Song: Indecent Proposal by Romeo Santos
“You’re not like most of the girls I meet, you know.”
I look up from where I’m taking notes on my phone to see Rasta leaning casually against the balcony railing, a few steps away from me. His suit jacket is open, hands tucked into the pockets of his black pants, and the champagne flute dangling from his fingers looks almost delicate in his large hand.
“Most of the girls you meet aren’t reporters covering a charity gala,” I say dryly, not looking up as I continue to tap away at my phone screen.
Rasta chuckles softly and I can feel his eyes on me. He’s been watching me since he arrived. I don’t know why, but he keeps glancing in my direction and looking away again. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. Or maybe he does and he’s trying to make me uncomfortable.
It’s not working, though.
I’ve been a sports reporter for two years now, and I’ve met all sorts of players, both nice and rude. Rasta isn’t the first arrogant player I’ve interviewed, but I’ve never met a player who was quite so… confident in his abilities. He talks about himself the way a father might talk about his favorite son, with so much pride you can’t tell if he’s bragging or just stating facts.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a reporter like you before,” he says after a moment.
My fingers slow on the screen. “A female reporter?”
I look up and raise a brow at him. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying not to laugh at me. It makes me want to roll my eyes and throw something at his head. But I’m on the job, so I do neither of those things. I just stare him down.
I’ve met men like Rasta before. They think the world revolves around them just because they have a lot of money or fame. But I’m not easily intimidated. I’ve faced worse things than a rich man and his pretty smiles.
“No, I know lots of female reporters,” Rasta says. He pushes off from the railing and moves to stand in front of me. “But none quite as pretty as you.”
I sigh. “Well, thank you. But you don’t need to flatter me. I’m here to do a job and that’s it.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, moving closer. I can smell his cologne. It’s warm and rich, just like the golden champagne he’s been sipping all night. I find myself leaning forward unconsciously, drawn in by the smell. He looks down at me, his dark eyes studying my face, and I try to take a step back, but there’s a stone pillar behind me. I can feel it against my back.
I’m trapped.
Rasta raises his flute to his lips and takes a sip, then smiles at me over the rim of the glass. “I’ve been watching you all night, you know.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mhm.” He nods. “You’ve barely taken your eyes off me the whole time.”
I scoff and fold my arms over my chest. I’ve barely taken my eyes off him? Is he serious right now?
He leans in. “And every time I look at you,” he whispers, his face so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, “I see you staring at me like you want to eat me up.”
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t breathe. My heart is hammering in my chest, and there’s an ache between my legs. It’s sudden and intense, and it startles me a little. It’s not like me to get flustered this easily. But there’s something about Rasta, about his smile and his voice, that makes me want to forget my job and my professionalism. I want to do things I wouldn’t normally do.
I want to kiss him.
I force myself to take a slow step away from him, and then another until I’m standing a few feet away from him. I take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down.
It takes me a moment, but I manage to get a grip on my emotions. I turn back to face him and raise a brow. “So, about that interview…”
Rasta just grins at me. “Oh, I can give you an interview. But not right now.”
I frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
He looks over his shoulder at the party behind us, then turns back to me. “The night is still young,” he says, his voice soft and low, like he’s telling me a secret. “We have plenty of time for an interview.”
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Rasta’s grin widens. “You need a ride?" he asks. "My car is outside.”
I don’t know what possesses me to say yes, but the next thing I know, Rasta is leading me to his car in the parking lot, his hand on the small of my back. His black Ferrari looks like something out of a movie. It’s so shiny that I can see my reflection in it.
“Wow,” I say, running my hand along the hood of the car. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a nice ride.”
Rasta laughs and opens the passenger side door for me. “Get in,” he says.
I do, and he climbs into the driver’s seat. He starts the car and pulls out of the lot, the engine rumbling beneath us.
“So, where are we going?” I ask, looking out the window at the city streets.
“Somewhere quiet,” Rasta says.
I nod, even though I have no idea what he means. I don’t even know where we’re going. But I trust him. And for some reason, that terrifies me.
We drive for a while before Rasta pulls over into a quiet, secluded area. It’s dark here, and the only sound is the distant hum of the city. I look over at Rasta, who is watching me intently.
“So,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Are you ready for your interview?”
I laugh, shaking my head. I can’t believe I let him talk me into this. But at the same time, I’m glad he did. There’s something about him that makes me feel alive, like anything is possible.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
They head to the backseats. After a while, the windows are all fogged up.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m in my bed, fully clothed. I sit up and look around the room, trying to remember how I got here. The last thing I remember is going to the gala and talking to Rasta.
Then it hits me. The car. Rasta and I in his car, doing things I never thought I would do with a complete stranger.
I groan and bury my face in my hands. What was I thinking? I barely know him, and yet I let him take me to his car and have his way with me.
Kinktober
@luckyangelballoon
