Chapter 22
Quinnly
Lincoln’s sour about the dating app I downloaded a week ago. He doesn’t like that I’m using my body to get to a mark. It seems to me he could remedy that problem rather quickly if he wanted to, but he’s choosing to be… difficult.
So I’ll continue to silently press his buttons until he explodes, or gives in to the wicked desires I know he has.
I got a taste of them not too long ago, and now it’s woken up the beast in me. I need more orgasms, and if he won’t give them to me, I’ll go get them from someone else. Someone I get to kill afterwards.
This one’s young, maybe early thirties like me. I don’t know why I’m surprised, bad seeds come in all shapes and sizes. He sure is pretty though, and he thinks my tattoos are “cool”. I’ll let him get away with that slight, for now anyway. My tattoos are fucking awesome.
Flirting via text is easy, I’m just saying whatever comes to mind and either he likes it, or he’s desperate.
I’d like to think it’s the former. His closely cropped blond hair makes him appear older than he is, and his pictures could definitely use some work.
Angles and intention are everything folks.
His style is flashy, which makes sense for the clientele he rips off, even if they don’t know it. Rich people tend to trust other rich people blindly. It’s an odd sort of cult.
Lincoln’s on the couch, tippy-typing away on his laptop, as if he’s really doing anything other than reading my messages. I know when I’m being cyber stalked. So I fuck around with him and close him out of his browser remotely. Seeing his face narrow at his screen? That’s what I call a fun time.
Slamming the lid, he leans forward on the couch, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “If you go on this date, I’m going with you.”
“Okay, Daddy-o. But that seems like a poor idea,” I can’t stifle my laughter fast enough and hop out of the cushion I’d been rotting in these last few days. “I’ve got a date to get ready for, but you keep workshopping more splendid ideas.”
Booping his nose, I turn, but catch his growl before heading to the bathroom. I’m gonna enjoy this, so fucking much.
Shit. Shower. Shave.
Honestly, it’s the best policy when one goes on a date. No one wants to be practically dry humping one minute and having poop pains the next. Awkward.
My makeup is really the star of the show. I hardly ever have a reason to go full glam with it, which includes covering my tattoos. So tonight, I’m using it as an excuse. It’s like an alter ego, and I am so very good at it.
Dark winged liner swoops over my upper eyelids, mascara lengthens my lashes, and bright turquoise liner is packed on my lower lash and water lines.
Against the paleness of my blue eyes and porcelain skin, they look down right scary.
Which adds to the allure, and then, for the main event, dark blue lipstick covers my lips.
My hair’s down in its natural wavy state, I hardly ever put any heat on it. I like to keep the colors vibrant longer, and heat styling is a surefire way to fuck up my dye.
Plus, my outfit screams I’m here to fuck, and I’d rather not take away from that.
A short yellow dress with a flared skirt and hearts dotting the fabric is covered by a crop top that hangs just over my breasts with fake outlines of titties. It’s cute, and works so well with my ripped fishnets and boots.
Lincoln’s gonna lose it.
Plumping my hair once more in the mirror I fling open the bedroom door and lean against the frame, but Lincoln’s nowhere to be found. I grab my phone to send him a text asking where the fuck he went, only to find a text waiting for me.
Shadow: Find your own way to your date, Menace.
That slippery bastard.
Sure enough, the car he rented isn’t in the driveway when I look outside. He knows messing with my plans makes my brain itch, and I hate ride shares.
The place isn’t that far, and the night is my favorite place to be… Fuck it, I’ll walk, and if Lincoln doesn’t like it oh well.
Skipping down the sidewalk, with my scissors strapped securely to my upper thigh, I sing a song that’s been stuck in my head for a week. Popping in a piece of gum, I enjoy the chomping sounds in my ears and the way the gum slowly starts to harden and chew better.
My dress flares with every hop and the air, ugh the air is fantastic. I hate being holed up in a house for too long. Makes my skin itchy and my fingers fiddly.
Also known as, ‘getting in trouble’.
The little bistro is situated between a coffee bar that charges an obscene amount, and an Italian pasta place. I’d rather be eating pasta, but Le Douche seems to think French cuisine is the way to go on a first date.
I spot him immediately, he’s standing on the sidewalk right outside the doors in white slacks, a belt that easily costs more than the shoes on his feet, and a black polka dotted button up that’s rolled up his forearms twice.
He looks like a damn Le Douche too. I guess that’s his new name, and then he lays it on thick by looking at his watch, and glancing intentionally up at me.
Strike one.
Didn’t I tell him I’m not great with time?
“Cecelia?” He asks, reaching for my hand and raising it to his lips.
With a rehearsed smile and slight giggle, I nod pretending to be flattered by the greeting.
“And you must be, Joshua,” I preen, leaning in to smell him. He does smell good, points for fancy cologne.
“Are you alright?” He asks, looking at his watch yet again. “I don’t mind waiting on a woman, but you’re more than twenty minutes late.”
With a shrug, the lady at the door shows us to our seat and over my shoulder I throw him a wink, “I guess that means twenty minutes less of small talk required to get to the fucking.”
The waitress lady chokes and turns, giving me a tilt of her lips before walking off.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Le Douche starts, “but maybe lower your voice first.”
Strike two.
Damn, Le Douche’s on a roll tonight.
“I thought you liked a woman who knows what she wants,” batting my lashes I thread my fingers together and hold my chin up.
He laughs and nods, “I can’t say you’re wrong.”
“I know.”
I’m starving, that walk took more out of me than I expected so I can’t wait to eat. I spot Lincoln tucked in the corner, perfectly seated to observe my date. I’m getting wet just thinking about this game. God, he is so much fun to play with.
A waiter comes over and offers us water, along with the wine menu. I guess Le Douche here decides he’s waited long enough and orders for the both of us.
“We’ll have a bottle of Chablis for the table, I’ll have the Coq au Vin, and the lady here will have the Seared Salmon.” Waving the waiter off, I have to remember to fix my face into an adoring woman who’s smitten with a man ordering for her. Though, I’m not sure I know any of those.
Our waiter returns with our food and a promise to check in on us in a bit. Small talk is boring, and honestly I tune most of it out, choosing to lock eyes with Lincoln instead. When our eyes meet again he raises his hand and waves with two fingers, fork filled with perfectly cooked steak.
Ugh. I wanted steak.
“Cecilia?” Le Douche asks and by the grace of mercy, I manage not to roll my eyes.
“Hmm?”
“Aren’t you going to eat? Cold Salmon isn’t as tasty as you’d think.” He laughs, the sound grating my senses. I pick at my salmon and let Le Douche take over most of the conversation, because all I want to do it’s see how far Lincoln will let me go with him before he gets jealous.
Laying it on thick, I make sure to rub Le Douche’s hand, laugh at all his jokes, and make it look like I’ve eaten something off my plate. At least the wine is good, I’ve had three glasses already.
“Any desserts?” The waiter returns, and Le Douche declines.
Strike three. Doesn’t he know your stomach opens up for dessert?
Throwing down a few hundred dollar bills and says, “Keep the change,” and offers me his hand.
Thank God, I was starting to really think this guy's too full of himself to fuck on a first date. But like I said, he’s pretty, and surely he’s got something I can work with in his pants.
His car is unlocked by the time he’s ushering me into it, leather crinkles under me, making me wanna poke a hole in it with my scissors.
“You sure seem different when we’re texting,” he comments after sliding into the driver’s seat and pressing the button to make the car turn on.
“Must be the tone,” I smile.
“Mhmm,” he says, driving the short distance it takes to get to his apartment. Or maybe a townhouse? I never can tell. Opening my own door, I follow him into the place he calls home and immediately press his back into the wall, leaving the door open, as my lips land on his.
“This is the twenty minutes we can skip,” I tease, biting his lip.
He’s stunned for a moment, clearly not used to a woman taking charge with him.
His hands delve into my hair as he brings me in for another kiss and switches our positions. There’s a crash as a picture falls off the wall but we don’t stop. His hands roam to my skirt trying to lift it and I chuckle, he won’t like what he finds there if I’m not careful.
There’s a couch in the room we’ve managed to stumble our way toward, and right on cue I can feel Lincoln lurking somewhere.
Come play, Shadow.
Pushing against Le Douche’s shoulders, he falls onto the couch looking up at me as I slowly work my crop off and drop it very ladylike on the floor.
Dragging the zipper of my dress down my back, I make a good show of slipping the straps down my arms before shimmying it down over my breasts, and it definitely gets a reaction.
“Fuck, you have amazing tits,” Le Douche says, palming his dick over his slacks.
“I know.”