are discouraged from sitting for long. They’re urged to stand while they drink so they can join the dance floor.
He follows me and sets down our drinks on the little circle between us. We stand side by side, our backs to the palm. He lifts his scotch and toasts me in a mild, sardonic greeting. I raise my second cocktail of the evening and touch his glass.
Our eyes lock, his full of fire, mine, I’m sure, bright with excitement.
Slowly he inspects my full, painted lips, my bare throat and my deep cleavage. As his eyes roam over me his gaze falls on my upper breasts, pink with my embarrassment, rosy with arousal.
He looks amused. He’s enjoying this.
I know what he likes. And he knows I find his demands hard to meet.
That’s why he makes them.
‘You’re late.’
I feel a tremor go through me. This could mean trouble.
I smile confidently, my fingers idly running up and down the stem of my cocktail glass in a casual imitation of a lewd caress. Slowly I spear the little cherry and suck it with pursed, baby-doll lips.
His hand steals up the back of my thigh and encounters my naked self, shamefully exposed under my short, frilly hem and already disgracefully, lustfully wet.
His fingertips explore a little, while his steady gaze dares me to keep still. He asks me about my journey and how my day has gone. I do my best to keep calm enough to answer while all the time I tingle and seethe, desperately wanting to giggle and wriggle and shout.
His fingers slide in deeper and my voice falters. He frowns while I struggle to regain control. It’s unwise to provoke him this early in the evening. It might lead to – complications.
His eyes narrow. ‘Any particular reason? Or did you just think I like to be kept waiting?’
I plop the cherry back in my drink, hoping to distract him. I slide the tip of my tongue slowly along my lower lip. The toe of my shoe moves gently along the inner edge of his trouser leg, just above the ankle.
His fingers take instant advantage of my splayed leg and his hand is now fully engaged with my nether regions, sending flames shooting all over my skin. A trickle of moisture runs down the inside of my thigh.
My faltering apology reaches the ears of the kindly barman, who is now collecting glasses from the next stand. He glances over at me with real concern and then looks away quickly as Mr Alpha catches his eye.
The barman has kind eyes and tousled blond hair with streaks in it. He’s good-looking in a windswept, boyish kind of way. Mr Alpha continues to watch him as he moves around the tables.
‘Do you know each other?’ I joke.
‘We might have played the odd game of squash,’ he says airily.
Oh? When?
‘He’s very athletic.’ He turns to me, his expression opaque. ‘Why? Do you like him?’
I colour and lower my eyelashes, unsure where this is going. ‘He seems nice.’
He knows him? What else has he kept from me?
‘Will he be joining us later?’ My whisper is barely audible but I see his lips twitch at the corner. Clearly this has also occurred to him.
‘Possibly. I’ll think about it. Dance?’
We join the other couples swaying on the dance floor but now I’m nervous.
The lights are low and the coloured spots play over the crowd, breaking up sight lines, confusing the view, but he always dances close. And when he dances close he holds me firmly at the back, his hand now low on my waist, then lower.
His fingers move gently, their warmth sending shivers through me.
I feel his thumb through the thin fabric, pressing into my muscles, teasing me. His grip hoists my brief hem a touch higher all the time we move and I begin quietly to panic.
Will someone see? Will they notice that underneath I’m bare and exposed, and shamefully, outrageously wet …?
He dances beautifully. He is tall and powerful looking, with regular, classical features that make most women melt, most men jealous. In a crowded room most eyes are on him most of the time, so when we dance they’re on me as well.
I know I’m lucky but he’s very demanding.
He works hard and makes a lot of money. In these situations I’m expected to look my best. That takes time and effort.
Like Dolly Parton says, it costs an awful lot to look this cheap.
And the effects can be unpredictable. That’s one reason I’m nervous.
The other is the way he’s looking at me now.
‘Shall we go up? You first. I’ll follow in a few minutes.’
As I leave I see from the corner of my eye that he’s talking to the barman. They look easy together, like they know each other well.
I strain to catch what they’re saying. ‘… Something extra for the weekend …’
I lose the rest in a sudden swell of music.
They share a smile at this old-fashioned male saying.
I turn away with a frown. He’s got no condoms? How odd.
No matter. I’ve got plenty.
* * *
Our suite is huge, with views all over the city. We leave the drapes open on purpose, partly to maximise the thrill of what comes next, partly so we can see it. The windows are glossy with night sky and make perfect mirrors.
The door opens and softly closes and I know he’s here. He comes up behind me, his reflection looming over my shoulder like a demon in a painting. He winds his arms around me and fastens his mouth on the side of my neck.
‘At last. I thought we’d never get here.’
I swivel in his arms and he fastens his lips on mine, plundering my mouth like he’s starved. His hands are all over me, feeling, probing, turning the thin silk dress into a limp dishrag, making me feel the same way.
‘Shall I take it off?’ I murmur playfully when he finally releases my mouth.
His eyes burn into mine and I see a flash of anger.
Whoa. Now what?
‘No. Leave it on. You’ve got some explaining to do.’
He takes firm hold of my wrist and drags me over to the bed. He sits down with an angry flop and pushes me down onto my knees.
As he does so he’s tearing at his clothes and soon they are flung at random all over the floor and he is sitting naked
