The restaurant was awash with nebulous noise and motion as my brain pounded behind my eyes in time with my heart in my throat. Of course you were waiting to open the door for me. I was two minutes late-on time in my book-and you'd reserved a table nearly twenty minutes before. You firmly grasped my elbow, pulling me in for a fleeting embrace that forced a blush into my cheeks and promised to elicit similar burnt flesh throughout the evening. I barely perceived the sweetheart rose you slipped gently behind my ear, so enveloped was I in the faint aura of your sharp, clean scent. Just as the electric jolt from your cologne dissipated through my thighs, you fluidly swung your hand behind me, guiding me to our table by pressing firmly into the small of my back and sending incendiary ripples cascading outward from my root. I nearly tripped into my chair to escape the tension.
Courses came and went in a blur. I nibbled at the bread and gulped my water, feeling flushed and dehydrated with each tenuous breath. You ate, and I watched your teeth intently as you gnashed them against your steak. Did I imagine the twinkle in your eye and the aggressive clink of your fork narrowly escaping your bite? Or was this, as you promised it always would be, an opportunity for you to assert your desires for my flesh?
Manchurian soldiers marched along the corners of conversation as we pivoted from one tabled topic to the next, but the fervor I'd hoped for in discourse was supplanted with a more urgent, primal haze of knowing need. We finished almost desperately; do you remember who tipped the waitress? Thank you for walking me to my car. You were a perfect gentleman. Asking for a kiss was, I assumed at the time and still wholeheartedly commit to my mental paradigm, a full measure of your dedication to my comfort. (Still today I quash any hints in my imagination suggesting you would have kissed me no matter what.) I consented, of course, and received the most graceful brushing of lips weighted with gratitude. Before I could swallow the nectar, heavy lips came down once more, this time enveloping mine in something entirely lacking in grace and poise. The lusty beast roared between us, and we wrestled to exorcise it from each other.
Hastily, I thrust a velvet-flocked box into your hand. Your trembling fingers deftly detangled the bow to reveal gleaming steel inside. Handcuffs. I begged you, and you did cuff my wrist to the wheel. Your eyes were aglow when I explained that the other key- the one you did not have in the bottom of the box- was on a string in my garage, ready to release me only when I returned safely home in an effort to prevent premature release at the end of our dinner. Your playful words burned through my ears and into my cheeks, "your hands may be tied, but mine aren't." You dropped to your knees, drawing your fingers up my stocking- covered legs. I caught the glinting sunset reflecting off the handcuff key you slipped into your jean pocket as your now-familiar lips found the inside of my ankle. My entire leg tingled with anticipatory electricity and my mind broiled with thick waves of desire.
I'm left to imagine what you were thinking as you so very tenderly caressed my calf with sweet, gentle kisses punctuated by occasional flicks of your tongue against the smooth stretched fabric over my skin. Your playful smile suggested a teasing flirtation that would burrow deeply into our collective memories as an act of both restraint and torture. Your kneading, groping hand on the other side of my leg, deeply tracing muscle and flesh like a mad cartographer shaped another story entirely. The physical manifestation of your internal conflict delighted me in all manners of eroticism, completely consuming my body and enveloping my mind in the thrill of the dance.
