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“Champagne it is,” I said.
Jade beamed and pressed a buzzer on the wall. A waitress appeared with a bottle in an ice bucket and two flutes, and put a little leather folder on the side table. I didn’t open it.
Jade poured, handed me a glass and clinked it. Then she drank half of hers, set it down and went back to work.
And she worked. She turned around and bent over in front of me, slowly peeling her sequinned knickers down to her knees and back up again. She rubbed her arse against my crotch. She lay back across my lap and arched, tits in the air, and let champagne dribble down between them.
“Oops,” she said.
I didn’t touch her. She hadn’t told me I could.
She refilled her glass. She danced. She refilled again. She sat on my lap and whispered filthy things about what she’d do to me if the rules were different, and I was so hard it hurt. Every time I thought she was about to let me touch, she’d laugh and slide away.
The bottle emptied. The buzzer went.
“That was fun,” Jade said, pulling her top back on. “You’re sweet.”
“Can I see you again?”
“You can see me every Friday.” She slid the leather folder into my lap. “Settle up at the bar, babe.”
I opened the folder. Then I kept looking at it. And then I looked at her, still pulling her heel straps tight, totally unbothered.