There I was, stuck in the biggest quandary of my life. To stay, tolerating this horrific attack on my psyche, or to flee, and possibly loose everything. Tough decision, considering the circumstances.
It started, as most things do, in the midst of a heated argument. I'd never admit it to him, but god, he was sexy when he was furious. I love how the tiny muscle in his jaw ticks when he clenches his teeth, his dark eyes blazing. I love how he stands so straight, his fists clenched, speaking in a deceptively collected tone. In truth, sometimes I prod just to get him started.
This was one of those times.
He had taken me out that night to dinner. The restaurant was magnificent, of course. Leave it to him to pick quality. He wore a fitted green cashmere turtleneck, dark jeans, his belt, and black boots. Very euro-trend especially paired with his tall, almost lanky form, and that shock of tousled black hair. He was quality, himself. I was on his arm, and proud to be there. My long, dark red hair was piled high on my head, and I had gone understated in the timeless 'little black dress', my heels high and pulling my calf muscles taunt, stretching my legs for seemingly miles.
Throughout dinner, I kept instigating glances from the men at the surrounding tables. When I would catch them admiring my full, soft breasts, I would level my eyes, letting them know I appreciated their admiration. The intimate setting, paired with the murmur of other pairs, made me feel cherished and very, very sexy.
Glancing around the room, he and I played the game that had grown as familiar to me as the curve of his shoulder, making him smile for the first time that evening. Leaning over, my dark red lips millimeters from his ear, I whispered, "Three o'clock- beside the potted ferns, see her?" When he nodded his head slightly, and shifted his weight toward me, I continued.
"It's textbook", I said, my breath sliding over his earlobes - a lovers caress. "Don't you see how she's sitting close, but her legs are crossed away from him? Her foot is tapping in her 4inch mules, even though she has the face of complete interest... and although his hand is on her thigh and inching upward, her legs remain tightly crossed." I sat back, satisfied with myself, and looked over to him for his agreement.
The couple I was referring too held his attention, his dark eyes scanning the homely older man who was fumbling with the young, gorgeous blonde. He was wearing a suit that was slightly too large for him, and his shoes needed a good shining. The woman, on the other hand, was perfectly coiffed, and carried a certain grace about her that isn't easy to pretend. Her red dress was overtly sexual, riding high on her thigh, with tiny tassels to caress her creamy pale skin, and dipping low to outline and expose the tops of her full, round breasts. She leaned toward the man with her upper body, being purposely seductive, but she seemed distant at the same time.
"She's being paid," he said, speaking in a calm voice, "so at least she has an excuse for acting like a tramp." He turned and leveled his dark eyes on me, giving me a pointed look that I could feel all the way down to the tips of my toes.
With that, he turned back to dinner and left me to my own thoughts, which weren't of the pure variety. I kept my eyes on the woman, admiring the line of her delicate neck, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. She was beautiful, but obviously an escort, because the fumbling man was groping her openly now, and she was subtlety leaning away but encouraging him with her whispers. It was an interesting contradiction.
When the waiter stopped mid-sentence to ogle the bird's eye view, I remembered my night's mission, and strove to emulate the sexuality that I could see radiating off the woman sitting with the older man. I smiled at our waiter, teasingly ran the tip of my tongue over my full and pouty lower lip, and looked him up and down rather appraisingly myself.
Shameless, I was. I didn't even hesitate to take the phone number slipped into my palm at the end of the night, or to hide the pat on my ass as we walked out the door. Jealousy, I thought, was such a handsome emotion.
It's not that I was interested in the men that stared, that flirted, and even, on occasion, groped. Of course they were handsome, but really, my mind was on him. My little plan was to fire him up, manipulate him into a blinding jealous frenzy, and get the holy hell fucked out of me. That's really all I wanted- to be thrown down, my clothes ripped, hair pulled, lost in the suffocating passion that would threaten to consume us both.
Then again, my little plans always have a glitch.
I wiggled in delicious anticipation the minute I felt him squeezing my hand just a bit too tight. I was a bad girl, and now I was going to pay for it. He pulled me across the parking lot, my skirt dancing on my thighs, having to jog in my heels to keep up with his angry stride. Always the gentleman, he opened the car door for me, but before I could step inside, he slammed me against the shiny black of the passenger side door and held me there with his body. I blinked in surprise, my chin tilted upward to look at him, and there it was. His eyes were fiery, his jaw clenched, his breathing short and irregular through gritted teeth. I licked my lips, rolling my hips against his.
"You little whore", he spat, gripping my waist too tight and pushing further into me, "You don't think I know the game you're trying to play with me?"
I sighed unconsciously, the tip of my tongue rubbing slowly over the expanse of my red lips.
"I know you, tramp, and I know what this is about. How dare you think you could manipulate me into being jealous? You just want to get fucked," he growled, his breath blowing slowly against my ear. I groaned louder now, my thigh slipping between his legs to rub against his crotch, my nipples pert and pressing against the material of my dress.
"You just want to be fucked, you scheming little cunt. I think I've got something better for you, instead." He chuckled, low in his throat, and my breath caught in mine. This wasn't the plan; this wasn't how my game was supposed to work.
By then, my cunt was pulsing against the sheer lace of my tiny black thongs, dripping and pooling between my legs. I ground shamelessly against his jean-clad thigh, needing him to kiss me. Hell, a few more minutes of this, and I would need him to throw me over the hood and pull my dress up, sliding his cock deep into my warm, wet, pulsing pussy, fucking me, my head banging on the car...
But I digress.
He shoved me rudely in the passenger seat, my skirt up around my waist, legs spread lewdly. I tugged my skirt down while he walked around to his side of the car, but he stopped, speaking on his cell phone, before he got in. When he finally opened the door and slid into the driver's seat, I could see that delicious muscle in his jaw pulsing. I was ecstatic, still thinking I was going to get exactly what I wanted, until I realized that we weren't headed anywhere.
We sat in the car for minutes, the silence thick, and my breath loud in my ears, short and ragged. I didn't know what he was up to, and I wasn't going to ask. Finally, he started the car and steered angrily around to the front of the restaurant, where he quickly put the car in park. I turned to him, questioningly. "Wh-who.. What are you doing?" I stuttered, making an idiot of myself. He laughed, and then got out of the car, walking around to my side. He opened the door, and half dragged me out.
"Get in the backseat", he said.
"What? N- why?" I stumbled, panicking.
