Three
The evening loomed before me like a nine-headed Hydra. Alas, I was no Heracles, and the chances of me slaying even one of the dragon’s evil heads was small. Should I quit now? The thought banged around in my brain for a bit as I tested its weight. Leaving him high and dry in a restaurant did put a small smile upon my face, but I wasn’t a quitter. The challenge had been issued, and I would see it through. Having said that, seeing as how he’d decided to make life as difficult as possible for me, I guessed there could be no harm in trying to return the favour.
Taking a long, hot shower, I primped and preened to the best of my abilities. Perfumed shower gel and matching scented body lotion was liberally smeared all over my skin until I was so smooth, James Leverett would have needed a set of suction cups to get his hands on my body. James. It was a nice old-fashioned English name. It didn’t suit him. I wondered what his real name was and if I’d ever find out. The odds were against it, I guessed. In any case, judging by the books I’d read on BDSM, I’d be calling him ‘Sir’ if he agreed to grant me a session tomorrow, and I was in no way convinced that he would.
He’d surprised me. The man had reflexes as good as, if not better than, mine. That was rare. He was also exceptionally intuitive. That should have scared me, but it didn’t. If the meeting tonight was a success, I’d be baring a whole lot more than a few dark fantasies. I knew that I’d be naked in front of him, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that. That was a crazy enough thought in itself, because not only would I be naked, I’d probably be bound, too. The idea terrified and excited me in equal measure. In all the relationships I’d had so far, I’d either been in control or in an equal partnership. Giving up control was not something I was particularly comfortable with, but I couldn’t deny that the thought lit up my prefrontal cortex like a Fourth of July party. It sent heat down my body to all the right places, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I was going to enjoy my little scenario more than I thought possible.
Pulling a sheer, black, lace-topped stocking slowly up my leg, I debated on my outfit for this evening’s massacre. He wasn’t going to be impressed by a short skirt. He’d probably seen hundreds of naked bodies in his line of work, so I decided I’d opt for the opposite and cover up as much of my flesh as I could. As he wouldn’t get anywhere near the real deal until tomorrow, letting his imagination run wild might work in my favour. I smiled. It couldn’t do any harm, could it?
Debating my choice of dress, I decided that the Barracuda was an upscale seafood joint, and I wouldn’t look out of place in a floor-length number. It was all new-age sustainable wood, bamboo and flowing water features. Tables were arranged for a romantic tête-à-tête meal, and candles would be dotted about appropriately. Luckily, there was a black sheath by Valentino in my wardrobe. It had been a work-related present, and I had only worn it once, but it screamed “fuck me.” Generally, that wasn’t something I tried to encourage, but in this case, I might make an exception. This session needed to go ahead tomorrow, and it couldn’t hurt if I encouraged some sort of spark between us. I was all too aware that this was last chance Saloon Street.
It wasn’t long before the mountain of black crepe de chine was tugged over my head and smoothed slowly down over my curves. I then had to perform ridiculous contortionist moves to fasten the waist to neck zipper, but the result was worth it. I would say it fit like a glove but believe me when I say that no glove fit quite this well. Looking at the front, I had a neatly cinched waist, a delicately outlined bust, and the effect was expertly finished with a black collar that reached around my neck. The back was a little more daring. Two panels of black parted to reveal a cream interior that gently swayed as I walked, and it had been cut out in a ‘V’ shape that revealed a generous expanse of flesh. Pairing it up with some black stilettos and a simple cream clutch purse, the finished deal was quite startling.
A spritz of Coco Chanel and full war paint completed the look, which included traffic-stopping scarlet lipstick. Taming my glossy chestnut curls into submission, I placed them into a French knot and used half a bottle of hairspray to glue them in place. I was in control at the moment, and that was the message I wanted to convey. I immediately laughed at myself. Who was I kidding? As soon as that beautiful face was before me, I would need tranquillizers to subdue my body’s response. That would work in my favour behind closed doors, but it would be almost unbearable seated two feet away from the man. Briefly considering the idea of a stiff drink before my interrogation commenced, I dismissed the thought. Whilst it might dull the sight of blinding beauty before me, I needed all my senses on high alert. Undoubtedly we would spar at the dinner table, and I needed to keep my wits about me. Letting down my guard was something I had always been uncomfortable with. That’s why I needed him in the first place.
Keeping an eye on the clock, it was slightly disconcerting to find I only had twenty minutes to spare. Be still, my pounding heart! Ignoring my nervous flap of either dread or anticipation, I occupied my time searching for a few finishing touches. Sitting down at my Victorian dressing table, I pulled out a pair of gold filigree earrings and slowly slid the posts through my ears. Rummaging around in my jewellery box again, I found a matching bracelet that would complete my look. I sensed I would have to work for my dinner, and if that was the case, I intended to enter the arena in full armour.