nervously. “I’m forty.”
“Oh, I see. You’re still having issues with letting go of your thirties. Let it go, then laugh about it. Forty looks good on you.”
“Good, not great?” he joked, while fishing for a compliment.
“Don’t push it. Good is good enough for me. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Richard. Maybe I’ll figure it out before I see you again.”
“So, I’ve earned an invitation for a return visit?”
“Who said we were finished with this one?”
Ten
Trust Me
D ior lifted Richard’s wineglass from the table then handed it to him. “Here you go, sugar. Sip on it and relax.” She winked at him then strutted past. His head was on a swivel as she closed each of the window blinds in the den to darken the room. He was still tracing Dior’s steps with his eyes when she cleared the floor by shoving furniture aside. Richard didn’t know what she was up to. Her peculiar behavior intrigued him.
As Dior paced the floor like a model down a runway, her confidence kept him glued to her every move. The thought of asking what she had up her sleeve occurred to him, but the old adage about looking a gift horse in the mouth warned against it. Besides, he’d rather imagine himself mounting that horse for a long ride.
After clanging pots and pans in the kitchen and then taking a quick jaunt upstairs, Dior returned to the den. She stared at the lump in his slacks, blatantly undressing him with her eyes. The naughty expression she wore embarrassed Richard. Her carnal leer shattered the pillars he’d counted on propping up his principles. With utter disregard to his marital status or professional prominence, Dior flirted shamelessly. She was in total control of the situation and of their association. She’d learned the hard way that a woman should hold on to control like a grudge. Richard was on her playing field, wounded and wanting. Giving in to his desires would cause an eventual shift in momentum, which was the natural order of things. Dior fully understood that men were wired to hunt until capturing their prey. She was careful not to relinquish that control too soon because it was extremely difficult to restore, if at all. Keeping Richard off balance and out of his mind was her recipe, two heaping helpings of both. One quick glance at his hungry eyes was a clear affirmation that he’d already begun to simmer. She chose the most opportune moment to turn up the heat and bring his curiosity to a steady boil.
Dior reached into the back pocket of her tight denim make-him-want-some shorts she’d picked out just for the occasion. Holding his gaze, she pushed the power button on a tiny remote control. Richard chuckled when soulful sounds from the entertainment center permeated the room. “Dior, I don’t, I don’t dance,” he said awkwardly, hoping she wouldn’t insist he did.
“Ain’t nobody expecting you to neither,” she replied slyly. “Something about you being all up in my space put me in a playful mood.” There were no visible signs of trepidation when Dior’s hips began to sway in perfect rhythm with the music. “If you got anywhere to be, now is the time to get going,” she offered sensually, with her head tilted back and both eyes closed.
Richard sat there for a second with a constipated expression, shaking his head feverishly. “Uh-uh. I’m good.”
You kidding me? Ten strong men couldn’t pull me off this spot.
Dior raised her left hand above her head and then eased the right one down inside the front of her shorts. She rotated her pelvis in a slow calculating manner certain to grind out any leftover apprehension Richard couldn’t shake off by himself. When his mouth fell open, Dior moaned passionately.
You’d better close that thing before I put something in it
, she thought to herself.
It’s on now, Deacon Do-Good. You messed up and walked into the House of Dior. You should’ve left when you had the chance.
Richard wasn’t going anywhere. Dior’s
“Oh, I see. You’re still having issues with letting go of your thirties. Let it go, then laugh about it. Forty looks good on you.”
“Good, not great?” he joked, while fishing for a compliment.
“Don’t push it. Good is good enough for me. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Richard. Maybe I’ll figure it out before I see you again.”
“So, I’ve earned an invitation for a return visit?”
“Who said we were finished with this one?”
Ten
Trust Me
D ior lifted Richard’s wineglass from the table then handed it to him. “Here you go, sugar. Sip on it and relax.” She winked at him then strutted past. His head was on a swivel as she closed each of the window blinds in the den to darken the room. He was still tracing Dior’s steps with his eyes when she cleared the floor by shoving furniture aside. Richard didn’t know what she was up to. Her peculiar behavior intrigued him.
As Dior paced the floor like a model down a runway, her confidence kept him glued to her every move. The thought of asking what she had up her sleeve occurred to him, but the old adage about looking a gift horse in the mouth warned against it. Besides, he’d rather imagine himself mounting that horse for a long ride.
After clanging pots and pans in the kitchen and then taking a quick jaunt upstairs, Dior returned to the den. She stared at the lump in his slacks, blatantly undressing him with her eyes. The naughty expression she wore embarrassed Richard. Her carnal leer shattered the pillars he’d counted on propping up his principles. With utter disregard to his marital status or professional prominence, Dior flirted shamelessly. She was in total control of the situation and of their association. She’d learned the hard way that a woman should hold on to control like a grudge. Richard was on her playing field, wounded and wanting. Giving in to his desires would cause an eventual shift in momentum, which was the natural order of things. Dior fully understood that men were wired to hunt until capturing their prey. She was careful not to relinquish that control too soon because it was extremely difficult to restore, if at all. Keeping Richard off balance and out of his mind was her recipe, two heaping helpings of both. One quick glance at his hungry eyes was a clear affirmation that he’d already begun to simmer. She chose the most opportune moment to turn up the heat and bring his curiosity to a steady boil.
Dior reached into the back pocket of her tight denim make-him-want-some shorts she’d picked out just for the occasion. Holding his gaze, she pushed the power button on a tiny remote control. Richard chuckled when soulful sounds from the entertainment center permeated the room. “Dior, I don’t, I don’t dance,” he said awkwardly, hoping she wouldn’t insist he did.
“Ain’t nobody expecting you to neither,” she replied slyly. “Something about you being all up in my space put me in a playful mood.” There were no visible signs of trepidation when Dior’s hips began to sway in perfect rhythm with the music. “If you got anywhere to be, now is the time to get going,” she offered sensually, with her head tilted back and both eyes closed.
Richard sat there for a second with a constipated expression, shaking his head feverishly. “Uh-uh. I’m good.”
You kidding me? Ten strong men couldn’t pull me off this spot.
Dior raised her left hand above her head and then eased the right one down inside the front of her shorts. She rotated her pelvis in a slow calculating manner certain to grind out any leftover apprehension Richard couldn’t shake off by himself. When his mouth fell open, Dior moaned passionately.
You’d better close that thing before I put something in it
, she thought to herself.
It’s on now, Deacon Do-Good. You messed up and walked into the House of Dior. You should’ve left when you had the chance.
Richard wasn’t going anywhere. Dior’s
Similar Books
