His hands brushed against her arms again; she shivered, again.  Up and down, gently.  One hand brushed carelessly across her sleeveless top, buttoned up the back.  Her nipples were stiff, presenting themselves to him through the top, through her sheer brassiere.  She willed them to soften, tried willing her heart to slow down, her breath to be more regular.  Instead there was a sharp intake each time his hand brushed her, touching first one nipple and then the other.  Back and forth.  

He circled her again, appraising her almost critically, the way a painter considers his canvas before placing his next strokes.  Her breathing slowed slightly; she felt herself regaining a small bit of control. He smiled; he heard everything, saw everything.  Knew everything, it seemed.  That she would be late was obvious: an amateur would have known.  But he had given her very explicit instructions: not only when to arrive but how to dress and even where to park.

He held out his hand.

“Where is your phone?”  He really did know everything.  Her nipples stiffened more and her breath caught for a moment.

“In my bag.”  He smiled again.

“Don’t move a muscle,” he said, and pulled the phone from her bag without looking to see what else was there.  He probably already knew, she thought, and it didn’t matter.  He was standing behind her now, his mouth right by her ear.

“You have, I presume, a safety call planned?”

She nodded.

“You should make it now. Or,” he added, to complete the thought, “you should leave now.  That’s a choice only you can make.”

He took her by the wrist and gently turned her palm upward, then placed the phone on it.  And as suddenly as he had appeared at her ear, he was gone.  She scanned the room as much as she could, not daring to move her head.  He was at the desk pouring himself a drink.  He went to the sink to splash a little water into the glass, then sat down in the easy chair and sipped his whisky, pretending not to be watching her.

She took all this in and wondered: is he really pretending?  She wasn’t sure.  She knew to a certainty that if she left she would be fine; if she told her friend to meet her in twenty minutes, she’d be fine; if she dropped to her knees and begged to be taken right now, she would be rejected and sent home.

“Go ahead,” he prompted, not looking up from the book he was reading.  “Call her.  You’ve got the number on speed dial/“  One more small step ahead of her.  It aroused her even more.

She opened the phone and tapped.

“Jen, it’s me.”  Trying not to sound flustered or scared.  Trying not to sound the way she really felt: aroused, wanting, needing.  “Yes…. Yes.  No, it’s good.  I’m good…. Well…” she glanced in his direction.  He nodded, seeming to know.  “Yes.  That’s perfect.  I’ll call you at 10.  Love you!”  She hung up.

His hand was already out.  She dropped the phone and stayed where she was, trying to be perfectly still.  Trying not to telegraph her state.  Trying not to display any of the things he so obviously already knew.