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“That’s a pretty prestigious accounting company.”
“Yes, but my job is not prestigious. My father wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t starve with my English degree. So I work for one of his vice presidents.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“No. I hate it. I wanted to write, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. No Collins is going to write cheap paperbacks. That’s what he said.”
“What type of books do you want to write?”
“Romance. Dirty, erotic romance.”
I almost choke on the water that I’m sipping. “Dirty romance, huh?”
“When I was in high school, a couple of my friends and I would have a revolving book. We would write a chapter and pass it on to the next person.”
“Was it a dirty romance?”
“Positively filthy,” she says with a gleam in her eye.
“I’d like to read some of your dirty romances someday soon.”
“I bet you would. I can email you a few pages.”
My dick twitches at the thought. If she can write dirty, then she must be wild in bed. Then again, just because she can think it doesn’t mean that she can perform. Some people are all talk. Dinner arrives, and what a treat it is to watch her eat. She’s so delicate, taking tiny slices of the beef and chewing slowly. Seeing the food pass through her plump red lips is almost more than I can stand.
I look away and concentrate on my plate before I have a full-blown erection that will be hard to hide. We’re silent for most of the meal until Lana says my name.
“You’re very quiet. Did I bore you already?” she asks.
“Not at all. You’re fascinating. I thought you wanted to eat.”
“I like stimulating conversation.”
“Since we’re almost finished with dinner, can I offer you some ice cream at my place? It would make up for the disruption of your plans.”
“Your apartment?”
“If you’d like.”
“It’s too soon.”
I lower my voice. “Lana, I’m not going to do anything to you that you don’t want.”
“And suppose I only want the ice cream?”
“Then the ice cream is all you’ll get. That and stimulating conversation.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
I summon the waiter for the bill, and after it’s paid, I offer her my hand to help her up from her seat. She takes it and, this time holds it tightly as I lead the way out of the restaurant.
“We need to get a cab.”
“Why not an Uber? It might be faster.”
I’m in mid hail when she makes the statement, and a taxi pulls up to the curb.
“Okay, so this is faster,” she said with a smile when I open the car door.
