She laughed softly. “You are dirty, and you are sophisticated at the same time. I’ve never known a man to say tits and ass and symphony in the same sentence,” she said, and then he heard a sharp intake of breath as he pressed a kiss to her new underwear. He could smell her through the fabric, even through the layers. He wanted to bury his face in her, his lips, his tongue, his cock. He wanted to inhale her scent, to taste her arousal, to feel her flood his tongue. He kissed her harder through her panties, and in seconds her hands were in his hair, gripping strands. Her legs shook. Her nails cut into his skull. He groaned as he kissed her panties a final time, biting her gently through the material, drawing out a sharp gasp from her. Somehow he found the strength to stand up. He pressed his hands against the dressing room wall, caging her in. “Obviously, I’m getting these for you.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re killing me,” he said, as he looped a finger into the waistband, tracing his fingertips across her. “You’re fucking killing me, and I love it.”
“Me too,” she said, her voice feathery and barely there. But he heard every sound in it. The sound of her desire that matched his.
“You’ve become a habit,” he said as he moved to her neck, leaving a soft kiss against the hollow of her throat. He could feel her heart beating fast under her skin. As fast as his. “One I don’t want to break.”
“I don’t want to either,” she said, and he pulled back to look her in the eyes. They were vulnerable, so open to him, like the rest of her. It was so hard for him to hold back. So hard to protect her from him when he wanted her this much. He refocused on the sex. The part of them that was undeniable.
He turned her around so she was looking in the mirror, then looped his arm around her belly, and dipped his hand inside her panties. Her chest rose and fell and her eyes went hazy. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you with my fingers right now,” he said roughly in her ear, nibbling on her earlobe with his teeth as he glided his fingers across her wet pussy. “I want to slide my fingers inside you and watch your reflection as you come in this dressing room.”
She met his gaze in the mirror, her lips parting on a muffled moan.
Then he stopped, removing his hand from her panties, a task that felt monumental given the way his dick was dying to break free. “But I want to wait. I want to see you at Lincoln Center in a fancy dress, knowing you have on this underwear, and I want to be tortured all night being next to you, thinking about how much I want to be making you come, so by the time I finally do it will be the only thing either of us wants in the world.”
“It’s all I want now already,” she said.
He turned her around and devoured her lips, as he unhooked her bra, slid off the peach panties, and then told her he’d meet her at the front of the store.
He left the dressing room, but before the door closed, he pushed it open wider. “Oh, and Michelle?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t touch yourself right now. I know you want to, but just don’t.”
She nodded. “I won’t.”
“Don’t when you go home to change either,” he told her, his voice firm. “Promise me you won’t.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t when you put on the gift I left for you with your doorman.”
Her eyes widened. “You left a gift for me?”
“Yes. Wear it tonight.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Misbehave
The car waited at the curb outside her building.
In a crisp black suit and a matching cap, the driver held open the door. She slid into the backseat alone. The car was cool, the air-conditioning whirring softly. She needed the chill because of the warm September evening, and because she was sure she’d be burning up soon enough. Good thing she was meeting Jack at Lincoln Center. If he were in the car with her right now, she’d surely be pushing the partition button, rolling it up, and causing all sorts of trouble.
As delicious as that sounded, she wanted to arrive calm and still put together, rather than already in a fevered frenzy. Especially given what she was wearing. Under her cranberry-red dress, a silky number that hugged her curves, she wore the peach lingerie and Jack’s gift.
When she’d opened the pretty black shopping bag at her apartment she wasn’t surprised to find a white box with the silver J embossed on it. Still, the possibilities of what it might be thrilled her. She’d held the bag close in the elevator, holding onto her naughty secret, then tighter still as she walked down her hall until she reached 7E, where she lived. Once inside, she’d opened it with eager fingers, so damn curious and admittedly, already turned on, to see what he’d given her.
After showering, blow-drying her hair, and applying make-up, she’d put on the gift underneath her panties.
She’d never felt so sexy in her life, knowing he wanted her to wear it on their date.
Now, anticipation threaded through her, like a plume of smoke from a genie’s lamp. A promise of wishes coming true. Of pleasure enveloping her. The driver pulled up at Lincoln Center and her gaze landed on the gorgeous fountain in the middle of the plaza, water shooting up in arcs, lit up like fireworks as the sprays cascaded. She’d been here many times for shows and events, but the fountain always awed her with its beauty.
The driver opened her door, and she grabbed her clutch purse, then she thanked him before he drove off. She gathered a bit of fabric from the dress in her hand so she could walk up the steps more easily, even as the toy rubbed against her from inside her panties. Her Louboutins clicked against the stones as she joined the sea of art lovers—men in tuxes and suits, women in formal dresses and gowns, milling about on a warm evening, waiting to see the ballet, to watch a play, to listen to the New York Philharmonic play a Brahms symphony.
She scanned the crowds for Jack, hunting out his dark hair, his chiseled jawline, his dark blue eyes, and his strong body. She’d know him anywhere, the feel of him, the shape of him, the cut of his shoulders, the trim lines of his waist. How his suits and shirts and pants hung on him so well. But he was nowhere to be seen. She turned in a circle, laughing to herself because her twirl was timed to a string quartet playing several feet away. An older couple ambled past her, the woman with her hand clasped around the man’s forearm. Across the plaza, couples and families made their way into the Vivian Beaumont Theater to see a Sondheim revival. On the other side of the fountain, a young woman in a form-fitting dress sat with a man in a suit who was making her laugh.