As the elevator rose to the seventh floor, he patted the folded bills in his pocket. This was it, the last of the money he had to spend with Emmy. It would be no surprise to her -- he'd told her when he'd texted her to arrange the date. Her only reply was that she had something special planned.
The dark, cold winter evening had enveloped him as he left work. He'd driven in instead of taking the bus that day, telling Anne he'd be late getting home and not wait on him for dinner. She'd smiled and given his cock a squeeze as she kissed him goodbye that morning.
"Last time," he said.
"We'll see." She'd winked at him and shooed him out the door.
He knocked at Emmy's door, and she opened it at once. She was more dressed than he'd ever seen: an ankle-length black dress, low cut and clinging to her curves, slit to the thigh on both sides.
"Hey, baby," she said, and kissed him as the door swung closed. The feel of her breasts against him and the smoothness of the fabric over her hips told him she wore nothing under the dress.
Candles lit the apartment, and the drapes were open to show the city lights and the dark void of the bay below. Something slow and instrumental played from her stereo.
"Are you trying to seduce me?" He cupped her ass in both hands.
Emmy slid two fingers into his shirt pocket and extracted the cash. "I think I have that well in hand. I just thought our last date should be a little special." She waited while he took off his shoes, then guided him to the couch, where a glass of red wine stood on a TV tray. "Sit, let me finish dinner."
They ate spaghetti with meatballs, salad, and crusty bread at a small table that looked like she'd stolen it from the club. He watched, mesmerized, as she speared her last meatball and brought it to her mouth, gliding her lips over it, just as she had done over the head of his cock.
"You are so hot," he said, releasing his pent-up breath as she swallowed it.
"Look," she said, "since this is the last time and everything, I want to tell you I had an ulterior motive when I propositioned you at the club."
"Really? Something other than money?"
"Well, no, I guess maybe not that ulterior. You seemed willing to spend money, and I had a particular need for it."
"Ah, well, that's okay. It's not like I needed to know what you wanted money for. I assume you're going to tell me?"
"I'm opening an art gallery and studio down on the Mexican coast."
"Really? And Drew isn't helping you with it?"
"Drew doesn't know about it. That's why I've been working with Jaime. She does a lot of that kind of work."
"I might have been willing to invest."
"You say that now, but back then you didn't know me. Men are always willing to spend money on sex, not especially on investing in art galleries."
"Okay, you have me there. But I'm not sure why you picked me."
"Oh, that was easy. The first time I danced for you, you were respectful and you asked permission. You pushed just as far beyond the rules as I let you. And those private booth dances are a total rip-off, but you didn't even blink. I figured you had money to spend, so why not try to get on the train and see how far it would take me?"
"Has it taken you far enough?"
"Just about."
"Well," and he gestured at her, "you've got it all, just like I told you."
"You also said you wouldn't fall in love with me." She tilted her head, and candlelight flickered off her glasses.
"I said I might, just a little."
"Did you?" She leaned back in her chair, and her bare foot touched his.
"I feel like we have a connection."
"Well, we do." Her foot traveled up his calf, then up the inside of his thigh. "I don't think we could have that much sex and not have a connection." Her foot found his crotch, and her toes wiggled against his penis. "How long since you've gotten off?"
"Anne gave me a blowjob two nights ago."
"So you're ready to go?"
He slid forward in his chair, bringing his growing cock up hard against her foot.
"Imagine we're in a restaurant," she said, her eyes half closed, her lips barely moving. "It's crowded. There are people all around us, talking and eating and clinking their glasses and silverware."
He closed his eyes, imagining it, the subdued lighting, the waiters circulating, the murmuring of voices and a sudden burst of laughter, her toes against his cock.
"The only hiding my foot and your big dick is a little white tablecloth."
Carefully, so as not to arouse the attentions of the other patrons, he slipped his hand into his lap and caressed her instep. She wiggled her toes against him, and, his eyes locked on hers, he grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him with a jerk, causing her eyes to fly wide open and eliciting a little yelp.
"Oh, baby, people are going to notice..."
He ignored her protest and pressed the sole of her foot against his erection, moving her foot up and down against himself.
Elbows on the table, Emmy took a sip from her wineglass. "I thought you said you weren't into feet."
He released her ankle. "I'm making an exception."
She drained the glass. "I suppose this means you're ready for dessert?"
"I wonder what our fellow diners would think?" He looked around at the little living room, the tiny table, the candles illuminating the Frida Khalo poster over the TV.
Emmy withdrew her foot from his groin and stood. "Let them watch, if they want." She held out her hand to him, and he let her lead him to the bedroom.
He pulled her against him, and she encircled his waist with her arms. As they kissed, his hands moved over her. He knew her now, the cushioned roundness of her breasts against his chest, her belly against him, the subtle curve of her hips and the slope of her ass. He knew the taste of her, the faint tang of wine and marinara and spicy meatballs in her saliva. Her body was hot through the thin fabric of the long black dress, and the deep scoop exposed the skin and muscle of her back to his hands. His cock was hard against her, straining against his clothing, demanding he let it out.
Emmy brought a hand up behind his head and started turning them around until his back was to the bed.
"Sit," she said a little breathlessly. "Don't move."
He did, and she turned away to change the music to something deeper, stronger, the bass pulsing. As she turned back to him, she pulled the thin strap of her dress off one shoulder, her hips and shoulders moving with the music. She turned, just like a dancer at the club, and when she faced him again, the other strap dangled against her arm, and she pulled it just enough to let the bodice fall away from her breasts.
He reached out to her, but she batted his hand away. "No touching the dancer," she said.
Emmy continued to sway and spin, and her dress slithering down her body until it lay in a puddle of black at her feet, leaving her undulating in glorious nakedness, her olive skin glowing in the candlelight. She leaned in, her hands on his shoulders, and he ran his hand up the side of her leg.
Emmy drew back, standing at her full height, arms crossed. "I mean it, no touching the dancer. Sit on your hands."
"Emmy --"
"My house, my rules."
She didn't move until he'd tucked his hands beneath his thighs. Then she leaned in again, hands on his shoulders as if nothing had happened. She drew closer, her tongue in his ear, kissing his throat, then kneeling on the bed beside him, behind him. Her teeth nipped like a kitten's at his earlobe, and she buried the fingers of one hand in his hair and she unbuttoned his shirt with the other.
He found himself panting, as if he was working himself toward an orgasm. She pinched a nipple, and he moaned, enveloped by her but forbidden from touching her though he'd already touched in her in almost every way imaginable.
She turned her attention to the left side of his head, giving his ear and throat the same treatment she'd given the right. Then she draped herself across his lap, waving candlelight casting shadows across her back and in the deep cleft between her buttocks.
Emmy rolled over and stretched her arms over her head, smiling as she watched his eyes take in the firm mounds of her breasts, the soft curve of her belly, the mound between her thighs.
"Tell me what you want to do," she said.
"I want to squeeze your tits," he replied, and balled up the fists beneath him. "I want my hand between your legs. I want to rub your clit."
"You want to roll my nipples in your fingers?"
"Yeah."
"You want to put your fingers inside me?"
"Let me, Emmy."
"Not yet."
Held back by her will, he let her slide to the floor. On her knees, she took off his shirt ("Don't touch me!") and his pants. She pushed his knees wide apart and touched her lips to the hardness inside his underwear, damp with pre-cum. When he gingerly put a hand on her head, she didn't protest.
She pulled his briefs down and tossed them over her shoulder, licked his cock from balls to tip, and engulfed him in that way she had, taking him all the way down in a single motion. He groaned as she worked her jaw and tongue, making him feel as though he'd put his cock in some living thing that existed only to suck him.
At last she surfaced with a gasp, leaving his cock wet and pulsing.
"You like that?" She grinned up at him, a string of saliva falling from her lips, her fist wrapped around his staff. In reply, he took her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, forcing her willing mouth open and filling it with his tongue.
"Come up here," he said, grabbing her under the arms and pulling her up onto the bed, throwing her on her back, laughing as he sucked at her nipples, squeezed her breasts, and left glistening tracks of saliva as he kissed his way down her belly. It was his turn to tease her, and his lustful mouth turned gentle, planting butterfly kisses on the insides of her thighs, touching the tip of his tongue to the top of her mound and the creases next to her outer lips, breathing on the hood of her clitoris, almost tickling the gate of her vagina.
