[If you missed part I, here's where we left off:]
He ordered the wine; he knew the waiter, asked for special seats, made recommendations. All the stuff the urbane guide, "the man" would do.
Of course, she was enjoying all that. She knew he approved of her bare shoulders, the amount of exposed leg, the extra glimpse of thigh peeking from a slight slit up the side of her black dress, which hugged her breasts so that if the air grew chill he could see her nipples.
She tried to stay with the enjoyment of it all, but her mind slipped off to where she would unbuckle his belt, whip it dramatically through the loops and drop it on the floor. She would push him back, then, against the wall, one hand firmly cupping him between the legs, the other pressed against his chest.
Nah, she thought. How it would really go: He would push her dress up and pull her panties down. She'd be exposed, but also free. He'd stand back for just a click to take it all in, the pale, nude skin where she had shaved, the small triangle of fur, her patient slit. He would put his fingers there. Heat would be coming from his neck; desire would blanch his face. And cool air would tickle her where she was wet and a little opened by his touch. . .

[and now for part II]

"Hello? Did I lose you?" he was saying from across the table.

She wasn't about to admit he'd lost her to a fantasy.

"Sorry," she said. "It's not you." Normally, she'd have tossed off some quip or comeback and eased them both back into conversation. But her fantasies had a strong hold on her tonight like never before. "Sorry," she mumbled again.

"OK. So, my joke wasn't all that funny," he answered. His smile was cute, but repentant, as if his joke had given her pain. "Did you want to leave?" he asked.

And she said, "Sure," even though she wanted to draw out the anticipation. Any other time she'd have set his mind at ease about the bad joke she hadn't heard. But her cool wasn't flowing. Anyway, she started not wanting him to be at ease. Not because she wanted to make a power play, but because she didn't want him so cocky that he'd spoil his charm. She'd watched more than one hot guy lose his luster in the bedroom. They'd start ignoring taste and flavor, going all appetite, doing sex as pie-eating contest. And then she'd get bored. And then he'd be like a power drill with only one speed, and then she'd be waiting, waiting, and then he'd be finished and she'd sigh. And there'd be no more electricity between them.

She didn't want that to happen with Marco. She didn't want to lose the thrill, at work, of thinking, "he's there downstairs in layout, so near yet so untouchable." She sometimes pictured him standing in front of the broad layout desk where they taped the mock-ups. She pictured sneaking in when he was alone in there, locking the door, spinning him around and knocking him backwards onto the hard wood, spreading him over the marked pages of magazine. As she unbuckled and unzipped him, yanked his pants down, pressed his upheld feet to her sides, pulling him towards her, pages of magazine would tear under his ass. She'd be wet, wearing a skirt with no underwear, so when she straddled him, he would smell how badly she wanted him in the warm air. She didn't want to lose those fantasies.

Marco had guided her into the restaurant, his hand on her elbow the way they do -- the smooth, confident ones. He was different as a date -- classy, proper. At work he ranged from cool and easy to intent and thoughtful. His tones always made her sorely aware of his presence whenever he was nearby. And now this new version of Marco, dating Marco -- it made her hot. She wanted to feel his teeth against her nipples. But first, she wanted to undress him, to turn him away from her, leave him with his back to her, naked, wondering what she was about to do. She would inspect him. She would growl, "don't turn around." She would start to touch him. Slow, unpredictable, when and wherever she liked. It would make him shiver. She would tease him, pressing her clothed body against his naked one. Against his skin he would feel the cushion of her breasts, her pubic mound rubbing against him, but only through the rough fabric.

She pictured this as they left the restaurant and approached Marco's car. He leaned into her, opened her door, positioned himself so that his cheek brushed her hair as he eased her through the door. The moment was hot in a very cool way. Like almost accidental, but not. He was the edibles, she thought.

She watched how he moved: slow, fluid, confident, upright. She could swim in him. She could drink him. She could tell him, "Take your jacket off," with subtle command in her voice. No. She would grab the wide neck of his sweater, bunch it in her fingers, pull him into her. His chest -- his tight little pecs forcing the sweater to bunch into a ridge -- would crush against her. The feel of her soft breasts against his chest would make him hard.

No. He would be taking off his own jacket, placing it on the back of the chair, when she would come up behind him, grab his sweater at the hem, in the back. Making a fist she'd shove her knuckles down under his belt line, feeling the little hairs at the small of his back. She would yank the sweater up forcefully, over his head, and while she inspected the bones in his back she would drag her nails over them, slowly, and they would ripple.

"I see I've struck out again," he was saying. She looked into his brown eyes. He flashed her a sheepish smile she hadn't seen before.

"Excuse me?" she gulped. He was in the car saying something -- something offhand by the tone of it. But she could not remember the words.

"I'm just feeling a little full and drowsy," was what she said to him.

Not at all what she meant.

"Eek," he said. "Drowsy wasn't exactly what I was going for." He winked at her, started the car. He seemed unruffled. Kind of. Maybe.

"No, you're fine," she said. "I'm sorry. I just keep drifting."

She thought of reaching over, of putting her hand on his thigh then. To assure him. But she didn't want it to be a promise. He was the type that would expect her to invite him into her apartment anyway. He'd expect a drink, hot or stiff, or some other hospitality. He'd make comments that were complimentary and got progressively more suggestive. And he'd make his move. From there -- that was the part that worried her. She was pretty sure that someone like Marco could turn into a bear the minute you gave him a green light. And she'd find herself saying, oh please, don't be so eager you become boring.

And suddenly they were at her door.

"So, I got a new liqueur," she said casually. "I need a guinea pig." It never mattered what you said. "You want to come in?"

"No, that's OK," he answered.

Say what? Her mind went blank.

The car was still running. His smile was painfully sweet. He meant it. And she couldn't find the words. She froze through so many excruciating seconds of dead air space that if she were a radio station, her emergency back-up system would have kicked in to bail her out. Into about the 12th second, she heard Marco's voice. "I hope we can do this again some time."

Again sometime? She fumbled around then, like she was looking for something. Should she ask him why? Should she touch him? Should she insist, like an Italian mother, that he accept the hospitality of the hostess?

"You have somewhere you gotta be?" she said.

"Well, it's kind of late, don't you think?"

Two single, urban adults, she thought, couldn't possibly consider 11 p.m. on a Friday night late. It sent her into a yarn spin: He's married. He's got a live-in. He wants to get home before she does. She couldn't even bring herself to consider that he wasn't interested in her. She had felt his lust, hadn't she?

to be continued . . .