Waiting for Dinner

I slide into the window seat, and stow my handbag. The other passengers have mostly boarded, and I have the luxury of a row to myself. Thankful to be left alone with my thoughts, I adjust the cool air vent as high as it will go and, as the attendants do their demonstration, I flip mindlessly through the magazine with my forehead pressed against the window, at the edge, where the condensation gathers between the panes. Neither the cold air, nor the coolness of the window against my skin is enough to slow the heat I feel building in my body just thinking about what lies ahead a thousand miles and a couple of hours in Seattle.

I try to focus on the work I brought on the plane with me. Why did I think I'd get any of that done? I concentrate on reviewing the contract, but my mind wanders to that late night taxi ride a few weeks ago. His hand on my leg. My lips on his. Nails digging in to the back of his neck, just above his hairline, pulling him in as deep as possible into a kiss that burned like fire. I've had my eyes closed, thinking about his touch, the feel of his skin, the taste of him, and I am relieved no one is sitting next to me, because I have been breathing in the way I do when I think of touching him. It's audible, a slight purr. And there's no mistaking what I'm thinking of when I make that sound. I'm pretty sure my face is flushed.

I hope I won't see him at the airport.

I want the suspense to build until it is deliciously unbearable. If we have to endure the 30 minute taxi ride to the hotel together there will be no stopping. I need that restaurant table between our bodies in order to prolong the pleasure, no matter how painful it might be. I intend for it to be equally painful for him. The thought of having complete control over his pleasure makes me squirm in my seat, and I can feel the seam of my jeans pressing against my crotch, which only makes me hotter.

I consider the carefully chosen red panties in my suitcase, and the stockings with a garter, and I imagine his reaction when he sees them on me, how he will not be able to stop himself from wanting me, touching me, kissing me, fucking me. My nipples harden at just the though of his lips on them. His hands on my back, pulling me closer.

Even though he is nowhere near, my skin tingles the way it does when he is close. I am so ready for his touch, I want to slide my hand into my panties and rub my clit until I come, right on the plane, just like I did that day in his car. But I know I won't, because I want to save that for him. I want to come with him deep inside me, my legs wrapped around him, fingers in his hair, teeth on his neck. And I want nothing more than to make him come. As many times as I can. I'm not counting on us being able to pull off this much time together ever again, so I want to make the most of it.

I've daydreamed about kissing every inch of his body. Tasting him, especially his delicious, perfect cock. I have imagined, so many times, giving him head, slowly, teasingly, my tongue tracing the ridge where the shaft of his cock meets the head, sucking until he can't stand it any more. I am breathing quickly, deeply, and I know if he was here, and touching me, I would come. If just the thought of him can take me this close to the edge, what is it going to be like having him so close with no interruptions, no timelines, no other commitments? The prospect of having him all to myself for hours, instead of minutes that are never really enough, is unbelievable. I wonder if it will be too much, and then discard the thought as quickly as it came. I know that I want to use every minute.

Though I'd got on the plane with every good intention to get a bit of work done, I hear the crew announce our descent and I realize I have spent the entire flight imagining our total consumption of each other. I return my tray table to its upright and locked position and prepare to land. I can feel the wetness between my thighs, my pulse is pounding in my pussy so intensely it almost hurts.

I roll my case off the plane and head for the taxi rank, avoiding searching for him in the crowd. His flight should have arrived at almost the same time, and I need to get to the hotel before I see him, or all hell will break loose with the way I have gotten wound up on that flight. I find a taxi, and climb in, my cheeks pink with excitement.

"Where to, Miss?"

"Downtown Hyatt, please."

I relax back into the seat and close my eyes. Waiting for my heart to stop pounding. I think of work, things to keep my mind off what's coming. I'm mostly successful, which is good, because I need to take it down a notch if this is going to last. It's not five o'clock yet, I haven't even seen him, and I am ready to jump him immediately.

The lobby of the Hyatt greets me with its shiny expanse of floor, coloured lights and graceful ceiling. The staff are helpful, efficient as always. I check in and am up to my room in no time flat. I drop my bags on the bed nearest the door and unzip my rolling case.

I carefully unpack the silky red panties and the dress I have planned to wear to dinner, hanging them carefully, and smiling to myself as I wonder exactly how long that dress will stay on once he sees me in it. I decide that I will try to keep it on as long as possible in order to maximize his pleasure and mine. I really want him to beg, to tell me how much he wants to touch me, to need to touch me with every fibre of his body. However, I know, in all likelihood, it will be me begging before the night is too far along, he has a much better sense of self control than I do. I have never experienced such deep, and unrelenting desire for anyone before. At times it's overwhelming, and hard to catch my breath. What is the likelihood of me begging him to fuck me before we are even out of the restaurant? The odds seem pretty good. I must try my hardest. I smile as I think how much I'd love for him to yank my dress up to my hips and fuck me up against a wall in the alley on the way back from the restaurant.

I start the steaming shower going, and peel off my jeans. I drop the soaking wet panties on the floor and step into the steamy shower, letting the hot water wash over my flushed skin. I reach for the razor I've brought and shave my legs under the hot water. I put one foot up on the side of the bathtub, massage shaving gel onto my pussy and carefully shave everything, except for a small landing strip on the front. I run my fingers slowly over every square millimetre of my pussy to make sure it is perfectly smooth, and my fingers, slowly circling my clit, feel so good, I don't want to stop. But I do. I lower the temperature of the shower and use the shower head to rinse all the shaving gel off with cool water. The feeling of the cool water running over my smooth, wet pussy feels incredible. I'd better shut that off before I get too carried away.

I wrap a towel around myself and leave a trail of wet footprints on the carpet as I plug my iPod into the bedside Bose station and choose the playlist labelled "hot". It's full of deep base rhythm and sexy lyrics. Definitely music to fuck to.

I slowly dry my hair, and every inch of my body, starting with my toes, and working up. I rub lotion into my legs, arms and shoulders, before blow drying my hair.

I dress carefully, slowly. First, pulling on the silky red panties and then slipping on the matching red bra. Because I have just shaved, I can feel the silky fabric of the panties rubbing against every last part of my pussy. It makes me shiver. I wish it was him touching me with his fingers, tongue, anything, really.

I pull the black dress over my head, pulling it into place, the deep vee neck exposing the rounded tops of my breasts, just enough that I know he will not be able to concentrate on dinner. Instead, I know he will be thinking of sliding his hands down my shoulders, pushing the dress down, over my breasts and then pushing past the little red bra, before taking my nipple in his mouth and burying his face in me. I tug the dress a little this way and that, and I smile when I see that, if I move in just the right way, a sliver of red bra will peek out, letting him see, when he can't touch me over the restaurant table, a little glimpse of what's to come.

I am just finishing my careful makeup and putting on my necklace when there is a knock at the door. My stomach jumps into my throat. I wasn't expecting him so soon! I am caught off guard by having to face him before I am fully prepared, but my excitement at seeing him takes over. I open the door with a huge smile, ready to welcome him with a kiss that tells him what's coming later, but it's not him. Instead, there is a bell boy with an envelope.

"I have a message for you, Miss."

"Thank you." My eyebrow is still raised in surprise. I take the envelope, and give him $5.

"Have a good evening, Miss."

And then he's gone, back down the hall towards the elevators.

I close the door behind me, and stare at the envelope. It doesn't look like his writing, but then, seeing as I fell for his fake interview letter despite the signature, maybe I am not the best judge. I tear it open. Inside is a single sheet of paper. It says:

Hotel bar

6:30 pm

That's only 5 minutes, which sure doesn't leave me much time!

I strap my black, heeled sandals on to my feet, thankful that I had time to get a pedicure earlier, and that the red nails are perfect. Those heels will look fabulous when I'm wearing only my tiny red panties.

I grab my handbag, do one last check on my hair, and head out the door, my whole body tingling at the thought of seeing him in a few short minutes, wondering what the next 6 hours will hold.

*****