Chapter 3

Steven stood and waited for me, holding out his hand. I wasn’t sure what was expected of me. I climbed out of the booth, a little wobbly from the bourbon. He gently placed his hand on my back, and he gestured to the exit with his free hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked, feeling very nervous.

“I have a room for the second interview,” Steven explained. “We’ll head up there, now.”

I had initially thought that meeting Steven in a hotel bar at eight at night was unusual enough. Now, however, my knees were shaking. This was highly unorthodox. I’d never heard of anything like it. I was going to a hotel room, alone, with a man who was not my husband, to interview for a job.

I didn’t want to disappoint Steven, and I wanted the job. I thought about it as we walked through the lobby, toward a bank of elevators. Dave had said that Steven was an extremely busy man, so I guess this was normal in his line of work. I have to admit; it was titillating to think about what I was doing. I’d never been alone in a hotel room with anyone other than Dave.

“You look amazing in this dress, Julie,” Steven said as his hand moved down my back, stopping at the top of my hip.

“Thank you,” I said. I felt pleased that he liked what I wore. It was nice to be complemented by such a handsome, sophisticated man.

“You have an exceptional body,” he added, leaning close not to be overheard. “I cannot believe that you’ve given birth to two children. Did you nurse them both?”

I couldn’t believe what I had just heard him ask. My heart was beating rapidly in my chest. I felt myself blushing. He complimented my figure, and that made me proud, but his question was inappropriate and made me feel uncomfortable.

“Uh, thank you,” I said, trying to think of how to answer him. I didn’t want to offend him. Maybe he didn’t mean to sound that provocative. Perhaps that kind of topic was not so embarrassing to people in Steven’s walk of life. I tried to pretend like I was fine with his question. I smiled and said, “Yes, I breastfed both of my daughters.”

Oh my god, I had said breastfed instead of a nurse. That made me think about having my titties sucked. I looked down nervously and saw both of my nipples were protruding at least an inch or more.

“That’s amazing,” he continued, “I would have thought your breasts would sag much more, but they seem very firm and barely seem to have dropped much. I don’t mean to presume, but it would appear you are not wearing a bra tonight.”

I was feeling hot and incredibly uncomfortable discussing my breasts like this with him. Again, I decided to play it cool, like it was a regular topic of conversation. To be honest, I was increasingly growing stimulated by his attention, his looks, and his interest. He was a powerful, rich, handsome man with a commanding personality. I felt myself wanting to be attractive to him. “Thank you. I was afraid you might not like them.”

Oh shit! I can’t believe I said that. He must think I am crazy.

“On the contrary,” Steven countered, as he pressed the call button for the elevator. “I find them to be exceptional. I would love to see them uncovered.”

I felt very flush. My face was hot. I didn’t know what to say, so I just remained silent. I felt a sense of pride that Steven wanted to see my breasts, yet I also felt ashamed that I wanted to show him. The doors opened, and we stepped inside. We were alone in the elevator. Steven inserted his room key and pressed the button for the twenty-third floor. The doors closed and I could see us reflected in the polished steel. We looked good next to each other. Steven was standing very close to me, his hand still resting at the top of my hip.

I saw him leaning closer in the reflection. I felt his breath on my neck as his lips brushed my ear. “Your nipples are screaming to be touched,” he whispered. “Did Dave tell you to go without a bra to impress me with how delicious your breasts are?”

I found it hard to breathe. I was so turned on by this man. It was dangerous. Everything about him struck a nerve with me: his looks, his demeanor, his power, his sexiness, and his confidence. Suddenly, his question made its way through my mental fog.

Come to think of it, Dave had told me to lose the bra, but only after I was complaining about how I looked. I thought about it, trying to remember. I realized that I had just commented on the way my panties looked. It was Dave’s idea to take off the bra. I don’t think he did it on purpose, though. He certainly had not done it to impress Steven, or had he?

“I-I,” I hesitated to answer, “I don’t think that’s why he suggested it.”

“But, he did suggest it?” Steven asked, his voice soft in my ear.

‘Yes, but,” I started to answer and hesitated. I honestly didn’t know why Dave had suggested I lose the bra.

“And of course, he saw how well you looked without it?” Steven said as his he placed his hands on my upper arms, level with my breasts as he moved behind me.

“Yes,” I whispered, “He had to have seen them.”

“And he sent you to me,” he stated confidently.

Oh my God, Steven was right. Dave did send me to him, knowing I was on full display.

“Yes, Steven,” I answered, nodding slowly, my face rubbing against his.

A bell rang and the elevator doors opened in front of us to reveal a short hallway. There were only a few rooms on this floor. Steven held his hand across the doorway to prevent it from closing.

“After you,” he said, as his other hand slide down my arm to hold my hand. I found it rather pleasant, so I didn’t pull it away. I let him guide me out of the elevator, and then we walked side-by-side down the hall, my hand in his.

We stopped at the end of the hall in from a pair of wooden doors. He slid the card key into a slot and opened the door for me. I stepped in, and Steven entered behind me, turning on the soft interior lighting and closing the door. He pulled me by my hand into a large, living room area. This room was not just a hotel suite. It was a complete luxury apartment.

“Do you live here?” I asked, somewhat surprised by the apparent opulence.

“I do,” Steven answered. “When I am in town. The second interview begins now, Julie. Are you ready for it?”

I looked around the apartment. It was well decorated, but nothing work related stood out. I was unsure what he was expecting from me. “I am,” I answered as confidently as I could in spite of my uncertainty.

“Wonderful,” he removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie and sat down on a luxurious, modern styled black leather sofa as he pointed to a nearby cabinet. “That opens into a fully stocked bar. Show me that you can make us both a perfect Manhattan.”

I smiled. Of all the drinks he could have suggested, he happened to pick my husband’s recent favorite. I’d learned the proper technique to make them and had practiced doing so until I had perfected the art. Dave told me my Manhattans were the best he’d ever had.

I walked over to the sleek, wooden cabinet and pulled on the front panels. They rotated outward and revealed a complete bar. I raised the top of the bar, which had a mirrored interior, that leaned against the wall once opened. I found what looked to be a crystal vase, but I recognized it as a pitcher. I looked inside the mini-fridge and found an ice tray, carefully filling the pitcher with the large cubes of ice.

I then retrieved two martini glasses and placed them on the counter before me. From a bowl, I selected an orange and removed two large sections of the peel. I squeezed the peel a bit inside each glass and rubbed the oil along the rim, then dropped one bit of skin, twisted into each glass.

I found a jar of Luxardo cherries and skewered them onto two plastic garnish stick, three cherries on each stick, then lay the rod across the top of the martini glasses, directly in the center.

I noticed that Steven was watching me intently from his chair. His top button was now undone. I smiled as I retrieved a bottle of Dolin Rouge sweet vermouth. I then examined his collection of whiskeys. I saw several scotches, a Yamazaki 18, a few very expensive bourbons. Then I saw it. I picked up the bottle and studied it, Whistle Pig 12-year Bespoke Cask strength Rye.

Without needing to use a jigger, I was about to pour out the ratio of Rye to Sweet Vermouth when I heard Steven’s voice in my mind. He had asked for a perfect Manhattan. I nodded, reached back into the cabinet and retrieved a bottle of dry vermouth. I then measured out 4 ounces of the Rye, one ounce of each the sweet and dry vermouths. I then added two dashes of

Angostura bitters. Once everything was in the pitcher, I raised the cocktail spoon and interlocked it in my fingers in just the right way. There’s art to making cocktails, and I was proud to do them right. I stirred the mixture, causing the ice to spin round and round. After the appropriate number of revolutions, just under 30-seconds, I removed the spoon and placed the strainer on top of the pitcher. I poured the beverage directly over the maraschino cherries so that their syrup with lightly infuse the cocktail as the liquid ran over them.

I set the pitcher down and retrieved two perfectly poured Perfect Manhattans. I carried them over to Steven and handed him one, beaming proudly. I waited as he took the glass, admired it, then raised it to his lips and sipped.

“Delicious,” he said as he savored the taste, “you certainly passed that test with flying colors. I see that Dave has trained you well. But, where did you get the part about lining the glass with the oil of the orange peel and straining it over the cherries?”

I was confused by his remark. Dave had not trained me to make the cocktail. I mean, he had taken a sudden interest in them a few months back, and he had made a game out of me learning to make them correctly. I found myself lost in thought and realized I was not answering his question.

“I did a lot of research into the best ways to make the Manhattan. I found a video on YouTube from one of New York’s top mixologists who suggested doing it. He also had a variation in which he torched the orange peel, but I find that works better for an Old Fashioned.”

“Excellent,” Steven said taking another sip, “you took the initiative. I’m impressed. It certainly improves the flavor without altering the character of the drink.” He pointed to my glass and winked. “Drink up, before it gets warm.”

He gestured for me to sit across from him in a matching leather and chrome chair. I immediately became self-conscious. This was the one thing I had been dreading all night. My dress was far too short, and I had not worn panties. If I sat there, directly across from him, it was very likely that I would flash him.