We agree to lunch at a midtown restaurant. Our eyes meet across the room, where I am seated alone waiting for you. As always, you are dressed impeccably: today it is a suit with a mid-length skirt, stylish without being showy. It reveals enough leg to excite the mind, without so much to be anything other than business. For anyone else, that is.

As I rise, you come over and sit. I signal the waiter for your drink, which I have already ordered but told them to hold. We order lunch, two people who look for all the world like they are discussing business. We aren’t, of course. I can tell, by the look in your eyes, the shape of your mouth, and the faint scent that is distinguishable only by me, that you are aroused. As we finish our coffee and I await the check, I lean over and whisper in your ear: softly, but firmly, my tongue just touching the outer canal enough to send a frisson straight down your back. That scent again.

“Don’t get up yet. Remove your panties and give them to me.”

You a have meeting with a client in an hour; you gape at me, but only for an instant: there is no arguing, there is no point. The panties are in my hand, and I push the small, damp bundle into my coat pocket. As I adjust my glasses I catch your scent once more, this time from my own hand. You, meanwhile, are wondering how you are going to get through your afternoon meetings in your heightened state of arousal.

We leave the restaurant, maintaining every outward appearance of a business lunch. My plans (and yours) for later this evening are anything but business.