Little Black Dress Page 4

  “Yeah, and now I don’t have to wash the car I don’t have,” I quipped.

  He laughed, and then we sat in silence for a few blocks. It was a comfortable silence, but at the same time I worried he’d think I wasn’t grateful for the ride.

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

  He was looking at me too.

  I flushed. Did Ethan Ross find me as attractive as I found him? Could a connection be that instantaneous?

  There was one way to find out. I turned toward him, smiling. “Did you know that the average person will spend almost six months talking about the weather in his or her life?” I asked. Definitely not my best flirty line ever, but better than nothing.

  “I had no idea,” Ethan said, his eyes sparking with amusement. “Where’d you read that?”

  “I don’t remember,” I admitted, “but after five years as a fact-checker, I’m a fount of trivial knowledge.” I inched ever so slightly closer to him. I could smell his piney aftershave.

  “Well, that’s perfect, because I’m a big fan of random, useless facts,” Ethan said, grinning. “What else do you have for me?”

  I could feel his body heat warming the air between us. “Cab service dates back to the 1600s,” I offered. I wanted to move still closer to him, but I restrained myself. “The cabbies drove carriages, of course, though I believe the proper term is cabriolet.”

  “Jane Avery, you’re a very enlightening backseat companion.” Ethan leaned toward me a little, and his knee brushed against mine. “So tell me, why are cabs yellow?”

  “It’s the color most easily seen from a distance,” I said. “That’s easy. Now you tell me something I don’t know.” I gave up on being subtle; I slid toward him until there wasn’t any space between us at all. He inhaled sharply. “Maybe something about you,” I said.

  “I’d like to buy you a drink,” he said, his mouth suddenly very close to mine. “You can tell me more trivia, and I’ll find it fascinating. Honestly, you seem like the kind of woman who could make a lawn mower manual fascinating.”

  “Columbus and 89th,” the cabbie said over his shoulder.

  It was all up to me what happened next. I bit my lip, deciding. Then I nodded. “Yes,” I said.

  Ethan’s hand cupped my cheek, a gesture so gentle it took my breath away. Then he turned to the cabbie and said, “Keep driving.”

  Ten blocks later, in the foyer of his apartment, Ethan Ross pulled me close and whispered, “Do you still want that drink?”

  “I’ll give you one guess,” I purred, sliding the blazer from his shoulders.

  “I’m going to guess no,” he said, his lips suddenly soft but urgent against mine.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck as we moved, our mouths still locked, into his bedroom.

  The room was dark and I could barely make out a huge bed.

  “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” he said, but I was way ahead of him: the Dress was already pooling at my ankles.

  I fell backward onto the bed, pulling him on top of me. His weight felt delicious. His lips met mine with passion and tenderness. His hands caressed my breasts and he moaned.

  “What do you want?” he whispered, planting thrilling kisses along my collarbone.

  “I want you,” I panted. “To—”

  His fingers, somehow both urgent and gentle, were pulling down my panties. My mind seemed to be short-circuiting.

  He smiled at me as he moved lower down my body, kissing every millimeter along the way. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “Tell me what to do to please you.”

  His mouth on my stomach was warm and soft and wet. I was too breathless to answer. He looked up and grinned at me—a devilish, delighted grin—and then his head disappeared between my legs. His tongue found its target, and liquid fire shot through every nerve in my body.

  “I want that,” I gasped.

  And things only got better from there.

  Chapter 12

  I was exhausted at work the next day, but I didn’t care. Everything about last night had been perfect—with the exception of the 3 a.m. cab ride home.

  Hoping to avoid such an unpleasant necessity next time, I decided to set guidelines for my…extracurricular activities.

  At the top of a blank page, I wrote TEN RULES FOR A RENDEZVOUS.

  Do it at lunch—or possibly right after work. (Never neglect your beauty sleep.)

  Scout out attractive prospects in the real world: no Tinder or Snapchat or whatever apps the kids are using these days.

  No wedding rings. (Related: Look for tan lines of wedding rings quickly removed and pocketed.)

  Swiftly approach the target and commence flirting.

  Do not dawdle: efficiency and resolve are key.

  Once mutual interest is confirmed, proceed to a neutral place (i.e., not his apartment or yours).

  Orgasm must be achieved. (Yours.)

  There is a time limit of 120 minutes.

  No complications.

  No second dates.

  I looked my list over with a giddy thrill. It sounded so definitive—as if I really knew what I was doing.

  “Jane!” Bri, her hands on her hips, was standing in the doorway. “Hello? I’ve been calling your name for like, cinq minutes at least.”

  “Oh, hi, Bri,” I yelped, crossing my arms over my list. “What do you need?”

  Bri gave me an odd look. “I don’t need anything. I came by to say hi. What’re you covering up?”

  “Oh, nothing!” I said. “Just some ideas for the pitch meeting.”

  She raised a carefully penciled eyebrow at me. “Jane, are you hiding—”

  Just then my phone rang, and I looked at the caller ID.

  I’d never, ever been so happy to answer a call from my boss. “Hello, Jessica,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

  Rolling her eyes at me, Bri moved away.

  Chapter 13

  At Eataly, an enormous, high-end Italian market not far from my office, there were dazzling displays of cured meats, gourmet cheeses, and heirloom fruits and vegetables. But the reason I’d walked in had nothing to do with soppressata or taleggio.

  Every day, hundreds of men came here on their lunch hour.

  Wearing a brand-new little black dress, I scanned the well-heeled crowd. I knew I could have my pick of these men. The knowledge made me feel decadent, like I’d stepped into Saks Fifth Avenue with a Birkin bag full of hundred-dollar bills.

  Who would I select? Should I approach the dark-haired businessman reading the Times? What about the hipster in the scuffed Danner boots, or the man with tawny skin and perfect white teeth?

  I didn’t feel nervous about picking up a stranger—I felt powerful. I’d come a long way from the Four Seasons, that much was certain.

  Over in the produce market, I spotted my target: a man in a gray T-shirt and well-fitting jeans, with eyes the blue of a deep, glacial lake. Eyes I’d be happy to drown in.

  I watched him select half a dozen persimmons, and as he carefully cupped the fruit I imagined those hands on my body. I thought about him pressing me up against the bins of melons, kissing me, not gentle anymore but hard and insistent—

  I walked up to him and said, “Excuse me, can I ask you something?”

  He turned toward me, and my stomach did a little somersault—his eyes were even more beautiful up close. “Sure,” he said good-humoredly.

  I picked up one of the rosy fruits and cupped it in my hand. “How can you tell if a persimmon is ripe?”

  “Well, it depends on the type of persimmon,” he said, happy to be able to help me. “This kind here, which is a Hachiya, has to be jelly-soft—otherwise it’s like chewing a cotton ball.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. “Can I ask you another question?” He nodded, and I dove right in. I said, “Would you like to spend the next hour or two with me? In a hotel room?”

  I can’t believe you just asked him that, Jane.

  Half of me was scandalized; the other
half was proud.

  And the tiny part of me that said This might be dangerous? I completely ignored.

  “Wow.” He blushed, embarrassed, and ran his hand through his wavy brown hair. “Wow. Do you mean—”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” I said, handing him the persimmon. Then I gave him a smirk and headed toward the exit. I didn’t need to turn around to know that he’d abandoned his groceries and was hurrying after me.

  I took him to the Ace Hotel, to a cozy room decorated with vintage furniture and a splashy graphic mural. Not that it mattered: we only needed the bed.

  But not right away, as it turned out.

  We kissed our names into each other’s mouths—his was Nick, or maybe Mick, I didn’t want to take the time to clarify. I was hungry for him.

  My hands had a mind of their own, greedily removing his T-shirt, then feeling the smooth slabs of muscle and warm skin underneath. His stubble scraped my lips and neck, and when his fingers found my nipples they caused a delicious, almost electric pain.

  He wasn’t embarrassed or flustered now. He knew exactly what he was doing. He whispered “You want this, don’t you?” as he took my breast in his mouth. And when I said yes, his hands went under my dress, moved over my hips and ass, squeezing and rubbing them, and then his fingers slipped inside my black lace panties. He caressed me slowly at first, and then urgently, and as the pleasure grew I hung on to him so my trembling legs didn’t collapse under me.

  “Now turn around,” he growled, pushing my hip with his free hand.

  I let him spin me around and then I saw my face in the mirror: hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing. I saw him behind me, those beautiful, lustful eyes meeting mine in our reflection. I watched as he slid my dress up my legs and pushed it over my hips. I bent forward, put my hands on the desk. Then I saw him pull down the top of my dress and cup my breasts in his hands. He slid a finger into my mouth and I sucked it.

  “You’re amazing,” he whispered.

  I was almost breathless with desire, gasping how it was time, time for him to do what he came for.

  I heard the scratch of the zipper on his jeans, the crinkle of the condom wrapper. Then I felt him, hot and hard, pressing against me. I pushed back, grinding myself against him.

  And then with one thrust he was filling me. His fingers dug hard into my hips and I gripped the edge of the desk. The pleasure was so intense I couldn’t think anymore—I could barely even see my own half-naked, sweat-slicked self in the glass. But I could hear the sound of bodies coming together again and again, and a gasping moan that must have been coming from my throat.

  Afterward, my legs felt so weak I could barely stand. So when it was time to begin again, we collapsed onto the bed. I stared into those glacial eyes as he called my name and waves of ecstasy crashed over me. If drowning could ever be euphoric, this was what it would feel like.

  Later, when he pressed his number into my hands, telling me to please, please call, I slipped the little piece of paper into my pocket and told myself that it was okay to keep it.

  There was something special about him—something wild but sweet, too.

  Later, back at home, I unfolded the paper and smiled. Nick Anderson, he’d written. Persimmon consultant.

  Chapter 14

  On Friday, I took the afternoon off and cabbed to the High Line, a narrow, elevated park on Manhattan’s West Side. After treating myself to a gelato, I watched good-looking New Yorkers stroll along what had once been railroad tracks.

  I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about my trip to the Ace with Nick: the freedom and power I’d felt that afternoon was as good as the sex. Could I find that kind of pleasure again? Was it crazy to try?

  Part of me thought I should quit while I was ahead. But that would be like putting my spoon down before I’d finished this fantastic, creamy fior di latte, which was so rich and delicious I shivered every time I took a bite.

  I’d been celibate for sixteen months, hadn’t I? That was a lot of sex not to have.

  Still, maybe you should take a little break, Jane.

  But what if I’m still having fun?

  That was a good question. Then again, so was this: What if I’m pushing my luck?

  When the young man with floppy blond hair and golden, sun-kissed skin sat down next to me, I took it as a sign from the universe.

  As Bri would put it, I was still in the game.

  “Sarah?” he asked, his voice sweet and uncertain.

  I tipped up my hat and lowered my glasses. “I’m Jane,” I said, smiling teasingly at him. “Who’s Sarah?”

  Confusion flooded his beautiful young face. He looked like Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—but younger and more fine-featured. “Um, she’s my roommate’s girlfriend. I thought…” He frowned lightly. “Did we meet at Noah’s party? If so, I’m sorry—I was kind of drunk.”

  “We haven’t met until right this instant,” I said. I put a spoonful of gelato in my mouth, pulled it out slowly, and licked suggestively at the spoon.

  His eyes widened. He held out his hand. “I’m Jake,” he said.

  I took his hand, and, still holding it, I stood up. “Would you like to take a walk with me, Jake?” I nodded toward the gleaming Standard Hotel, which straddled the High Line a few blocks south.

  He practically leapt off the bench.

  Luckily, the hip hotel had a room for us, with a floor-to-ceiling view of the Hudson River and the blue summer sky.

  Jake, who’d been chattering nervously for the last ten minutes, now stood in the middle of the room—the way I had, weeks ago, with Michael Bishop—silent and awed.

  I stepped up to him and put my hands on his perfect cheeks. “You’re going to like this very much,” I said reassuringly. “Now kiss me.”

  He obeyed, awkwardly at first, but he got better fast.

  I put his hands on the zipper of my dress and helped him slide it down. “And now my bra,” I whispered.

  His expression was desire tinged with doubt—as if he thought that at any moment, he might wake up in his tiny apartment with the realization that this was nothing but an incredible dream.

  I put his hands on my breasts and he sucked in his breath and said, “Ohhh—”

  “Now take off your clothes,” I said softly, and I smiled as he obeyed.

  I admired his lean body, with its small patches of downy gold hair: his hard, flat stomach, his long legs, his smooth arms. I pulled him toward me and nuzzled his neck.

  “I’ve never done this before,” he said, wonder in his voice.

  “Had sex with an older woman?” I said, grinning lasciviously. “A MILF?”

  Flustered, he blinked rapidly. “No, I mean—”

  I laughed. “I don’t have children, so I’m not a MILF.”

  “I meant…” he said. “I meant that I haven’t…hooked up with someone like this.”

  “Mmm, me either,” I murmured.

  It wasn’t a lie, because I’d never hooked up with anyone I met on the High Line before.

  I led him to the bed. He followed, eager as a puppy.

  He lay back and I bent over him, kissing his chest and stomach. Then, after teasing him for a while, I took him in my mouth.

  His hands gripped the sheets. “Oh God,” he gasped. “I love you, I love that.”

  I smiled as best I could.

  When I mounted him, easing my body up and down as he gripped my hips, I felt wild, charged with thrilling life. Every nerve sang as he bucked beneath me. I closed my eyes and threw my head back and abandoned myself to the bliss.

  When I collapsed on top of him, exhausted, he wrapped his arms around my damp back.

  He kissed my neck, my cheeks, the palms of my hands. “Thank you,” he said sweetly.

  I laughed. “No, thank you,” I said.

  Chapter 15

  “That’s a nice scarf you’re wearing,” Dr. Jensen said as I flopped down in my usual spot.

  “Thanks,” I s
aid, touching the blue silk at my neck. I was wearing it to hide the hickey the Sundance Kid had given me. “I don’t think you’ve ever complimented me before.”

  Smiling, Dr. Jensen shrugged. “It’s not typically a therapist’s role. But that’s a good color on you. It matches your eyes.”

  Is my therapist flirting with me?

  I was probably just being crazy again. Well, if so, I was in the right place for it.

  “Have you seen Marie lately?” I asked, leaning back against the cushions and trying to sound casual.

  Dr. Jensen did his best to look stern. “Jane, I don’t think we should keep talking about other clients’ fantasies anymore when we really ought to be talking about you.”

  He had a point, of course. I sighed. Maybe I shouldn’t pretend I was still the Jane Avery I used to be: lonely, celibate, and addicted to Netflix. Maybe I should acknowledge who—or what—I’d become.

  Not that there was a word for it. If I were a guy, I’d be a player. But what term existed for a woman like me? Sex goddess? Too cheesy. Demimondaine? Only Bri would know what it meant. An erotically empowered woman who played by her own rules? That took way too long to say.

  Dr. Jensen leaned forward. “What are you thinking, Jane?”

  “Do you know how long it takes to get over a divorce?” I asked suddenly.

  Dr. Jensen rubbed his nose, right where his glasses would be if he ever wore them. He said, “There’s no magic number of months or days.”

  “Actually, there is,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Sixteen and a half months.” I realized this only as I said it, but it was true. “I’m finally over the heartbreak, Dr. J. Finally over James and what he did to me. To us.”

  I knew I looked shocked, giddy. And I almost couldn’t believe it: I hadn’t longed to have James beside me in bed for weeks now. Hadn’t felt broken by his betrayal. Hadn’t wondered if he regretted throwing everything we had away.

  I’d been too busy having the kind of fun I didn’t think a good girl like me could ever have.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that,” Dr. Jensen said. “But this seems like a rather sudden shift. Did something happen?”