Made For Sex (8 page)

When she finally emerged from the tub her skin was soft and deep pink all over, and her nipples and pussy tingled. Part of her wanted to stimulate herself to orgasm, just to take the edge off, but she didn't. The edge fit right in with the fantasy that she and Bryce were creating.

At six-thirty, she put on a white, lacy bra and matching panty, a stylish white garter belt and stockings and a white satin half-slip. Then she slipped into the full-sleeved gold silk blouse and mid-thigh, off-white linen skirt she had brought and slipped her feet into her pumps.

She snapped on the earrings she had bought and looked at herself in Ronnie's mirror. As she had suspected, the earrings set off the blouse perfectly, but felt so alien to her that she pulled them off. After looking at her reflection for a moment she slowly put them back on. In for a penny, she thought, in for a pound.

She sat at Ronnie's dressing table and applied makeup, wishing that she knew enough about cosmetics to be able to do something different with her face. She examined her new long fingernails, then drummed them on the dressing table just to hear them clack. She brushed her brown hair until it shone and pulled it back behind one ear with a gold comb. She stood and stepped back so she could see herself in the full-length mirror. Not bad, she thought, not bad.

Ronnie had told her that if and when Carla wanted, she could have a makeover session with an old friend but Ronnie had also assured her that Bryce would prefer the natural Carla. Ronnie had several spray bottles of scent on her dressing table and Carla selected Opium, dabbing it sparingly on her neck and in her cleavage.

Trying to shake off her nervousness, she looked at herself one last time, grabbed her jacket and carried it downstairs, arriving in the living room just as the doorbell rang.

She took a deep relaxing breath, dropped her jacket on the back of the sofa, and opened the front door.

With a lazy gaze, Bryce looked Carla up and down. “You look splendid.”

Carla stared at Bryce and for a moment was unable to move. Carla was dumbstruck. He was gorgeous. Tall and slender, Bryce McAndrews had carefully styled iron gray hair and deep hazel eyes that made Carla shiver as they took in her entire body. His charcoal gray suit was carefully tailored to show off his broad shoulders and flat stomach and his light blue shirt perfectly matched the small design in his Italian silk tie.

Bryce's full lips slowly curved upward indicating that he appreciated what he saw. “I've been looking forward to this evening ever since Ronnie told me about you,” he said, “but now that I've seen you…. Well let's just say this is going to be some evening.”

Carla stepped aside and Bryce walked to the sofa, picked up her jacket, and held it out for her. As she slipped her arms into the sleeves, he leaned down so his lips were beside her ear. “You smell sensational. This was worth waiting for,” he whispered. He placed a feather-light kiss in the hollow below her left ear, then stepped back. “Let's go.”

His shiny black Porsche occupied a no-parking zone in front of the brownstone. He opened the door for Carla and, as she climbed in, he gazed at her long shapely legs and the shadowy cleavage between her breasts. “Ummm,” he murmured. “Nice all over.”

During the drive to the West Side, Carla learned that her date had four sons, all grown. She and Bryce talked easily about their children. It was so comfortable and Bryce was so charming that occasionally Carla forgot the purpose of the evening and where they were going to end up.

“It's just like a real first date,” Carla said hesitantly as Bryce drove.

He softened his voice. “It certainly is. And I like it like that. Relax and let me make it good for you.”

“I'll try,” she said, startled that she had voiced her feelings.

“Are you really nervous?”

“Yes,” Carla admitted, clasping her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking.

“Good. A little scary expectation is just the right spice. Let me tell you about our evening. We're starting at a little restaurant called the West Side Club. They have great food, a fantastic wine list, and a three-piece combo for dancing. You do dance, don't you?”

“I used to love it,” Carla answered honestly, “but I haven't danced in a long time.”

“Like good sex, it's something you never forget.” Giving her no time for a rejoinder, Bryce deftly pulled the black two-seater into the space in front of a long maroon awning. Immediately a uniformed doorman rushed around to open Carla's door. “Thank you, Marco,” Bryce said, “but I'll assist the lady.” Marco stepped aside as Bryce rounded the car.

Carla took Bryce's extended hand and, as she climbed out of the car, felt Bryce scratch her palm with one fingernail. Shivers skittered up and down her spine and the area between her legs grew warm. She looked over at her escort but he was busy giving his keys to Marco. Hand in hand, they walked into the depths of the darkened restaurant. “Ah, Mr. McAndrews,” the maitre'd said unctuously. “I have your table all ready.”

Without a word, they were led to the side of the room. Because of the expert placement of potted plants and lacy screens, each table seemed to be in its own private alcove. Bryce seated her. Almost immediately the waiter brought a cooler with a bottle of white wine already chilling. Proudly he showed Bryce the label.

“I hope you don't mind,” Bryce said, “but I made a few arrangements in advance. Of course, if you'd prefer a mixed drink, or red wine, the waiter can bring you whatever you want.”

“White wine will be fine,” Carla said.

“Good. This is a Portuguese Vino Verde that I particularly like.” The waiter poured a sip for Bryce, who tasted it and nodded. “Don't freeze the poor wine,” he said as the waiter poured for Carla. “Take the cooler away and just leave the bottle on the table.”

“As you wish, sir,” the waiter said.

Carla sipped. “This is excellent,” she said. “I've never had a Portuguese wine before. You have great taste.”

Bryce gazed into Carla's eyes over the rim of his glass. “If you put yourself into my hands for the rest of the evening, you'll see what good taste I really have.”

Bryce ordered dinner for both of them. Through fresh asparagus and thin slices of Smithfield ham, poached salmon with dill sauce and tiny boiled potatoes, they talked about inconsequential things from the music they enjoyed through books and movies to vacations. Since Bryce had traveled extensively both for pleasure and business, he regaled Carla with tales of the sites he'd seen. With Carla's agreement Bryce ordered lemon sherbet and Irish coffee for dessert.

As she finished her sherbet and sipped the heady brew, Carla realized that she hadn't had such an enjoyable evening in many years.

Music began. “Dance with me,” Bryce whispered. He took Carla's hand and guided her to the tiny wooden dance floor. He held her gently, his right hand placed correctly in the small of her back. Carla realized immediately that he was a sensational dancer, gliding effortlessly across the small space. Several other couples joined them and, as the floor became more crowded, Bryce held her closer, his mouth against her ear, his left arm pressing lightly against the side of her breast.

“You're so graceful,” he said, rubbing his forearm against the side of her bra and the flesh underneath, “like an angel in my arms.”

Carla swallowed hard and remained silent. Although she knew that this was to be her initiation into the world of recreational sex, she felt like a woman on her first date with a dangerously attractive man.

“I love holding your body close,” Bryce whispered. “Your breasts are so full and your hips fit perfectly against mine.” His breath on her ear caused a tingling at the base of her spine. “You're so responsive,” he continued, “that I'll bet you're getting hot already.”

For some reason, Carla needed to deny what he was saying. It was like a seduction, not an assignation, and somehow it was important not to be easy. When she took a breath to deny her feelings, Bryce interrupted, reading her thoughts. “You can deny it all you want but your body radiates sexual heat.” He flicked the tip of his tongue in her ear, then nipped at her earlobe.

She shuddered, telling him about herself as accurately as she could have with words.

“Yes. You want me,” he whispered. “But resist as well. It makes it all the sweeter to know that later I will hold you in my arms, naked and open. I'll overcome all your resistance and control your body with your own hunger.”

He put his finger under her chin and lifted her face so she had to look into his eyes. “You'll want me so much that you'll beg for it.” He tucked her against him and continued dancing, holding her close. No one else on the floor could possibly know about Bryce's erotic whisperings but Carla felt as if everyone was watching her.

They danced for a few more songs. Carla felt Bryce's hand sliding over her silk blouse. “I want your body to know exactly what's to come.” His hot breath tickled her ear. “We're going to leave in about fifteen minutes. One or two more dances should be just right.”

Carla realized that Bryce's planning and take-charge attitude would turn some women off, but the control that Bryce was exercising was driving her crazy. After the first few years of marriage, she had called most of the sexual shots. Bill would have been content with quickies, but Carla had wanted more. Frequently she would wear an alluring nightgown or a teddy and, when Bill responded, she would tell and show him what she wanted. She had enjoyed the sex, but would have preferred not to be in charge.

“I want you to do something for me,” Bryce said a few minutes later. “Go into the ladies' room and take off your bra. I want to dance with you and feel your unrestrained breasts against my chest. I want to be able to look down the front of your blouse and see your nipples. Do it for me, Carla. Do it because I want you to and because it will make you a little less secure.”

They walked to their table and Bryce gave Carla a tiny push toward the ladies' room. “Please,” he whispered. The wine and the Irish coffee made her brave and daring. Not giving herself time to think, Carla walked to the bathroom, closeted herself in a stall, and removed her bra. She put the bit of silk in her purse and rebuttoned her blouse. She looked down, then smiled and unbuttoned the blouse's top two buttons.

She walked out of the stall and checked her appearance in the large mirror. Nothing showed from the front or side but, as she looked down she could see her full breasts and her hard, erect nipples. She smiled and walked back toward the table, enjoying the sway of her breasts and the brush of her nipples against the silk of her blouse.

“Nice,” Bryce said as he watched her approach. He met her on the dance floor and took her in his arms. As they danced, he looked down. “Your breasts are magnificent,” he whispered. “Your nipples are a dark, dusky pink. Are they so hard that they hurt?”

Carla had never been asked such sexual questions by a man before. She cleared her throat, unable to speak.

“Tell me. I insist.” When she remained silent, he repeated, “I insist. Say to me, ‘My nipples are so hard that they hurt.'” He slid his hand into her hair and turned her face up. “Say it, angel.”

Certain words were hard for her to say; they always had been, even with her husband. Talking directly about sex and the anatomical parts involved had always been difficult for her. “I do hurt for you,” she murmured.

“What hurts?” he said. She was silent. “The word ‘nipple' is difficult for you to say, isn't it? I can tell from your body's reaction. Your palm is damp and your hand is shaking.” She tried to look down, but his hand remained tangled in her hair. “I don't care whether you want to or not,” he said, his lips almost touching hers. “You will do as I say. Say ‘My nipples hurt for you.'”

“Oh God. My nipples hurt for you.” Carla could barely stand. The thrill and humiliation of saying that word made her knees weak. Fortunately Bryce held her tightly, supporting her.

“Oh yes. I like this. Let's continue this discussion somewhere else.” Quickly he paid the check and guided her to the door. They walked a block in silence, the cool air clearing Carla's head a bit. They climbed the stairs to the door of an undistinguished building and Bryce unlocked it. “A very private place,” he said as they went inside. “It's owned by good friends of mine who let me use it when they're away, which they are for the entire month of September.”

Carla was aware of little as Bryce put her jacket away and guided her to the stairs that led to what she assumed was the master bedroom. They stopped about three-quarters of the way up. “Take off your blouse,” Bryce said. “Right here.”

She looked at him. Shouldn't he undress her? Removing her own clothes seemed so forward. Remembering why she was here, she realized her feelings were ludicrous, but they were her feelings nonetheless.

“Do it,” he said, softly. “Be what they used to call a brazen hussy for me because I tell you to.”

Slowly, Carla unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off. “Yes,” he said. “Your tits are magnificent, so hungry for my touch.” He saw that the harsh language made Carla's hands shake and he smiled. “Tits. Say that word. Say ‘My tits are so hard for you.'” He could see the muscles in her throat working as she swallowed. When she hesitated, he made it sound like an order. “Say it, Carla!”