Tempted (52 page)

I tend to a few emails, including a lovely send-off message from Ma’am Delores, then shut down my computer, grab my carry-on bag
,
and make my way to the departure gate.
 
Moments later, boarding begins
,
and before I know it
,
I am happily ensconced in my window seat.
 
Turns out booking my flight weeks in advance had some benefits, like seat selection.
 
Once the plane is airborne and the seatbelt sign is turned off, I reach under my seat to fetch my laptop, dying to read Alex’s last, lusty, long-distance message.
 
I notice the teenage boy next to me is trying to eye my screen
,
so I position the laptop in a way only I can see.
 
Turns out that was a very
prudent
move.

1:31am

Alexander Armstrong

Cariña
, I’m going to love you in dangerous ways.
 
Scandalous ways.
 
Picture an intimate table for two, basking in the warm glow of the crackling fireplace just a few feet away.
 
Feel the ambience of lazing decadence saturating the air.
 
You nod and smile politely as I slide your chair away, tucking it effortlessly beneath you with chivalrous precision as you grace it with ladylike ease.
 
Notice the glint of mischief in my eyes as I take my place beside you, a king escorting his queen to afternoon tea.
 

Here, in my city, I choose to take you to the
Palm Court at the
Plaza
.
 
Tea room connoisseur that you are, I’m certain you’re familiar with this spot:
 
the signature
green and yellow glass
,
skylight
dome
, mirrored doors and fleur-de-peche marble columns
,
a harpist in one corner,
and
plush pillowed sofas surrounding coffee tables, if you’ll forgive the expression.
 
I have something special planned and so I’ve chosen a cozy table where we can enjoy one another within the illusion of privacy.
 

I’m intrigued by your feather touch handling of the heavy leather-bound menu.
 
Quickly pouring over it you discover something that delights you and your mouth opens just a little. I’m captivated by your childlike expression as you unwittingly bite your lip in gleeful anticipation.
 
When the server bearing bubbly flutes of champagne appears, she calls you back from your dreamy reveries, inquiring, “Have you decided what flavor of tea you’d like?”

“Yes.
 
Your house breakfast tea
, please.
 
With milk.”
 
“Two, please,” I amend and we’re alone again.

Your hand wanders to the crystal-borne brut and unconsciously, your fingers trace the length of the stem, up to the rim and back.
 
Your head is tilted just a wink to the right, in a gesture of attentiveness as I hold you in my eyes and you return my gaze’s embrace, your lashes lowering occasionally in feminine bashfulness.
 
Abandoning the flute your hand comes to rest admiringly on
a small vase bearing a single velvety rose
.
 
Leaning forward I place my hand on the table palm up: a chivalrous invitation for you to connect, to touch, if you so wish.
 
As softly as a wa
fting a
utumn leaf, you rest your hand in mine and I ever so gently stroke the back of yours with my thumb. You breathe suddenly, sharply, and I know that my touch bore
the message I wished to convey –
desire.

While awaiting the tea, we exchange innocent pleasantries:
a sweet smile, an appreciative laugh, a loving touch of hand on hand.
 
Our eyes lock and suddenly, beneath the organza veil of politeness and decorum, the blush in your cheek betrays you and I know you sense it.
 
I’m going to make you cum.
 
It’s not a question, or a proposal, or even a forewarning.
 
It’s as inevitable as the dawn.
 
I shall have you.
 
Here, at tea.
 

You dare a look into my eyes and my wanton gaze confirms it.
 
Our server returns to pour the tea, breaking the moment’s spell. Wide-eyed and still blushing, you graciously ask, “Do you take milk or sugar with your tea, Alex?”
 

“Yes, please.
 
Both.
 
Two lumps.
 
A touch of milk.”

Your composure begins to return and lifting the tongs with practiced grace you gingerly drop each sugar cube into the cup and quickly bathe them in milk.
 
You make even quicker work of your own cup and I watch you lower the spoon into the liquid cloud and enticingly stir it in silent figure-eight ripples.
 
You pinch the cup’s handle between your thumb and first two fingers, balancing it gently on your ring finger and pinky.
 
You lift the cup to your lips and for the briefest moment you close your eyes and sit perfectly still.
 
Your lips part and you tip a small swallow into your grateful mouth.
 
Your eyes open again and I feel as though I have just been made privy to something equally sacred and erotic.
 
And I know this is just the beginning.
 
Beneath the table, under the spell of your grace, I begin to swell for you.
 
But I know: teatime is something to be savored, at leisure.

Our attentive server returns with a three-tiered silver curate laden with
warm, freshly baked, seasonal scones and
tea sandwiches that appear more like miniature culinary sculptures:
truffled quail egg salad, Maine lobster with sturgeon caviar, roast beef and horseradish, cucumber-radish-basil, smoked salmon with endive
.
 
We begin to transfer the savory dainties to our own plates and I try my first sandwich, biting it in half.

I notice that you have a system for the tea ritual, taking a bird-sized nibble of each sandwich, one at a time, in turn, sipping a bit of tea in between each bite.
 
The look of bliss and relish in your eyes, the elegance of your carriage and demeanor, your obvious savoring of sensual pleasure and variety has me bewitched.
 
And wildly aroused.
 
I rest an appreciative hand on your knee, give a light but firm squeeze, and smile into your eyes.
 

Our server returns with scones and small pots of Devonshire cream along with strawberry and blueberry jams.
 
Again I see the thrill of anticipation in your eyes, the gleeful expectation of what’s to come with each scrumptious bite.
 
After we’ve prepared our scones I return my hand to your knee.
 
The warm smoothness of your lower thigh is straining my patience.
 
Below the linen tablecloth, straining too, is my swelling manhood.
 
You look into my eyes and slightly quiver as you take a bite of scone.
 
You’ve been over-zealous with the jam which drips onto your lip and trickles down just a bit before your tongue deftly, seductively licks it back into your mouth.
 
I too take another bite as my hand beneath the linen cloth expresses a need to satisfy other appetites.
 
I begin at your knee.
 
A gentle caress, a light squeeze lingering, a massaging press.
 
 
Anticipatory gestures, the language of lust, urging you:
spread your legs, welcome me.
 
You widen your eyes and raise your brows, a girlish and innocent affectation, a coy protestation.
 
And your knees part.

Bracing your hands on the table you stop eating.
 
I bid you continue as my hand masters the plush of your thigh and I take you slowly, inch by inch.
 
Taming your shy reluctance with each torturously patient advance, my hand at last brushes the lace of your panties.
 
I feel your heat, humid, effulgent with yearning.
 
And with the lightest touch of my fingertip I taunt your wakened clitoris.
 
I grip your eyes as I rouse you.
 
Your aqua orbs no longer invite, they beg, as you press against my hand, craving release.
 
I pull my hand away, and you let out a bewildered gasp.
 
I slowly tuck your hair behind your ear and leaning in, whisper, “Take them off.
 
Now.”
 

You sigh, and with a feigned drop of your napkin, you bend to retrieve it, now bare beneath your Chanel sundress.
 
This time it is your own hand that presses my palm into your lap and you look into my eyes, imploring: Release me.
 
Please.
 
I loosen the silk choke of my vintage Armani tie, so slightly that even the most attentive eyes would hardly catch the play, but you notice.
 
And your breath catches.
 
You know I mean business.
 
You’re anticipating each slow advance of my hand’s sure progress as I coax your thighs apart.
 
 

I sink my fingers inside you and take your hand to set it in my own lap.
 
You find me unzipped and erect, awaiting your impassioned caress.
 
Your lust now fully awakened your eyes seek mine and find their answer: I am going to cum with you.
 
Your jaw parts and your eyes widen, but all you manage to voice is ‘Yes.’

Our server returns with a
n assortment
of petite desserts
and a special order of strawberries and cream
.
 
Her timing is impeccable.
 
You sit frozen, trying wildly to concentrate on the delights of the table but with little success.
 
I invite you to take a strawberry and your focus returns.
 
You immediately reach for the plumpest, reddest berry, plunge it into the attendant bowl of cream, lift it to your lips and slowly lick it clean, your eyes locked on mine throughout.
 
Now I take a berry, press it to my lip and kiss it, then instead of biting into it I take it beneath the table, pressing its sweet juicy flesh against that of your own.
 
Teasing your opening with my fingers I feel you grow slick and I dip the fruit into your pooling nectar.
 
The dripping red berry emerges in my glistening fingers and without delay, I run it across my lips and onto my tongue, biting it and savoring every drop of the forbidden fruit.

Again my fingers are inside you, more urgently now. I feel your grip growing tighter, more feverish, around me.
 
Glistening foreplay pearls lubricate my shaft like a tongue as your hand works every inch of it, your eyes closing as you let out a low moan with each full stroke.
 
And as I swell rock hard under your touch, I feel your loins clench and push, and demand, and flood.
 
Your hand careens down the length of my shaft and together, we cum in ecstatic torrents.
 

Finally, we release our hold of one another and I watch with loving satisfaction as you bathe each of your fingers with your lips and tongue, delicately sucking them clean, one by one.
 
Following your lead, I do the same, enjoying my last lingering taste of your deliciousness.
 

The server returns, check in hand.
 
I place my credit card in the bill holder as we take our last sips of tea in satiated silence.
 
Our eyes meet, cups clink and instinctively we smile at one another, and together merely say, “Cheers.”

And that
Cariña
, is a proper tea.