“Is that okay?”
She nodded. He liked the way she looked a little flummoxed, but pleased. She peered up at him from beneath long lashes. There it was. In that single look was the entire paradox of Eleanor: sweet and curious; delectably, outrageously erotic all at once. He leaned forward and spoke to her quietly.
“I want to get you back home the quickest way possible. I’ve got some plans for you, Eleanor.”
“Like what?” she whispered.
“You’ve shown me how incredible you are in putting on a show for me when I’m in the building next door. How do you think you’d do if I was in the same room with you? How do you think you’ll like it knowing full well what you’re going to get when the performance is finished?”
—
She didn’t really get a chance to respond to his loaded questions. The waiter came, and Trey took care of the bill. Then he stood and extended his hand to her. All the while, his questions kept replaying in her head, mounting her anxiety and excitement.
Because the thing was: she was intimidated by his proposed plan. Very. Despite her earlier denial, she now realized there was something about him being at a distance that gave her courage during her dances. She’d been able to plan everything in the past. Did that mean what he’d said tonight was true? She needed to be in the driver’s seat?
That she had intimacy issues?
She didn’t think she could lose herself to the extent that she did when he was in the building next door, and she could imagine him a hapless near stranger. But that wasn’t fair to Trey anymore, was it? For her to continue envisioning him as a distant, unobtainable object to be manipulated for her sexual fantasies?
Fair or not, her mind went blank with anxiety when she tried to imagine what it’d be like to perform with him right there in front of her.
They got a cab on Monroe Street. Trey held the door open for her and then climbed in after her. Eleanor opened her mouth to tell the cab driver her address, but then Trey gave his address in a brisk tone, overriding her. A hand seemed to seize at her heart. He wanted her to exhibit herself directly in front of him, to titillate him sexually, all within the relatively unfamiliar territory of his home, not hers?
Once he’d settled beside her, he grabbed her hand and placed it on top of his coat-draped thigh, the gesture amplifying her already acute awareness of him and her mounting anxiety. What if she froze with the startling spotlight of his stare directly upon her? She was going to get stage fright, balk and make a fool of herself.
At one point, she noticed he leaned toward her and opened his mouth as if to say something to her, but then glanced uneasily toward the front seat and the cabdriver. There was no separator between the back and front of the cab. He shut his mouth and stared straight ahead.
He didn’t really speak again until they were on the elevator in his building. By that time, she was spinning in a cyclone of anxiety.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She started. “Nothing.”
“You’ve looked skittish ever since I said I had plans for you. Do you not want to fool around?” he asked very quietly.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it? Eleanor?” he added when she glanced everywhere in the elevator car but at his face. The door opened into his penthouse. She got off before him. He caught her arm in the entryway, urging her to turn and face him.
“What is it? Tell me,” he demanded.
Mortification struck her, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say but the truth. “It’s not as easy for me as you’re making it out to be.”
His brow creased in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know! Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do like to be in control of it . . . I choose the music, I pick what I wear, I decide when I begin—”
“Okay, fine. I had no idea it was such a big deal for you. We don’t have to, it was just an idea I had,” he insisted. “I didn’t mean to take away your control.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex, I do. But I don’t have any clothes here. I don’t have any . . . you know . . .” She was very aware that her cheeks were burning, but there was no help for it. “Props,” she finished.
“Props?” His face went carefully blank. “You mean like the fans?”
She nodded.
“I suppose you have whole closets full of props for your dances?”
“No,” she scolded, hearing the hint of sarcasm in his tone. He was imagining her performing sexually for a long line of men. “I’m not a professional stripper. I’m not a whore either,” she defended heatedly.