.
“Beautiful, really,” I hear myself say.
She doesn’t respond, lowering herself to a nearby pedestal that contains no art and kicking back her bottle again. I turn away from the painting and catch her sharp, green eyes staring at mine. There’s a defiant look about them, as if she resents my comments about her work. Or maybe she’s just one of those artists who doesn’t take well to compliments.
“What do you do with them?” I ask, curious.
“Sell them, if I can. Or leave them. Or burn them. I don’t know.”
“Wow. How much do they go for?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She crosses her legs, hangs one arm over them while helping herself to another swig. Her eyes turn to glass and she licks her lips. “I don’t do it for money.”
I lift my eyebrows, taking a step toward her. “So what do you do it for?”
She considers the question, her eyes drifting off somewhere far, far away. “I do it for all the girls in the world, the girls in their pretty green dresses.” She swallows hard, her jaw tightening. “Maybe every time I create something beautiful, it makes me a little less aware of the ugliness around me. But sometimes I make ugly things too. I guess it’s just human nature, trying to put out fires by setting new ones. And sometimes,” she says, looking up at her headless puppy-pig creation, “all I want to do is make something beautiful … just to watch someone else destroy it.”
I stare at the piece, wondering if maybe it was, in fact, whole at one point. “Did someone take off its head?”
I ask, trying to follow.
“The name of the piece was B.F.F.,” she tells me, tilting her head and observing it curiously. “I made it a year ago for a midterm project. When I brought it to class, it was criticized. Cheeks too puffy, like a rabbit. Ears too perky, of course. Nose looked like a marshmallow. They even criticized the glossy, lifelike sheen I gave its eyes.”
“They weren’t too fond of its whole head, seems like.”
“So I took it off,” she concludes. “I turned it in again the next day and called it Headstrong Henry.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“No idea. I got an A.” She puts a hand over her mouth and sucks in air, as if she were smoking an imaginary cigarette. Then, with a sigh through that same hand, she says, muffled, “I think I make art to reconcile with all the parts about myself that I hate.” She pulls her hand away. “With art, I’m able to put that ugliness somewhere. And maybe, if I’m lucky, someone will find the ugliness beautiful.” Her eyes meet mine. “And I’ll keep doing it until it isn’t needed anymore. Until we’re so far into the future that all my lovely work becomes just … some forgotten evidence of how shitty our past was. We live in such a shitty time.”
“It’s not that shitty,” I finally put in. “There’s so much that’s cool about life nowadays. We have … little pocket-sized machines that can access the whole scope of … of human intelligence with just a tap of the finger. That’s cool as hell, right? And we have—”
“Wait. ‘Human intelligence’ is what you call that phone in your pocket? Is it Facebook that you’re referring to, full of ego, judgment, and soapboxes? Not something I’ll be proud of fifty years from now when I’m looking at retirement home brochures with my children.”
“Jeez! Bleak, much?” I stifle a laugh.
Nell stares at me hard.
I should maybe exercise some sensitivity and try not to mess this all up. “Sorry. Just … I tend to be a positive, happy-go-lucky kinda guy. I don’t mean to insult you or anything, Nell. It’s just that I always—”
“Penelope.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
“Penelope.” She takes another swig, blinks away the sting of it, then says, “My name’s Penelope Norman.”