their arms wrapped around each other.
The entrance of the Moroccan-style lounge was dim, but when they crossed into the main area the room was draped with white, sheer curtains. Mini stuffed sofas sat in shades of oranges, purples and reds, with round mahogany tables. A glow of candles lit the way as a hostess in a ruffled mini showed them to their cushy corner booth. It was still early by New York standards, so the place was mostly empty. Warren ordered a round of drinks.
“What happened at work?” She flipped through the menu.
“Damn program stalled.”
She gave him a blank look. “And the contract?”
It was just like Erica to lead into the weekend with business, but Warren wasn’t ready to discuss the unpleasant obvious, so he reached for her chin and told her she looked beautiful, over and over until her face flushed.
“Gorgeous.” He leaned in, letting his nose linger over her throat and ear until she stirred in his arms. Bending their bodies towards each other, their foreheads touched and their fingers laced.
The waitress dropped off the drinks and they ordered dinner. Middle Eastern instrumental music had started playing in the background and on the big screen near the bar a belly dancer, dressed in purple and gold, undulated her hips while twirling a veil between her fingers. They watched while sipping.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to belly dance,” Erica shared.
“So take a class. I’ll pay for it.”
She touched his thigh.
The hostess escorted in two other couples and Warren could see a DJ off to the side setting up equipment.
“Is this going to turn into a club?” he asked.
Erica nodded. “I hope so.”
Their food arrived and they shared red snapper and lamb with a tangy yogurt sauce while conversing about their week apart. By the time their dinner plates had been cleared, the Middle Eastern music faded, a few couples had sauntered onto the dance floor, and it became difficult for them to talk over the music. The DJ was spinning and mixing a string of top-twenty songs and even though they played the same tunes on the radio every hour, there was something electrifying about hearing music full-blast through high-definition speakers.
Erica excused herself for the ladies room. When she returned she was wearing a linguini-strapped camisole cinched at the waist.
“What happened to the Nets?”
“Time and place for everything.” She slid against him. Warren had ordered another round of drinks and she tipped her wineglass. A few beats later, she was throwing her hand in the air.
“This is my song,” moving her head to the beat. “Let’s dance.”
“I’m good right here,” Warren sipped. He wasn’t big on dancing, but Erica would move her body to anything.
“Come on, please,” she pleaded.
He shook his head.
“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.” She scooted out of the bench and moved past him. Her jeans fit her curves like a wet suit, and Warren grabbed her hand before she got too far.
On the floor she snapped her fingers and popped to the beat while Warren kept up a basic two-step. Then a popular reggae song by one of the Marley brothers came on and the crowd lost its mind. A few lighters flickered in the air while couples danced liked they were at home alone. Gyrating her hips, Erica turned around and backed into Warren’s pelvis. Then he placed his fingers around her throat and gave a light squeeze. She moaned, closing his hand tighter.
Sweaty and aroused, Warren breathed, “It’s time to go, baby.” Clasping onto his belt loop, she followed.
Erica stumbled into her bedroom, pulling a pack of baby wipes from her bedside drawer. Warren was in the bathroom and she quickly freshened-up the key areas. Feeling tipsy, but not quite drunk, she removed her boots and slipped into a pair of ultra high heels that Warren had picked out for her at an adult novelty shop on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village. They were stripper shoes and she only wore them in
The entrance of the Moroccan-style lounge was dim, but when they crossed into the main area the room was draped with white, sheer curtains. Mini stuffed sofas sat in shades of oranges, purples and reds, with round mahogany tables. A glow of candles lit the way as a hostess in a ruffled mini showed them to their cushy corner booth. It was still early by New York standards, so the place was mostly empty. Warren ordered a round of drinks.
“What happened at work?” She flipped through the menu.
“Damn program stalled.”
She gave him a blank look. “And the contract?”
It was just like Erica to lead into the weekend with business, but Warren wasn’t ready to discuss the unpleasant obvious, so he reached for her chin and told her she looked beautiful, over and over until her face flushed.
“Gorgeous.” He leaned in, letting his nose linger over her throat and ear until she stirred in his arms. Bending their bodies towards each other, their foreheads touched and their fingers laced.
The waitress dropped off the drinks and they ordered dinner. Middle Eastern instrumental music had started playing in the background and on the big screen near the bar a belly dancer, dressed in purple and gold, undulated her hips while twirling a veil between her fingers. They watched while sipping.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to belly dance,” Erica shared.
“So take a class. I’ll pay for it.”
She touched his thigh.
The hostess escorted in two other couples and Warren could see a DJ off to the side setting up equipment.
“Is this going to turn into a club?” he asked.
Erica nodded. “I hope so.”
Their food arrived and they shared red snapper and lamb with a tangy yogurt sauce while conversing about their week apart. By the time their dinner plates had been cleared, the Middle Eastern music faded, a few couples had sauntered onto the dance floor, and it became difficult for them to talk over the music. The DJ was spinning and mixing a string of top-twenty songs and even though they played the same tunes on the radio every hour, there was something electrifying about hearing music full-blast through high-definition speakers.
Erica excused herself for the ladies room. When she returned she was wearing a linguini-strapped camisole cinched at the waist.
“What happened to the Nets?”
“Time and place for everything.” She slid against him. Warren had ordered another round of drinks and she tipped her wineglass. A few beats later, she was throwing her hand in the air.
“This is my song,” moving her head to the beat. “Let’s dance.”
“I’m good right here,” Warren sipped. He wasn’t big on dancing, but Erica would move her body to anything.
“Come on, please,” she pleaded.
He shook his head.
“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.” She scooted out of the bench and moved past him. Her jeans fit her curves like a wet suit, and Warren grabbed her hand before she got too far.
On the floor she snapped her fingers and popped to the beat while Warren kept up a basic two-step. Then a popular reggae song by one of the Marley brothers came on and the crowd lost its mind. A few lighters flickered in the air while couples danced liked they were at home alone. Gyrating her hips, Erica turned around and backed into Warren’s pelvis. Then he placed his fingers around her throat and gave a light squeeze. She moaned, closing his hand tighter.
Sweaty and aroused, Warren breathed, “It’s time to go, baby.” Clasping onto his belt loop, she followed.
Erica stumbled into her bedroom, pulling a pack of baby wipes from her bedside drawer. Warren was in the bathroom and she quickly freshened-up the key areas. Feeling tipsy, but not quite drunk, she removed her boots and slipped into a pair of ultra high heels that Warren had picked out for her at an adult novelty shop on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village. They were stripper shoes and she only wore them in
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