He chuckles. "By all means. We can order more if you want."
"No please, don't tempt me like this."
Two glasses of wine and all the strawberries later, I truly mean it when I declare "This is the best evening ever."
"It's not difficult to make you happy, is it?" James asks.
"Not if there's chocolate involved," I say, scooping the last drops of chocolate with his spoon. "Is your office far from here?"
"You can see it over there actually," he says, pointing to a spot over the trees.
I frown. "I don't see anything." I sway a little as I get up from my chair, and James hurries to steady me.
"Who gets wasted from two glasses of wine?" he says, amused.
"I am not wasted," I say. "I just have balance problems."
"Okay," he says, grabbing me by the waist with one arm, and taking my right hand with the other, pointing up. "There."
And now I do see it. The skyscraper. The top of it, at least.
"Which floor is your office?"
Instead of an answer I get a kiss on my neck. And then another one. I dig my fingers in his hair and turn my head, desperately searching his lips. I find them at the same time his hands slide under my top. I don't know if it's the wine or the chocolate, or my desperate need for him finally overpowering me, but I don't make any move to stop him as his hands go higher and higher, touching my breasts, my nipples. I don't want him to stop. I want him to touch me. All of me. Right here. Right now. He bites my lip and I moan deeply in his mouth.
It's only when one of his hands slides down and unzips my jeans that I come to my senses.
"Not here," I whisper, and for a frozen second, neither of us moves.
Then he grabs my hand. "Fuck, Serena. Let's go."
I sit as far from James as possible in the cab, so the cabbie can keep his eyes only on the road. Neither of us utters one word the entire trip. I jump out as soon as the cab stops in front of the fifty-story high-rise. James pays the driver and joins me a few seconds later. He takes my hand and leads me inside the luxurious building. I wish he'd offer me his arm instead because I still don't feel like I could walk straight.
"Good evening, Mr. Cohen," the tall, middle-aged concierge greets us.
"Daniel." James nods, without one look in his direction.
Our shoes clink loudly on the white marble and it vaguely occurs to me that Daniel must suspect why we're in such a hurry. But any thoughts of shame vanish from my mind when the metal doors of four elevators come into view. In just a few seconds James and I will be alone. Yet when the doors open, my stomach drops in disappointment.
The elevator is not empty. An elderly couple, probably coming from the garage, chat lively over the opera brochure the husband is holding. They fall silent when we enter, and smile politely. James presses the button to the top floor and the elevator swooshes up with nauseating speed. I lean on the back mirror to steady myself, keeping my eyes firmly away from James. He doesn't grant me the same mercy. I feel his gaze over me. Piercing me. Torturing me. Undressing me. I barely acknowledge when the elevator stops and the couple gets out, wishing us a pleasant evening.
The following minutes pass by as if in a dream. Our journey lasts for three more floors, then we step out and James takes a painfully long time to unlock his door.
Finally there's only passion: his lips on my neck, his hands on my bare thighs, and my unskilled attempts at getting rid of his shirt, his jeans, and everything else that stands between his skin and me. We're both completely naked when he lifts me in his arms.
"The bedroom's not that far away," he teases in response to my surprised yelp. I rest my head on his shoulder as he carries me through the darkness, moving my fingers playfully over his chest. He doesn't put me down on the bed, but in front of it, standing with my back to him. I make a move to turn around, but his hands on my hips keep me firmly in place. "I want you like this," he orders.
"It's not fair, I can't touch you," I whisper, my hands desperately seeking his skin.
He bends me down, and I put my palms on the bed. He runs a finger down my spine, sending waves of cold shivers through me. And then he slams against me. Hard. One desperate moan after another escapes my lips as he thrusts again and again, harder and harder until my whole body succumbs to incontrollable shudders and I'm afraid my knees will give in.
"James, wait," I gasp, and he lifts me with one arm, propping my knees on the bed without me having to ask for it. I straighten up, flattening my back against him, seeking his lips.
"Do you want me to touch you?" he demands in a raspy, low tone as his thrusts become more brutal, his breaths more convulsive.
"Yes," I beg him. "Yes, please."
"Show me how much