Page 98 of Naughty Nelle

“The dress suits you,” he said at last with a glimmer of approval.

He offered me his arm, and my eyes fixed on his biceps. Perfect, not too big as if to shout professional weight lifter, but enough to let me know that he worked out. The rest of his body was equally sculpted to perfection. The outlines of his muscled thighs and calves were visible through the denim, and I could see the ripple of his abs beneath his fine cotton tee.

I hooked my arm in his, glad to have someone help me down the steps in these mile-high heels. Please don’t let me trip. Please! I prayed silently.

I made it to the street. A small victory. I suppose we were walking somewhere—there were lots of good restaurants in the theater district—but truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to walking more than a block in my stilettos. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still didn’t trust myself in them.

“My driver will be here any second,” said Ari.

Driver?What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Ari motioned with his finger to it and helped me step off the curb.

A tall uniformed man, with rich, ebony skin and the intimidating build of Mr. Clean, immediately came around the car and opened the passenger door.

“After you,” said Ari.

I looked at him with hesitancy, and then with as much grace as I could muster in my tight dress and six-inch high heels, I slid into the car. Ari climbed in after me. The door closed, and I was sitting, once again, next to my mysterious stranger on a train.

The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Soft black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark-tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating us from the driver. There was also a well-stocked bar. I’d never been in a limo before. Obviously, Trainman was rich. Very rich. Again the question: What was he doing with me?

He stretched his long, taut legs out in front of him, and I noticed he was wearing expensive black suede loafers with no socks. I impulsively crossed mine—acutely aware that I was not wearing underwear. The thought made me press by legs tighter together. I wondered—was this some kind of defense mechanism?

Ari glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know?—and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his bronzed face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I wasn’t wearing pantyhose that pleased him? I dared not to ask.

The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with that of the car’s rich leather and wafted up my nose, making me feel lightheaded. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and the throbbing in my groin kicked up a notch with the movement of the car. Please don’t let me get carsick.

“I hope you like lobster,” he said, breaking the silence.

Oooh. That was a conversation starter. Me, who lived on ramen noodles and an occasional macrobiotic dinner out, courtesy of BFF Lauren, who was forever going through a raw diet phase, didn’t know the first thing about eating lobster. All I knew was that it was a big red shellfish, with big, scary claws, that I could never afford.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Good. We’re going to The Palm, my favorite restaurant.”

“Cool.”

This was not going well. Despite my intimate encounter with this gorgeous man only hours ago, I now felt at a loss for words. Remembering one of my favorite sayings—Speak only when spoken to—I peered out the tinted window, gazing at the spectacle of cars, cabs, and pedestrians that made New York the city that never sleeps. A thought crossed my mind. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. Somehow, I thought Ari’s piercing blue eyes could see right through me yet mine couldn’t penetrate him. He made me feel naked.

His sultry voice diverted my attention. “Would you like a drink?”

“Um, a Coke would be nice.”

“Come on, Saarah. You can do better than that. It’s not a school night,” he said in a tone that was half-amused, half-mocking.

With a smirk, he reached for a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and poured some into two crystal goblets. He handed me a glass and then clinked his against mine.

“Cheers. To you and a fine meal.” His eyes stayed fixed on my face.

My heart hammering, I put the goblet to my lips and took a sip of the wine. It was chilled and delicious. It didn’t taste like the acidic or oversweet “house wine” I occasionally ordered when I was out with Lauren. No, it tasted perfectly balanced and velvety. As I swallowed, I glanced at the label on the bottle; it was in French. So, Trainman liked fine cars, fine wines, fine food…and fine women?

The limo was heading east on Forty-Second Street, the driver expertly weaving in and out of the insane Friday night midtown traffic. I imbibed more of my wine.

“So, Saarah…”

There he was, saying my name with that slow, sexy lilt. My breath caught in my throat.

Holding his glass of wine in one hand, he slowly ran the manicured fingertips of the other down my right leg, all the way down to my ankle. His caress gave me goosebumps.

“So, you didn’t wear any pantyhose,” he purred, his hand rubbing up and down my ankle.

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