Mauras Possessive Date

I'm planning to meet Ryan at 7. If I were smart I would have brought a makeup bag and change of clothes with me to work so I could stay downtown for a bit instead of rushing home and coming right back. We're getting dinner at the fancy hotel restaurant. But I'm not date-ready.

This guy, Ryan, is kind of a douche but he always pays for dinner and the sex is fairly decent. I'm willing to bet he'd be into some BDSM or something kinky if we got together a few more times, and I'm down for some mediocre conversation about finances to get there.

I text him as I'm waiting for my shower to heat up: Running a few minutes late. Don't forget about me while you're waiting ;)

I'm spending a little quality time with the shower head when his reply comes through: I'll order you something nice for when you arrive.

Yes, please. He's always buying me the fancy cocktails. He thinks it's to loosen me up so I'll sleep with him. Little does he know I'd sleep with him anyways, but he gets possessive as I get more sloppy and it's one of those strange turn-ons. Last time we hooked up he kept a hot hand on my waist as he guided me to his car and I could swear he glared down the parking lot attendant. It was hot, if I ignored my feminist instinct to shout at him that I can handle myself.

Maybe I can convince him to buy me expensive lingerie. My options are fairly limited when it comes to matching sets. If I go braless my options expand considerably.

I decide to go with the dark teal lace set, spritzed heavily with perfume. It's 6:42, just enough time for me to still get ready and be fashionably late rather than rude.

Miraculously, I have an eyeshadow that matches the lacy lingerie. I layer it with practiced swipes, and finish the look with a long tail of eyeliner and a little bit of false lashes.

I always have to remind myself that dressing up for different dates isn't about impressing the guy, or catering to his interests. It's about the game--matching my look with what he wants, seeing what I can do. For example, Ryan is definitely not the type of guy to go for an all-natural girl. One look at his instagram, and I see his ex with a boob job (tasteful, but obvious) and another ex, a 20-something with enough botox and filler to paralyze a normal person.

So I play into this a little, with the false lashes and the heavy makeup, and the push-up bra.

When I was seeing a guy who did motocross, I dressed in ripped jeans and did heavy smokey eyes. It's all part of the game for me to see how much I can take on a new persona--in image only. I used to do this game with everyone, friends and boyfriends. In high school I tried to dabble with adopting new personalities to go with my new looks, and it backfired. I ended up auditioning for the school play, switching from ceramics to woodshop, and trying out for the volleyball team. When you go in too hard, it doesn't take long to realize you've fucked up, and you're in too deep on something that really isn't you.

I finish the look with a miniskirt, the slit riding high up my thigh, a teal blouse that sort of matches the lingerie, and tall boots--with no heel. Ryan's only got two inches on me and I don't want to make him insecure. He seems like the kind of guy to be sensitive about his height.

I'm locking the door at 6:56, purse slung over my arm, feeling pretty good about myself for getting ready in a reasonable amount of time, when I hear the garage door opening and shutting. It could be Beverly, the quiet older lady who lives upstairs, but as I hear the rumble of a large truck, I know it's Jacob, the single guy pushing thirty, my counterpart of the building. And my upstairs neighbor who I can hear having voracious sex with a variety of female guests.

He makes me nervous every time we have to interact--he's tall and muscular, and has some kind of job that means his truck bed is full of tools and hard hats and always splattered with mud. And he's so, so nice to Beverly, always helping her out or offering to carry her groceries in for her (yes, I spy at the peephole, and yes, I am ashamed of it). Plus, he drives a motorcycle, and something about seeing him pulling up to the garage on it, helmet on, carefully guiding it into its place, really quickens my pulse.

It's too late to hide in the apartment, so I walk confidently down the hall and let myself into the garage. He's cutting the engine right as I come out, and I can feel his eyes on me so I look up and wave.

He waves back, but I continue walking toward my car on the other side of the shared garage. Secretly, I hope he's watching the way my hips sway, thinking about what i'm wearing underneath. I can feel my face flush as I open the driver's door of my car, and I spare another glance at him, climbing out of the truck now.

"Have a good night," he calls, watching me get into the car.

"Thanks," I call back, giving another dorky wave. Whoops. Hopefully he can't see my blush. I want to say something like, I swear I don't usually get nervous around guys, it's just that you're my hot neighbor and I've heard you having sex and I don't know what to do. But I don't, I just open my garage door and pull out.

- - - - -

The hostess asks me what name the reservation is under and I'm standing there realizing I don't know Ryan's last name. We met in the elevator at work a couple of months ago, and it hasn't come up. Luckily, I spot him as he stands up from a table tucked into a dark corner of the room. The hostess smiles tightly at me, and I notice her eyes catch on the short skirt, the slit riding high up my thigh. She redirects her attention to an older couple that came in behind me, turning her back on me without another word. Maybe she thinks I'm an escort.

I weave through the dim restaurant, and Ryan reaches out for my coat. I slip out of it as gracefully as I can. He pulls out my chair for me, managing to graze his hand along my waist and down to the edge of my skirt as he brushes a quick kiss on my cheek.

"I ordered you a lavender pear martini. The waitress said it's popular." He holds his own neat whiskey glass up in toast.

The drink is sickly sweet, the rim crusted with lavender and sugar. I smile at him. "Thank you."

"You look gorgeous tonight, sweetheart." Ugh. Guys like this are too flirtatious for their own good. Over here making girls swoon.

I shrug back at him, coy. "I felt like dressing up."

A waitress comes by then, beaming down at me and setting a tray down with some fried pieces of something, garnished with parsley.

"Can I get you two anything else, or do you need a minute with the menu?" I feel the light touch of her hand on my shoulder, and it annoys me a little.

I look to Ryan, who barely even glances back before smiling tightly up at her. "Just a few minutes."

She pats my shoulder before retreating.

"And what do we have here?" I ask him, pointing to the mysterious fried things on the table. Depending on what he tells me, I'm not sure it will sound appetizing--greasy food was not what I was in the mood for.

"Er, I'm not sure." He's perusing the menu, finger pausing on one of the appetizers.

He reads aloud. "Fried crimini mushrooms stuffed with mozzarella, with a side of our house-made vodka sauce." He pronounces it like it rhymes with jiminiy crickets, and I suppress a smile.

"Hmm. Good choice." I take another swig from the too-sweet drink, intent on finishing it soon so I can order a vodka soda to wash it down.

The mushrooms are too greasy, and too cheesy, but perfectly delicious. My "harvest salad" is hearty and and healthy, though, and the bite I take of Ryan's steak practically melts in my mouth. I listen to him talking about a client at work, about a delivery that went wrong, about his upcoming trip to Cabo for a Bachelor party. The vodka works its magic and mellows me out, so I'm half listening to him and half blissed-out, enjoying my food and content to say very little.

In the bathroom, I savor the silence when nobody else enters after me, adjusting my top so my cleavage spills out a bit more, tousling my hair in that just-had-sex way that turns men on. I reapply my lip gloss.

After a quick pee--and a few moments spent readjusting my skirt--I'm returning to Ryan, who's all ready and queued up to talk about an article he read about monkey's brains.

Ryan's got charm, sure, but his ego is way too big to have a real conversation. Or maybe it's me--I don't feel like working too hard to keep a real conversation going when I know he'll do all the heavy lifting for me. All I have to do is sit and look pretty and sip on my drink and make the appropriate faces when he's looking for a response. And then as an afterthought, he'll ask me a question that I have to respond to, but it's something like well what do you think about all this, or what would you do, and all I have to do is regurgitate the bullet points he's been going on about and he's sitting there with dilated pupils and his jaw working, the look of a man who has passed along his invaluable knowledge to his female companion, and has successfully turned himself on.

I've noticed that his favorite part of the night is when he can whip out his American Express card and put it down without looking at the bill. Even when we just get burgers, or one round of drinks, he loves to impress me with how much he doesn't care what it costs. He'll glance over at me to see my reaction, and I'll play it up, biting my lip or holding eye contact and smiling over at him.

Don't get me wrong, it's nice when he pays, since I know he makes plenty, but it's funny to me, because I've slept with plenty of guys who are fine to split the check, or who don't think it's a big deal when they pay. But Ryan wouldn't like the game of me pretending to reach for my card.

I have to shimmy my skirt down when I stand up, and before he hands me my coat he gives me a long once-over, and places his hand on my hip, squeezing once, hard. "Are we gettin' outta here, or what?"

"Your place?" Knowing Beverly is home always makes me think twice about having guys over, with those thin walls. Besides, Ryan's apartment overlooks the river, and he's got expensive furniture and a fully stocked bar cart.

He helps me with my coat, managing to squeeze my ass again before the fabric covers it. I let out a giggle, giddy from the alcohol, and his hand grips my waist, pulling me close for a kiss.

When we part again, I'm slightly breathless, and I say, softly, "Thanks for dinner."

His eyes are still on my lips. "Anytime, sweetheart." His hand guides me from the small of my back, weaving through the tables and out to the front.

He loves this part, too. He often chooses places that have valet just for this moment, I think. I should really start making him pick me up so I don't always abandon my car downtown.

But I won't lie, it is hot when he retrieves his valet card from his pocket, holding it out with two fingers while his other hand grips my waist. His head is on a swivel, surveying the street around us, but when the guy leaves to get the car and he's determined there's no threat in the vicinity, his other hand finds my waist, too, and he pulls me in for another kiss.

I loop one arm around his neck, the other finding his jawline, gently stubbled when I run my finger along it. He smells like minty aftershave and the faintest hint of cologne, not too overpowering. When his tongue finds mine, I have to raise up to my tiptoes to properly kiss him back, and I feel his arms tighten in response, and his pelvic bone juts against mine, showing me his arousal. One hand drifts down to my ass, grabbing it through the thick fabric of the coat.

Then he's pulling away and running a hand through his hair, and I'm staring into his bright blue eyes and I've entirely forgotten about our boring dinner conversation, and all I can think about is how much I want him. He shakes his head softly, smiling at me. "You're a bad girl."

My answering smile is coy, and I raise an eyebrow. "I know."

His Audi smells like air fresheners, and he helps me into the car, standing close so I don't flash the whole street as I get in. His dark eyes when I look back up at him tell me he saw the lace, and this is only confirmed when he climbs in and immediately grips my upper thigh.

I can't help it--the possessive touch makes me crave him even more. I can feel the wetness beginning in my panties, and I scoot closer to him so I can rest a hand on his arm while he drives.

He's one of those guys who drives fast but not reckless. I've been in the car with some guys who make the ride miserable with the way they stomp on the gas and whip around corners, but Ryan controls the car pretty well, slowing down enough before the red lights that I don't get whiplash. Still, it makes my heart pound a bit when we fly down a mostly empty street, pushing 50.

He cycles through songs with the steering wheel button before settling on a Red Hot Chili Peppers song, turning it up loud enough that we don't need to talk. And we pull into his parking lot before the song ends--partly because he lives close, and partly because of how fast he got us here.

One of my favorite moves is kissing a guy before he has a chance to get out of the car. All it takes tonight is for me to stare at his lips while he maneuvers into the spot, and as soon as he pushes the gear into park he's reaching for my chin, pulling me into his lips. They're soft and warm, and he still tastes like steak and whiskey.

He pulls back but keeps his grip on my chin, staying close enough that our breaths mingle.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he breathes, his eyes darting back and forth between mine.

"What do you mean?" The reaction I get from guys makes me think that lots of girls must not be great at eye contact. All I'm doing is meeting his gaze.

He breathes a laugh, letting me go and leaning back to tuck himself into his waistband. "Tryna put me under your spell or something."

And then he's helping me out of the car, this time lifting up my skirt to palm my bare ass, pressing his bulk into my hip. I graze my hand over it, not breaking eye contact. He groans, tugging my skirt back into place and shoving my hand away. "Get upstairs," he orders, pushing at the small of my back so I have to walk toward the building. I grin back at him.

He lives on the fifth floor of the building, and I've been here enough times to finally remember which apartment is his in the hallway of identical doors. He lets me lead, but pushes me gently out of the way so he can put the key in.

He's prepped the place, I see. A couple of lamps are on for some fantastic mood lighting, and there are two glasses waiting on the coffee table.

He takes my jacket from me and shrugs out of his own and then unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. While I unzip my boots, I appreciate his arms, the shirt rolled up to his elbows. It's my weakness--for whatever reason, a man with rolled sleeves really does it for me. He's busy, turning on the stereo and grabbing the glasses from the table, but I walk over and grasp his bicep, squeezing a little. "You were hiding these from me at dinner?" I tease, reaching up with my other hand to brush down his forearm.

He grunts a laugh, stepping around me to the bar cart. "Can't have all the waitresses swooning over this gym bod," he jokes, lifting the lid to the ice bucket (pre-filled) and spooning a few cubes into the glasses. "Vodka?"

I survey the options. "Tequila."

He turns to look at me, eyebrows raised. "Tequila makes you wild!"

I laugh at his playful tone. "It sure does!" He's probably remembering our margarita night where I made him dance with me at the bar.

He's shaking his head, but pouring a generous amount into my glass, finishing it up with a squeeze of lime juice and a splash of syrup. He shakes the glass to stir it and hands it over.

I take it to the giant window overlooking the river, the city's lights spreading out in all directions.

He joins me with amber liquid clinking in his class as he reaches it out to tap gently against mine. We sip in sync, and his hand reaches around for my ass again, stepping back so he can watch as he slaps it. It stings, but my panties are soaked.

He opens the sliding door, and the cool air hits, windier up here than it was on the street. My nipples peak beneath my shirt and I wrap an arm around myself before stepping out to lean on the railing. With just the lamps on inside, it's dark enough to see out and up to the few stars peeking through the light pollution of the city. Even up at my place I can see more stars.

I hear Ryan take a long drink from his glass and set it on the metal table beside the door, and then I feel him come up behind me, one hand circling my waist and the other bracing against the railing next to my arm. His breath is hot on my neck, nudging my hair out of the way with his nose so he can plant a trail of kisses from my ear to my shoulder. I feel his bulge pressing into my ass, and he grinds in a little, making my skirt ride up even farther.

I take a long sip from my drink and then pass the glass into his hand at the railing--god forbid I drop it down five stories. His hand is wandering from my waist, up toward my breast. I let him have a quick squeeze before turning to face him, one hand stroking his arm and the other coming between us so I can graze his tip, poking through the top of his pants. It's radiating heat out at me from underneath the fabric.

His mouth finds mine, and our tongues are cold from the ice. My head is spinning a little, just on the right side of the sweet spot between being delightfully tipsy and too drunk to enjoy myself. A moan escapes my lips and his hips buck into me, hard enough that my butt hits the railing with a little too much force.

"Sorry," he breathes, pulling back so he can reach around to cup my ass and guide me closer to him, away from the railing. I stand up taller, using his arm to brace myself and tugging on his collar so our mouths meet again. I find his bottom lip and tug it gently between my teeth. He groans and presses into me again. I feel the cold glass from his hand as it grazes my back, where my blouse has ridden up and exposed a strip of skin. It makes me shiver.

His other hand grips my jawbone, holding me in place while he pulls back. "Bad girl," he growls, smiling. I meet his gaze evenly, catching my breath. His pupils are large, taking up the iris. I feel the cold from the concrete beneath us soaking through my thin socks, the breeze insistent at my back, his heat radiating out toward me.

He releases my chin, nodding toward the apartment. "Get in there," he says softly, stepping to the side and pushing me toward the door. I hear him swig the rest of the tequila from my glass and shut the door behind us. I can feel his eyes watching me as I walk toward the couch, so I add a bit more swing into my hips, aware of how much of my ass is hanging out the bottom of my skirt.

By the time I've sat on the couch, my panties wet beneath me, he's standing over me and unzipping his pants. I help free the length of him between his zipper, and his hands find my hair as I take him in my mouth, slowly, adjusting to his size. His hands are soft, holding my hair out of the way and not shoving me into it like he sometimes does.

He mostly tastes clean--something else I look for when choosing someone to sleep with repeatedly. Anytime we meet up spontaneously, he's always fresh out of the shower, and that shower is fully stocked with nice-smelling body wash. The tip is salty, and I know exactly what I'm doing when I pull back to lick it, and look up at him.

His breath is sharp, and he shakes his head at me. "What did I tell you earlier," he says, low and soft.

I break eye contact for a moment, but I'm back in a second. He looks away, gazing behind me at the view. I stifle a smile and pause to lift my shirt over my head, exposing the bra. His hand traces the thin ruffle of lace that lines it, and then his hand is roughly grasping my boob. "Mmh. That's nice," he says.