Undying Love (28 page)

I glanced again at my alarm clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with her mysterious trainman.

8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed me by, several pausing to stare at me. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.

My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said,
“The grass can’t
compete
with the trees,”
and I was just a blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful women.

My heart was sinking, and my inner vibrations were ticking like a countdown clock. And then as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. He grinned mischievously.

The sight of him shocked me. He was dressed in jeans—the expensive, premium denim kind—and a black cotton tee—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his LBD and uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I said nervously. I hated myself for my banality.

In my six-inch heels, we were practically the same height. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places he had no right to be. “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 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 outline of his muscled thighs and calves was 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 was not looking forward to walking more than a block in my Jimmy’s. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still did not trust myself in them.

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

Driver? What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Trainman 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 backdoor.

“After you,” said Trainman.

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

The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Rich black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating the two of 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 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?

Trainman glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know? —and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his tanned face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I was not 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, wafted up my nose, making me feel light-headed. 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 could not see me. Somehow, I thought Trainman’s piercing blue eyes could see right through me yet mine could not penetrate him. He made me feel naked.

Trainman’s voice diverted my attention. “Would you like a drink?”

“Um, a coke would be nice.”

Trainman smirked. He reached for a bottle of wine, already corked, 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.

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. 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 across 42nd 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 the 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 goose bumps.

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

I swallowed hard. I was too nervous to say anything.

“I hope you’re as hungry as I am.”

“I’m famished,” I squeaked. Suddenly, I was craving a heaping portion of his cock. My stomach emitted an embarrassing growl.

He responded with that bemused smile.

His hand glided back up my leg and made its way under the silky satin of my little black dress. His middle finger toyed with my button. I was getting hot. Very hot. And very wet.

“You’re salivating. You
must
be starving.”

I bit down on my berry-stained lips to suppress a moan.

“Open your mouth,” he growled.

Hesitantly, I parted my lips. Removing his hand from between thighs, he slid his middle finger, wet with my sex, across my tongue. “Just a small taste of what’s to come.”

I steadied my wine in my hand. I feared one way or another I was going to end up with a large wet stain on my new black dress if we didn’t get to the restaurant soon.

The limo turned north on Third Avenue and, after a couple of turns, pulled up behind a cab in front of The Palm. The driver got out and the door opened. Trainman slid out and I followed, aided by his hand. I really was hungry.

Inside, The Palm was a noisy, bustling restaurant with white-table cloth tables and a colorful array of caricatures of well-known celebrities lining the walls. At the reception area, a jovial heavyset man, with half-moon glasses, who looked to be in late 60’s, greeted Trainman with a warm handshake.

“Good to see you, Mr. Golden. Your regular table is waiting for you.”

So now, I knew Trainman’s full name. Ari Golden. Fitting for the golden-haired warrior. Later tonight, I would google him and find out everything there was to know.

Holding my hand, Ari followed an attractive, mini-skirted receptionist who kept looking back at him, past the jammed bar and table after table of chicly dressed couples and businessmen devouring lobsters. I managed to keep up on my heels and again prayed I wouldn’t do something embarrassing like breaking my ankle in front of all these diners.

Several stunning, well-dressed women stopped Ari along the way, eyeing me curiously. Ari politely acknowledged each of them with a quick smile and a nod.
Former passengers on a train?

The booth to which we were led was in the far corner of the restaurant. It could easily accommodate four more people, but we had it all to ourselves. I sat on one side, Ari on the other.

A waiter came by shortly, and Ari ordered for the two of us. Two Manhattans, Caesar salad, and a four-pound lobster to share.

I was happy when the Manhattans arrived at our table. I still felt super-nervous in front of this man. I didn’t know what to talk about. I took several consecutive gulps. The velvety cold liquid, another first, went down smoothly and loosened me up. A little.

Twirling his Manhattan cherry by the stem, Ari eased into conversation. “Sarah is a beautiful name. It means ‘princess’ in Hebrew.”

My mother had told me that once, but I was the last thing from being a princess. Tomboy, geek, plain Jane, yes. But not princess. “Thanks,” I said in a tone that was more dubious than flattered.

He removed the cherry from his drink and flicked it with his tongue. “I’ve seen you a few times before at the 30th Street Station.”

I gulped. He had been spying on me? He really was a stalker.

“Were you visiting someone there?” He popped the cherry into his mouth and swallowed.

I nervously nodded.

“Oh, a boyfriend?”

“No, my mom,” I replied, taken aback by his question. “She’s being treated for cancer at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.”

All the emotions I had bottled up broke loose. I don’t know what caused it. The wine. The Manhattan. The cherry. Or a combination of all three. Tears that had been welling up in my eyes on and off all day streamed down my cheeks.

Before I could apologize for my emotional outbreak, Ari leaned into me and brushed them a way with his thumbs. With a tenderness that surprised me.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffed.

“Don’t be.” His voice embodied genuine compassion. “I lost my father to cancer several years ago.”

So we had something in common. Or close enough. Fingers crossed, my mother would go into remission.

“What kind?” I asked hesitantly.

“Lung.” Sadness filled his voice. “He was a smoker.”

“My mother has lung cancer too, but she never smoked a day in her life.” Anger from this unfair fate rose fast and furious inside me. Just in time, the Caesar salads arrived. I picked at mine, my appetite suddenly gone. Trainman dug into his, sheepishly gazing up at me with each forkful.

“Sarah, cheer up!” It was almost a command. “Here comes the lobster.”

My eyes grew wide at the sight of the monstrous red-shelled creature that our waiter set down in the center of our table. On either side of the platter, he placed a couple of nutcrackers and pickers. Tying ample plastic bibs around our necks, he bid us,
“Bon appétit.”

My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the lobster and Ari’s face. I had never eaten a lobster before and had no clue where to begin.

He was a god. And a mind reader. “Watch. Use the nutcracker and start with the tail. The most succulent part.” Squeezing the utensil, he skillfully cracked the creature’s tail and then plunged one of the slim two-pronged forks into the meat. “Taste,” he ordered after dipping the snowy meat into a side of melted butter.

I opened my mouth and let him feed me the buttery piece of lobster meat. Oh, God, it was good. Rich, melt-in-your-mouth good. I instantly wanted more.

“Your turn.” A wry smile curled on his face. “But, I want you to crack a claw. The next best piece of meat.”

Taking the nutcracker, I wrapped it around one of the lobster’s large claws. I pressed hard, but the shell would not crack.

Suddenly, under the table, I felt Ari grab at a naked calf. He pulled off my Jimmy Choo and moved my foot to the crotch of his expensive jeans. The soul of my foot sat directly on the warm bulge between his muscular thighs. Gripping my ankle, he rubbed my foot up and down. Slowly. Then faster. The mound hardened and expanded while my foot caught fire.

I fumbled with the nutcracker. I still couldn’t crack open the damn claw. I was totally distracted.

“I’m hungry,” growled Ari. He rubbed my bare foot faster and harder against his member. The rigid rod beneath his jeans tensed further, then finally gave way to a series of short spasms. Absent-mindedly still working on the claw, I gazed at the man sitting across from me; his eyes were closed, his lush lips parted and his back slightly arched. His member thrust deep into the arch of my foot…

And at that very moment, the claw cracked opened, the tender white meat inside exploding through the shell. I plunked the two-pronged fork into a chunk and slid it into Ari’s parted lips. His eyes remained shut as he moaned, “Mmmm.”

I delighted in the pleasure I could give this gorgeous man.

He savored the meat in his mouth and then opened his eyes. I watched him swallow.

“My princess, that was delicious.”

I flushed at his compliment. And he called me his princess!

“And now for dessert.” With a hungry smile, he picked up a spoon and let it fall under the table. “Whoops. Excuse me.”

Puzzled by his behavior, I watched as he gracefully slid his sculpted body under the table to retrieve it.

Remembering my bare foot, I quickly wiggled my toes back into my shoe. A hand gripped my ankle and yanked my foot out before I could set my heel down. A moist, warm mouth descended on my big toe and sucked it up and down feverishly. Tingles shot up my leg, all the way up to my crotch. Oh my God! Dessert had arrived.