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I stand, reaching my hand out.
She takes it.
“At ten o’clock, instead of being turned into a pumpkin . . .” I spin her around. Pushing her hair to the side, I undo her dress, relishing the sound of the zipper as it announces my intentions.
“Hayden, what exactly are you doing?” she asks, somewhere between scandalized and turned on.
It’s a cool night, for July. So I’m not surprised by the goosebumps on her arms, unless those are for me. I’ll go with the latter.
“At ten o’clock”—I begin to push the material of her dress forward on both sides, letting it drop to the ground; her bra is next—“the waitstaff has been advised we no longer need them for the evening.”
Unclasped, her bra falls to the ground too.
Only her thong remains. That I think I’ll take off in a more creative way. Walking around her, I take in the sight of Ada with the full view of the skyline behind her. If only I were a photographer.
My hands trace her body, her breasts, her waist and hips, as I sink to the ground. Kneeling in front of her, I bite the lace of her panties and tug with one finger, pulling them down.
“Oh. My. God.”
She steps out of them, totally nude.
“I would fuck you right this second,” I tell her, “but I’m saving that for the ride home.”
Her mouth drops open.
“‘The sweet pain of anticipation tells us we’re alive,’” I quote. And then add, “But I’ll make it up to you.”
I’ve played this out in my mind since the first course. Ada’s chair, positioned perfectly, becomes a footstool as I guide her leg up. Now, with perfect access, I make Ada the last course, relishing the whimpers coming from her mouth.
“If someone comes up . . . ,” she manages.
I pause for a second, looking up. Despite my earlier words, I’m not sure I’ll make it to the car. Ada Flemming staring down at me, framed by Manhattan, is without a doubt the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“They won’t, I promise.”
I’ve made sure of it.
As always, Ada trusts me. I know this because she doesn’t hold back, her hands grasping my hair, guiding me, as if I need guidance.
And she certainly doesn’t hold back as her scream floats through the open air, telling all of Brooklyn that she’s well pleased.
Good.
This is just the beginning.
“Jesus Christ, Ada.”
One look at her face, and I’m undressing and dragging her to the pool, desperately needing to cool off.
“It’s like bathwater,” she says in wonder.
I reach up to guide her into the pool—and onto me.
“Come here.”
Two days.
It’s inconceivable, as she gives herself over to me so completely, that it’s been just two days since we were last together.
