Page 6 of Not Safe For Work

He held my gaze. How surreal, even thinking of being anything beyond strangers with him. Or realizing that, despite spending an unholy amount of time together in those stupid meetings, that was exactly what we were—we barely spoke directly to each other, since my bosses freaked out if anyone jumped the chain of command and addressed a client. Even in the same room, at the same table, in the same conversation, our interactions were filtered through Marie or Mitchell.

Until now.

I cleared my throat. “So then I guess the question is, what do we do until we get this ‘stranger’ thing out of the way?”

Rick smiled. “You’re the Dom. I’d say that’s your call.”

“In theory.” I took a drink of my iced tea, because holy hell, my mouth was parched. “But you know how it works—the Dom calls the shots, but the sub is the one in charge.”

“True. Then I guess we’ll take it a little at a time.”

I nodded. “I can work with that.”

“Good. Because I’ve met a few Doms who are impatient as fuck.”

“Ugh. No. I would never move faster than my sub was ready to move.”

“Good,” he said again. “Then I’d say we’re off to a damned good start.”

I nodded.

“And while we’re on the subject, it doesn’t have to be all kink, all the time. In fact, I’d prefer if it wasn’t. I dated a guy for a while who wasn’t into sex unless it was kinky, and it was…” Rick exhaled, shaking his head. “It was exhausting, you know?”

“Yeah, I agree. Some people like it that way all the time, but I’m with you.” I laughed quietly. “Maybe I’m just getting too old.”

Rick snorted. “I doubt that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Because if you are, then I am, and…no.”

I laughed again. “Fair enough. To be serious, though, I do enjoy vanilla too.”

“So I read. And same here.”

God, this was weird. We were in the same booth, on the same wavelength, and if I kept playing my cards right—no, if he kept playing his cards right—we’d be in the same bed.

Except we hadn’t even touched yet. Verbal games only went so far.

We were way too out in the open for any contact beyond hands on the tabletop. Not even touching an arm or teasing the inside of a wrist with a finger. Maybe if we were a couple of twenty-somethings, it would’ve been different, but I came from an era where that sort of thing didn’t fly. And, well, old habits died hard.

But I still wanted to touch him. More than that, I wanted to see him squirm.

So, beneath the table, I ran my toe along his insole. “Footsie” seemed like a childish game, but the way his eyes closed and he slowly pulled in a breath, the way the hairs on his arm stood up and my own spine tingled—this wasn’t child’s play.

I did it again. His other foot moved, rubbing against mine, and I quickly put mine on top and pushed his back to the floor.

Rick’s eyes flew open.

Right then, the waitress appeared beside us. “Can I get you gentlemen—” Her eyes darted back and forth between us. Some color bloomed in her cheeks, as if she’d realized a second too late what she just walked into. A little quieter, she quickly asked, “Any refills?”

“Some more water please,” Rick said, the words spilling out one on top of the other. “Ice water.”

The color deepened. She swallowed and turned to me. “And you, sir?”

“Water, yes. Please.”

She was gone so fast, she may as well have just ceased to exist.