She glanced at her phone. Fifteen minutes, before he was expected. She locked the screen and dropped the phone beside her, tugging her silk kimono tighter around her body and sinking further into the soft leather couch.
All this waiting was giving her far too much time to think.
Memories of their last encounter floated into her mind. She had been so sure of herself, so sure that she could conquer him and enjoy him at her leisure. And yet, she had completely lost control of the situation. And then...
She shuddered, despite the warmth of the kimono. It didn't bare thinking about.
She glanced at her phone again. No new message had come through. The irritation was bubbling up inside her. They had kept in contact, after that disastrous night. There was a score to settle. Besides, he was a fascinating man, who had touched so many things deep inside her. Figuratively, and literally. It would be a pity, to let a man like that go.
It had proved an enjoyable task. He turned out to be quite the conversationalist, and more than capable of keeping her amused. And like any good gentleman, he made no mention of their night together, of his conquest or her defeat. He'd made it so easy to play the game, to keep him close as she rallied her spirits.
Now, she was ready to take the field once more. Nothing fancy, or threatening, at least on the surface. Just a nice night in, a romantic dinner, some wine, the slightest hint of something more...
She had spent all day readying herself. It had been a long time since she had felt the need to go to such lengths. After all, it was up to men to impress her. She decided if they'd be getting lucky or not. But no. He was different. He was a worthy opponent, who called forth all her powers. She had made the mistake once already of underestimating him. He had caught her by surprise. But now she knew what to expect. This time, she would triumph. She would have him begging for her.
She would not be defeated.
She savoured the thought, as she sat and waited. And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being outmanoeuvred, being led into some devastating ambush...
The doorbell rang at exactly 7:30. She pushed all doubt from her mind, pulled herself to her feet and flung away her protective cover in a single fluid motion. She stood there for a while, admiring her battle armour. She had chosen well. The black and purple lace suited her to perfection, and the cut of both bra and panties accentuated her already stunning figure.
He may have already seen her naked, but he hadn't seen her like
this,
resplendent in all her glory. He wouldn't stand a chance.
She gave her head a shake to settle her hair on her shoulders before strutting to the door, her bare feet sinking into the soft carpet. No heels tonight. Heels were for women who were trying too hard to impress, and she was impressive enough already. And there was something so wonderfully alluring and intimate about a barefoot woman.
A deep breath to steady herself. Now, the battle begun.
She unlocked the door and let it swing open, taking great care to position herself. One hand casually leaning against the door frame, the other resting lightly on her hip. Stretching out her torso to fully reveal the taut line of her waist and the sensuous sweep of her thighs. A gentle smile that was just inviting enough without revealing what she was thinking, a voice low and syrupy sweet.
'Good evening.'
Only then did she deign to look at him.
Not bad. Not bad at all. He was as dashing as ever, with his well fitted suit. No tie, she noticed, the top two buttons of his pristine white shirt open to reveal the deceptively vulnerable throat. And in his hands, a bouquet of white magnolias. Well. Wasn't that cute.
'Good evening, my dear. I trust I find you well? A small gift for you.'
He had tried to conceal it, but she had caught the spark in his eyes, the tiny bob in his throat as he glanced down at her magnificence, before snapping his gaze with laser focus to her face. That was only natural. No one would be able to resist, no matter how disciplined they were. She would be on full display all night. He would have no choice but to look. And each time he did, he would fall deeper into her.
The night was still long, but the first encounter was hers.
'You shouldn't have. Please, come in.'
She took the bouquet from him and cradled it in the crook of her arm, holding it in just the right way to draw attention to the exposed flesh of her bosom as she gestured for him to come inside.
'Your timing is impeccable,' she said as she locked the door behind them. 'I've only just finished setting the table.'
That was a lie. And judging by the amused twitch in the corner of his mouth, he was well aware of it. But he was too much of a gentleman to call her out.
'Of course,' he said. 'One mustn't keep a lady waiting.'
Was it just her, or was there the faintest hint of a challenge in his words?
'This way, please. Do take a seat.'
'Thank you, my dear. Why, this all looks rather good, doesn't it?'
Silly man. Of course it looked good. She had gone through a lot of effort to put this dinner together. The way to man's heart was indeed through his stomach. No one could resist some good old fashioned home cooking. And the lobster ravioli with vodka cream sauce that she had spent all afternoon concocting did technically count as home cooking, albeit from the type of home that had a Michelin star chef tucked away somewhere in the family. No matter. A sophisticated opponent required a sophisticated approach. It was the perfect means to get the discerning gentleman going, before the main course of the night.
He had draped his jacket over the back of his chair, and rolled up his cuffs to reveal well shaped wrists and forearms. She nodded in satisfaction, before seating herself imperiously at the head of the table.
'Wine?' she offered.
'Please, allow me.'
He reached for the bottle and expertly uncorked it, pouring the red liquid into their glasses with almost unnerving ease.
'Your health, my dear.'
'And yours.'
She never took her eyes off him as they ate. Just like before, she was taken by how easily he handled his cutlery. One day, when she had him at her mercy, she would question him about where he had learnt his table manners. There was bound to be a story there. She was never wrong. He really did have that special something about him.
'My compliments, my dear. This is excellent.'
'I'm glad you're enjoying it.'
She could hardly taste anything as she ate, even if she knew for a fact that it was good. She shifted her posture, swelling up her chest and putting the best of herself on display. He didn't seem to notice. Ever the gentleman, he continued his easy conversation, paying compliments to her cooking, her home, her taste in interior design. Everything except
her.
