Page 35 of Yield to Me

The drive back to my house was silent. It seemed like Owen was deep in thought. He hadn’t spoken a word since we had gotten on the freeway, and like the typical Bay Area, we were stuck in traffic. He reached over and held my hand, staring out the windshield, never glancing at me.

“I have a business meeting to go to next week in Monterey,” he said. “It’s an all-night event. The drinking means most of us will stay at the hotel.”

“Not to mention a two-hour drive,” I said.

Owen nodded. “I could use a copilot.”

I tilted my head. Owen was still concentrating on the road, safely and conveniently not looking at me. I wished I could gauge his expression better. “Are you inviting me?” I asked.

“If you’re interested.”

“An overnight?” I asked. While we had enjoyed late nights, each of us sometimes getting home at five a.m., we had yet to spend the night together. I wondered what had moved him to invite me. It seemed less like friends with benefits and more like borderline romantic.

“The suite has multiple rooms if you want your own bed,” he said, his voice trailing off.

“Would you rather have your own bed?” I asked. He shook his head.

The next week, he picked me up in his Tesla and tossed my duffel bag in the trunk. We took the coastal route along Highway 1, enjoying the scenery in the early morning. The white cliffs passed to the side, then brown and green hills flattened into sand dunes as we approached our destination. Owen put his hand on my thigh. It seemed oddly possessive. Owen was the type to be possessive when it came to sexual adventures, there was no doubt about that, but this seemed like a step further than we had agreed to, like wearing the choker, or a collar—whatever you wanted to call it—in public. Possessiveness outside of the bedroom seemed iffy, even if we had been exclusive for weeks now. But since holding someone’s thigh while driving wasn’t on our list of forbidden actions, I put my hand on top of his. The casual mark of affection filled me with nervousness, then that disappeared and was filled with a comforting warmth, bordering along the lines of bliss. I chose to ignore the nagging thought that we were definitely taking things too far.

While Owen attended business meetings at the conference center, I walked along Cannery Row, tasting soups, wandering into specialty shops, watching the waves crash on the shore. Despite the winter season, there were still plenty of people walking along the beach, some in large coats and others in wetsuits. Owen texted: How is it?

Beautiful, I replied. I tried taking a picture on my phone of my feet in the water, but the cold waves made me jump. The second attempt, I succeeded and sent it to Owen. Wish I could be there, he sent, Almost done.

I kept going, following the coast. A large cliff shielded a secluded park. It was nearly empty, save for a couple leaning against a park bench and an older woman walking her dog. I sat on the sand, watching the sunset and the waves cascading back and forth.

A voice came from behind me. “I knew you’d be here,” Owen said. He sat beside me, getting sand on his suit. I smiled, happily surprised by his lack of concern for getting his clothes dirty. The suit had to be expensive.

“Lucky guess?” I asked.

His knees brushed against mine. The touch sent chills up my limbs. “There’s a dinner party tonight at the Chart House. I hope you brought a dress,” he said.

I grinned. I had brought a dress, one to seduce with, but it would work for dinner. “Are you inviting me to go with you? Out to dinner? With people you know around?”

“You’ll make the evening more tolerable.” He paused, looking around. The couple was now waiting in their car, about to leave, and the woman walking her dog was gone, making Owen and I the last ones left. “It’ll be a good reason to leave early as well.”

“So I’m your excuse to get the hell out?” I laughed.

He faced me, leaning on one arm, the other stroking my shoulder all the way down to my hip. He drew closer to me, his warm breath on my neck. “You’re a good reason to leave,” he said, his words tickling me.

I had declined a separate suite, but took advantage of having my own space to get ready; I took over the main room and bathroom. The pristine white surfaces felt glamorous. I carefully applied lotion and makeup and took my time curling my hair. Posing in the mirror, the black dress covered my curves like a second skin. My chest was covered by fabric, but the back was low cut, showing the muscles straining as I posed. The delicate chain around my neck, the teardrop diamond shining in the mirror, made me feel elegant. For the first time, I felt like a work of art myself, like one of the women I saw at the club, part of a couple I had taken photographs of at Surrender, or a person from one of my dreams. I slipped on sheer stockings and black two-inch heels, a height I could manage without feeling too clumsy.

After spritzing perfume, I opened the door. Owen was sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop. He looked up; his jaw dropped.

“You look incredible,” he said. He stood, his gaze traveling over me, and pulled me into his arms. “We might never make it to the party.”

I grinned and breathed in the cologne that lingered faintly on his clothes. He had changed into a fitted dark gray suit that showed off the strength in his arms, a green tie tucked beneath. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said.

I was surprised at how many people attended the dinner; the entire restaurant had been reserved, and the longest tables were centered in the middle, near the ocean view window. Oysters and crab cakes were served as appetizers; having never had an oyster before, I watched Owen dislodge it with a small spoon before slurping it down, then I did the same. The conversation was polite, each person asking about the business and family life back home. The guests were from all over the United States, and all seemed to know Owen.

“And who is this lovely young lady?” one man asked, sitting across and to the right of me.

“This is Riley Glass. She’s an applying candidate to the Foundations For the Arts’ Masters in Sculpture Program,” Owen said. I blushed.

“Wow,” the man said. “Is Wiles still running the program?”

“And bringing in promising candidates each year,” Owen said, nodding towards me and squeezing my thigh under the table.

“What kind of sculpture do you create, Miss Glass?” a woman in a cream dress asked.

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