Eighteen Evelyn
Vanessa kept her word, sending me all the information soon after. She encouraged me to reach out to her directly if I needed anything; so the rest of the week, I bothered her with excessive questions. Now packing a few days before leaving, another one popped into my head.
Evelyn: About the dinner attire, cocktail dresses or business wear?
Vanessa: Neither. Do you own any semi-formal dresses that are suitable for the occasion?
Evelyn: No. The one I wore to the gala is a bit too much, right?
Vanessa: Completely. I will get you something more fitting.
Evelyn: You don't have to, I can figure it out.
That was a lie, I was currently panicking.
Vanessa: It's already been handled. You will like it.
She didn't ask about my size, but I decided not to question her ways.
Vanessa insisted I take the window seat—if you could call it that.
It reclined nearly flat, and there was more space between Vanessa and me than I preferred.
Still, I couldn't complain. With only two seats per row instead of the usual three, plus soft pillows and thick blankets, it was impossibly comfortable.
I was perfectly content curled up under my blanket.
“Evelyn, you know it’s all covered, right? You can order whatever you’d like,” she encouraged, stopping a flight attendant to order a glass of the most expensive wine on the menu.
I stretched out in the long, reclining seat, watching Vanessa slowly sip her drink, her red lips lingering on the rim each time. She sat up straight, laptop open and legs neatly folded. First class had excellent Wi-Fi but I was not in the mood to be productive, feeling antsy.
Bored and not receiving attention, I needed to improvise. Acting on impulse, I stretched out my arm, poking Vanessa’s shoulder with a single finger.
Her reaction was instantaneous and her expression priceless—so serious for no reason.
“Can I try a sip?”
She frowned, overly irritated for such a small offense.
“Please?” I added, as she let out a sigh, reluctantly handing it to me while I slid up into a sitting position.
I took an intentionally slow sip, having learned my lesson from last time.
She watched me curiously as I barely made a face.
It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t too awful.
She snatched it back impatiently with an eye roll.
Watching her was so entertaining. While I still hadn’t had my fill of her attention, she seemed busy.
A few hours later—which only she had used productively—Vanessa ordered another glass of something else.
Giving up on sleep, I once again provoked her with another poke.
She ignored it, still typing away and taking another sip.
I poked her again, still being ignored. Then I did it again, but this time I wasn’t ignored.
She grabbed the wrist that had just touched her, staring deeply into my eyes, trying to figure out what the hell my problem was.
“Stop. If you want something, you can use your words.”
Maybe the lack of sleep was giving me a death wish, or maybe that comment was just turning me on more—because I wasn’t done being a pain in her ass.
Without much thought and a mischievous grin, I tried to use my free hand to tap her shoulder again.
But before I could even move it, it too was grabbed, trapped in her unrelenting grip as if she’d read my mind, knowing my next move.
“Ask nicely,” she demanded.
Playfully, I tested her grip on my wrists, trying to slide them out of her grasp to no avail. After giving her my most dramatic eye roll, I gave in, completely changing my attitude. “Vanessa, may I please try your wine?” I amended, now wearing my best puppy face.
She smirked, handing it to me unnecessarily slowly, clicking her tongue when I tried to rush her. Was this her teaching me a lesson in patience?
I tilted the glass against my mouth, resisting the urge to gag or spit the poison back the moment it touched my lips. This was the worst thing I’d ever tasted—it didn’t just burn, it was disgusting. I didn’t swallow it, panicking over where to spit it out.
“Swallow it, Evelyn.”
I'm gay.
I made a face but did as I was told, wincing slightly.
"Good girl."
It was a good thing she’d waited until after I’d swallowed the wine to say that because I would’ve choked.
"How do you like that?" I coughed, desperately needing water.
"How do you not learn you won’t?" she muttered, turning around to ask the passing flight attendant for water.
"The first one wasn't that bad," I argued as Vanessa opened the bottle for me, which I gulped down gratefully.
"That's because it was lower quality and you don't have a complex palate. I don't care what the price says, I know my alcohol."
I yawned in response, leaning further into the seat.
“So is that why you're being so tiresome?”
“No, you're just fun to aggravate.”
"Whatever. But if you're tired, sleep. There's still an hour left."
Finally satisfied, I drifted off with ease.
That night I tossed and turned in the hotel bed, unable to sleep. Having Vanessa next to me on the plane and in the car all those nights ago made it easy. But now alone, in the large unfamiliar room with a pivotal day looming ahead, resting was impossible.
The hours ticked by 1:00 a.m., 2:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. Only then did I finally drift off, and it felt like moments later my 7:00 a.m. alarm yanked me awake.
I felt just as exhausted as when I'd closed my eyes, unrefreshed and completely drained.
I got ready, applying enough makeup to look alive in front of Vanessa, before heading downstairs to the lobby for breakfast.
Vanessa: I'm going to a café instead, come with me.
Evelyn: Isn't there a nice breakfast here?
Vanessa: Suit yourself, but I'd much prefer a fresh pastry at a local café.
Evelyn: Fine, where are you?
Vanessa: Come to my suite, 704.
She was only six rooms away, probably because we both had luxury suites.
“You need to take your dress for tonight,” she greeted, opening the door and stepping aside for me to walk in.
Her hair was freshly blown out and she wore a white suit that made it stand out even more.
Vanilla flooded my senses, though the hotel products I’d used hadn’t smelt like this.
She must have brought her own. Of course she would.
“When did you have time to get me a dress?” I asked, admiring the space. I wasn’t offended that the CMO had a nicer room than I did—complete with a spacious jacuzzi on the balcony.
“My sister, actually. She’s a fashion designer.”
“Oh. Well, I appreciate it,” I replied, pretending not to notice the emphasis.
“I’m glad you’re not jealous of her anymore.”
Vanessa would never let this go.
“I wasn’t—” I stopped mid-sentence when Vanessa lifted up one of the most beautiful dresses I’d ever seen.
I reached out, skimming my fingers over the mesmerizing fabric as a memory surfaced—the caramel-blonde woman at the dinner party.
I’d met her before. She hadn’t told me they were sisters, and I hadn’t recognized her at the coffee shop.
“Vanessa, I love it,” I whispered, my eyes glued to the dress, memorizing every detail.
“You haven’t even tried it on yet.”
“May I?”
“Of course. It’s yours.”
The bathroom smelled incredible, and my assumptions were confirmed. The counter was covered with expensive perfumes, hair products, makeup, jewelry, lotions, and oils. She was high-maintenance.
When I stepped back out, her eyes raked over my body. Whether she was undressing me with them or simply admiring her sister’s work, I couldn’t tell. Either way, I shivered. She’d never looked at me like that before.
“Do you like it?” I asked, already knowing the answer. It hugged me in all the right places while remaining modest, and the light blue brought out my every feature.
“You look lovely, Evelyn. Twirl for me.”
I twirled with a grin, my hair fluttering around me.
“Her work is wonderful,” I said, still stunned that this masterpiece was mine. I didn’t want to know how much it was worth. “Can you forward me her number so I can thank her?”
“No. I’ll thank her for you.” Vanessa stepped closer, taking it upon herself to fix my ruffled hair. I didn’t process her answer—my thoughts drifting as her soft hands carefully placed each strand where it belonged. I looked up at her, basking in how close we were.
She pulled away, satisfied. “Now go change back. We should get going,” She said, giving me one final look of approval.
Sitting at the table, sipping my coffee with three shots of espresso, I noticed Vanessa eyeing my hair again.
Was it still a mess? Suddenly very self-conscious, I began fussing with it, trying to flatten it down, but probably just making it frizzy.
Vanessa noticed, pulling my hands off by my wrists, before I could ruin any more of my soft curls. She seemed to love grabbing my wrists.
"Stop that, you're going to mess it up."
"Is it still a mess?"
"No, it looks fine. I was just thinking that a braid would look wonderful on you, especially with the dress. May I braid your hair tonight?"
That idea made me feel all sorts of ways, I’d been hoping she'd use her skills on me one way or another.
That evening, after a long shower, I sat on the edge of her bed, with her, ironically, on her knees behind me. This was exactly what I needed after such a long but rewarding day
There was a perfect contrast between the erotic pulling sensation of her tightening the braid and the tender care she put into not hurting me.
I loved being tended to, taken care of—especially by Vanessa.
Her warm fingertips occasionally grazed the sensitive skin on my neck, tickling me, but I tried not to react.
This felt like a scalp massage as I subconsciously leaned further into the comfort of her hands, both physically and mentally.
“Evelyn, stay still or this isn’t going to work,” she said sternly.