Edging Toward An Answer

I rush around my apartment after hanging up the phone. I had no plans to go out for Halloween - I was chilling in bed, watching Audition for the fifth time - but he called. I told him I'd meet him outside Jake's as long I could pull some kind of costume together. "Why don't you put on what you wore to Rocky Horror? That seemed... festive."

We met up for coffee a few days ago, and I made a calculated move. I told him about having gone to the show at the ArtCraft, and casually scrolled through a couple photos from that night. One was a photo that a friend had snapped of me in my best lingerie-as-outerwear. I let it linger on screen a beat longer than the others before scrolling to the next. I thought I saw him shift in his seat ever so slightly, but he was otherwise inscrutable. We've been circling each other for two months, and I just want clarity. Are we friend-zoning each other? Or are we doing something else? I tried to bait him out that night with the photo, but he didn't bite - something about having an early day at work the next morning. I admit, that was a little blow to my ego. I'm unaccustomed to being turned down.

But here we are, four days later, and look who's still thinking about that outfit.

The pendulum swinging in my mind constantly these past weeks has been exhausting. Before I see him, it's definitely preserve the friendship. It's a real connection, shared perspective and interests, fun companionship, and such ease. It's a solid, wonderful thing. But then I see him, and it's climb on that dick. I want to finally get his hands on my body, to explore him fully, to get release from all this tension that's been building between us. Assuming I'm not imagining it.

When I take him up on his 11pm invitations out to our regular bar, we often close the place down, losing track of time in conversations over shared pitchers of beer. I spend hours in a bubble of his rapt attention. I'm tipsy on alcohol and ego-stroking. He reaches across the table and grabs my hand for emphasis while he talks. He touches my legs. I'm the only person in the room. It's not a question of whether he genuinely likes me as a person - distinct from attraction. He does. I know that. What I don't know is if his open physicality is just an extension of that, or if he has some specific - sexual - interest in me. When the server comes by to bring the bill, he turns his whole body to give his full focus to whatever small talk she puts forward. Even as she says she'll see us next Tuesday - she's noticed the pattern - she blushes under his attention. I get it. It's intoxicating to be heard and seen like this. I can't even be jealous. Well, no. I can. But I still get it.

So here I am, another 11pm, another frantic shaving session just in case. I think tonight has to be it for me. If this outing doesn't move the needle, then I need to accept that he's just my friend and move on. My hot, flirty friend. That's fine. I can enjoy that if that's what it comes down to. I already do. But before I resign completely, I have this outfit to work with.

I pull on a black lace thong, black thigh-high stockings with red bows on the back and a red garter belt to hold them up. I check the bows in the mirror, and bend over to get the full picture. He should be so lucky to get a handful of this juicy ass. I give it two little slaps. I'm feeling myself tonight. I lift my breasts into my favorite black lace demi bra, cupping and admiring my cleavage. This man doesn't know what he's missing, but he'll get a glimpse tonight. I pull on the black vinyl mini skirt from the photo and get my makeup on. I call an Uber. As I fasten the buckles on my three-inch heels, I realize I'm a little more exposed than I want to be for a strange driver. I grab a long cardigan to cover up until I get to the club.

From the car, I text him that I'm on my way and ask, "What's your costume? Am I going to recognize you?"

"You should, after reading those smutty vampire books you admitted to a couple weeks ago ;)"

I feel a little heat rise to my cheeks. I made a passing reference to a book I'd checked out from the NYTimes bestseller list. I didn't mention it was erotica; he must have looked that up on his own.

Three dots appear in the chat and disappear. I try to imagine what awaits me at the club. He's taller than me by a good four inches, and has an athletic build, but his usual clothing doesn't give much else away. The most I ever get is a glimpse of the dip at his collarbone through an extra button open at the top of his shirt, or his muscled forearms when he rolls up his sleeves halfway through a beer. He wears a simple leather cord tied around his left wrist that always draws my eye. Unlike, say, a watch, that serves aesthetic and practical purposes, the cord is pure adornment. Rugged, sure, but it telegraphs an understated comfort with being perceived.

Three dots appear again, and I find myself idly biting my thumbnail and smiling as I wait to see what he's deliberating sending me. Tonight feels different than our bar outings. I hope I'm not deluding myself. I feel a little ridiculous in my costume - maybe obvious is the better word for it - but what is this holiday if not an excuse for setting some subtlety aside?

The three dots turn into a text. "And you? Should I be looking for something like I saw on your phone?"

"Look who suddenly has a photographic memory. I think you'll spot me just fine ;)"

When I arrive, he's leaning against a wall at the base of the stairs to the club. He hasn't seen me yet. Something flutters inside me as I take him in. His normally brushed back hair is tousled, a few loose waves hanging down toward his eyes as he looks at his phone. In place of his usual button down, he's wearing a tight black T-shirt that hugs his biceps like it was made for him. His shoulders are broader than I'd realized, and over them are a set of sheer black wings. Thick straps secure them across his muscular chest, and I have a dawning understanding of the appeal of leather daddies.

He looks up and no doubt clocks me gawking a bit. I think I see a self-satisfied smile blooming across his face as he walks over and embraces me as he always does. A little too close and a little too long to be strictly platonic, but plenty of room for plausible deniability. As he pulls away, he runs his hands down the long sleeves of my buttoned cardigan. "You lose some of that courage from the other night?" he challenges.

"Not at all," I say, unbuttoning the long sweater and forcing myself to keep eye contact. I feel his eyes over my breasts and torso. He comes behind me to help me out of the sleeves - a pretty transparent move to check out my ass. My skirt just barely covers it.

"Nice bows," he says. This is already more forward than I'm used to from him.

"Nice wings."

He guides me toward the stairs with a hand on my lower back, and I feel a prickle of heat run down my torso and into my legs. I wonder how much he can see as he follows behind me. The straps of the garter belt are straining over my round ass with each step. My hips swish a bit as I climb - half from the three-inch heels, half from pure lust forcing its way through my body. My skirt rides up almost imperceptibly with each step but I still my impulse to tug it down. I'm acutely aware of that crease in my skin where my thighs meet my ass.

We just got here. I need to take a fucking breath. He touches my back, and I'm suddenly ready for him to bend me over this banister? I'm not a teenager. I'm a grown ass woman who can act right.

It's loud as hell inside, and full of horny college students. We're a little out of place here - he's 32 and I'm 27 - but the anonymity that provides feels somehow easier. No one is going to give us a second glance. We find a place against a wall, drinking double vodka tonics I grabbed for us at the bar. People are grinding on the dance floor, and we have to keep leaning in to talk. We're doing some people-watching.

He drapes his arm over my shoulder, leans in closer, and says, "Pretend with me."

"Pretend what?" I study his face. He looks... mischievous. And he smells fucking divine, like all the best parts of a bonfire, and leather, and... what is that? I can almost taste it - like toasted marshmallow and bourbon. Fuck. Now I'm wondering what he tastes like.

"If you were here to pick someone up tonight, what would you be looking for? Who are you going for out there?"

I laugh. "That's not my style."

"I know it's not, but let's pretend anyway. Who is la sirena taking home?" That's what he's taken to calling me when he's prying my dating history out of me.

"Fine, I'll play," I reply, more sultry than I intend. "And I can tell you what I'm not going for," I say, motioning to an absolute rectangle of a man who was almost certainly a business school graduate. He has a beer in an upraised hand, the other wrapped around the waist of the unfortunate young woman in a sexy nurse costume that he's dry humping off beat. "That guy could be with anyone right now. Any thing, really. All he cares about is getting his dick wet. Doesn't matter how."

He rotates in toward me, his lips brushing my ear. "And you want someone who will get you wet." My breath catches in my throat, and I suddenly don't know what to do with my body. I feel heat rise in my face and a shiver of arousal down my back. In the time it takes for me to finally exhale my surprise, he's casually pivoting back to his space on the wall. "That makes sense," he smirks. I run my hand absentmindedly over my neck, and he looks pleased as he gives me a slow once over. "Here," he says, reaching for my now empty glass, "I'll get us another round."

I realize as he walks to the bar that I haven't said a word. I didn't expect this assertiveness from him. I've had the tables turned on me so thoroughly, and he's giving me a minute to let it sink in. So confident, and so smug. I don't really want to give him the satisfaction of knowing what's he done to me here. And I'm wondering if I made a wardrobe mistake now as I feel wetness pooling in my core.

He returns with two old fashioneds. I take a large sip for some courage. I'm desperate to regain the upper hand here. "So, let's keep playing hypotheticals. Who are you bringing home tonight?" I say. A reggaeton beat starts to vibrate through the speakers. "A dancer," he breathes into my neck, and he grabs my hand and leads me to the floor.

We dance, and he gives me a preview of what the rest of this night could be. He watches me grind my hips on the mounting desire I feel straining against his pants. I bend over to tease him with a little twerk, and he splays his hands across the fronts of my thighs, firmly dragging them up and back across my bare skin, catching on the garter belt straps, until he has a grip on my hips. I arch back at the pressure and wrap a hand back around his neck, my fingers through his hair. His hands roam, leaving a trail of prickling heat everywhere they touch. One flat on my stomach just under my breasts; the other lower, a thumb hooked under the waistline of my skirt. I suck in a breath as I feel his lips at my ear once more. "I had a feeling you were a bit of a bad girl." Electricity flows through my skin. I tilt my head to expose more of my neck and feel him burying his face in, a hand traveling across my cleavage and settling against my throat. I roll my body against him, feeling his taut muscles returning the motion against my back. He nips at my earlobe and I grip his hair in my hand. "That photo... I know a dare when I see one, and I've had four days to think about exactly what I want to do to you."

Any remaining caution I had has been replaced by heat and throbbing need between my legs. I spin around and pull him to me by the harness strapped across his chest. I brush my lips along his ear and whisper, "Only four days? You have some catching up to do." As I drag my hands down across his abdomen, I feel his body yield itself to me for a brief moment. But before I can dip past his waistline, he grabs me by my wrists and gives me a teasing ah ah ah. He guides me off the dance floor and toward the exit.

I see him take his phone out for a brief moment as I follow him, and then he tucks it back in his pocket as we turn a corner into the empty stairwell outside. The music spilling out of the club is muffled now. I can hear his uneven breathing as he sets his back to the wall and holds my hands out at arms distance from him, looking me over, assessing me. "It's been more than four days. But my imagination apparently didn't do you justice before that." I step forward to close some of the distance between us.

"And do you like what you see?" I tease, taking another step. He reaches up to my face and drags his thumb slowly across my bottom lip. "What do you think?" I can't take much more of this. I hold his hand in place and run my tongue up over his thumb, looking him directly in the eyes. "I think--" I say, pausing for just a moment to suck on the tip, "--we'd better get out of this stairwell." He stares at me, lips parted, as I press my palm over his arousal, stroking up his full length through his jeans. He puts two fingers in my mouth and I flick my tongue over them as I suck. We're both thinking of what my pretty little mouth is going to do to him later. I watch his breath catch as I stroke him again, but I'm interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket. He leans forward, and whispers, "That's our ride."

I try to pull myself together as we walk down the stairs to the car. I'm not trying to force this unsuspecting Uber driver into our lust haze. I know his place is only three minutes from here. I can behave myself for three minutes. He produces my forgotten cardigan seemingly out of thin air and helps me into the sleeves.

We get in the back seat and sit right next to each other. The driver has his music up and invisible blinders on for whatever happens in the back of this car - this is clearly not his first club pick-up rodeo. But we're being good. Patient. Sort of. His hand is high on my upper thigh. I lean over to whisper, "Guess we're done with hypotheticals."

"As long as that's what you want," he says.

"I'm coming, aren't I?"

He grips my thigh firmly. "You will." A promise he delivers with a light suck on the skin of my neck. He brushes his fingers over the lacy fabric between my legs, and now there's no doubt about his effect on me. "That doesn't feel hypothetical," he grins. Sheer force of will is the only thing standing in the way of me grinding against his hand and begging.

This driver is addicted to the speed limit, but we only have one more block. Behave, behave, behave, I tell myself.

Thirty agonizing seconds later, we're out of the car and walking up the stairs to his place. My cardigan comes down to my knees, so I'm not on full display. I have a minute to breathe. He turns on a few dim lamps as we go inside.

I don't know what exactly is happening next. It's not my first time here. We watched a movie on the couch once. Don't ask me what it was -- I spent the whole time wondering if it was going to be a night like tonight has been. I had to work out that frustration on my own twice that night before I could fall asleep in my own goddamned bed.

I hear running water coming from the kitchen. I look over to see him drying off his hands. He asks if I want another drink, and I absolutely do. As he gets to work mixing, I step into the bathroom to quickly wash away some of the sweat from the club. I check my hair and makeup. Lipstick is smudged off my lip. I swipe a little mouthwash from his cabinet and rinse. I adjust my bra, straighten out the garter belt, and go back and forth about whether or not I take the sweater off now. My intentions are pretty obvious at this point, but... I don't know. We're not out in some anonymous carnal space anymore. I leave it on and walk back into the living room.

He's waiting for me on the couch. Our drinks sit on the coffee table. He's a picture of masculine ease, lounging with arms draped across the back and side of the couch, legs wide. He's drinking me in, I realize. A hungry, but unhurried gaze travels over my body - I swear I can almost feel it lapping at my skin. He inclines his head toward the seat next to him, and I walk over. He leans over to get our drinks as I sit down, and positions himself closer to me as he hands me mine. "See what you think," he says as he clinks his glass against mine.

I take a sip. A bite of gingery heat passes my lips and sweet cardamom settles in on my tongue. A heady base of smoke sweeps over my palate, and I smell the mezcal through the spice. It's the cocktail complement to his intoxicating scent, and I feel it burning through my core when I swallow. It's almost too perfect. I have a sudden twinge of insecurity as the question of how many women have been through this exact scenario enters my mind. It doesn't necessarily matter, but I don't like feeling interchangeable.

He must sense a shift. "No good?" he asks.

"Oh, no. Delicious, actually." I take another sip.

"Good," he says, setting his drink down and lifting my ankles one at a time onto his lap. "These can't possibly be comfortable," he says, tugging lightly at the straps of my heels. "May I?" I smile and nod, and he starts unbuckling.

My impulse control lacking a bit, my thoughts escape my mouth. "It's only my business as it relates to right now," I say over the rim of my glass, "but are you intimate with anyone else right now?"

He smiles up at me and starts massaging my feet. "Believe it or not," he laughs, "I don't get around that much."

"You could have fooled me. I'd think this kind of seduction would take practice."

"Maybe I just pay attention," he says. With my free foot, I start rubbing circles over the bulge in his pants. He bites his lip. "What about you?" he asks.

"What about me?" I tease, watching him react.

"Is there anyone else getting this kind of attention from you right now?"

"It's just you, me, and my IUD," I laugh. "There's nothing to worry about. All tested, all clear."

"All tested, all clear here, too."

I push a knee to the side to open my legs - a wordless invitation - and take a casual sip of my cocktail under his hungry gaze. I feel time slowing down around me. His full attention makes me blush. It would be unnerving if it wasn't so hot. I catch some of the condensation from my glass and drag a wet fingertip over my breasts.

"There she is," he purrs. "La sirena."

His voice is low, honeyed. It draws my hand to my inner thigh like a command. I grip my own flesh as my hips start rocking of their own accord. It's a struggle not to touch myself.

He leans over to take my glass and whispers in my ear for me to stand up. I'm ready to do anything this man tells me to do. He pushes my sweater down off my arms and pins my wrists together behind my back. He's gentle, but his hands are strong. "Don't worry," he croons. "I'm not going to torture you too much. I just want to see what you like."

He lightly kisses around to the back of my neck, and just beneath my ear. Goosebumps prickle through my skin. "That's... good," I exhale. He moves a hand behind my neck, slides his fingers into my hair, and grips a handful. He gently but firmly tilts my head back, and licks up the column of my neck up to my jaw. A quiet moan escapes my throat.

"And that?"

"Mm hm." It's all I can manage. He cups my ass, his fingers pressing hard into my flesh. I feel his cock pulsing against me. Everything is heat. I want him everywhere. I need his skin on my skin. I run both hands under his shirt, up over his abs and chest. The wings' harness is in my way, and I make quick work of unbuckling it. As they fall to floor and I peel his shirt off, he lets out a low laugh. "You haven't even kissed me yet. So greedy."