If You Don't Know Me by Mary B. Morrison

before he’d touched me. Impromptu foreplay was not what I’d planned but it felt so good.
    I squeezed my thighs together. “Ah, yes, babe.”
    Gripping his wrist, I moved his hand. He dipped his finger again, resumed playing with me. This time I curled my hips into his rotation, then closed my eyes. Roosevelt positioned himself under the tablecloth. The white cotton draped his head.
    Opening my eyes, ours met. When his tongue brushed against my clit, slowly my eyelids covered my pupils. I scooted my chair backward. He pulled my hips to the edge of the seat. I had a stellar reputation, not the kind that would make my colleagues snicker behind my back or mumble under their breath at the annual bar conference, “Did you hear Sindy Singleton was caught having sex in public? If she’s giving it up for a bottle of bubbly, she’s so hot I’ll buy her a vineyard.”
    Irrespective of how successful women were, men viewed us as objects. I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to remain a virgin but tonight wasn’t the appropriate time for us to consummate our relationship.
    The more I struggled to resist, the better his mouth felt. I conceded, grabbed the back of his head, and drew him into my juiciness. Roosevelt fluttered his tongue on my clit. My body tensed. I was glad I’d removed my panties earlier and put them in my purse. Teasing him wasn’t supposed to go beyond fondling.
    Waves of orgasmic spasms made me slide off the seat and under the table. Suddenly my back was flat and my knees were bent. I felt like a freak and a sexually deprived woman at the same time.
    Roosevelt bit my nipple through my dress. He slid my strap off my shoulder and suctioned my areola into his mouth.
    I bit my upper lip to keep from cumming. I exhaled, “Ah, damn.” His lips trailed down my stomach, belly button, and back to my clit. He suctioned me in.
    I started screaming, “Babe! I’m creaming!”
    Silencing my climax, I’d forgotten where we were. I prayed no one came in while I was still cumming. The tail end of my orgasms turned into laughter.
    â€œYou are so crazy,” I told him. “I can’t believe we’re under a tablecloth doing this.”
    â€œDoing what?” he asked gazing into my eyes. “Say it.”
    I was not going to tell Roosevelt “making love” or “I love you.”
    Peeping out, I crawled from under the table, stood, and straightened my dress and hair. “Let’s get out of here.” At least I didn’t have to worry about being videotaped like Madison.
    The valet retrieved our cars. After that amazing climax, I had to lay my head on Roosevelt’s chest and shoulder tonight. I followed him to his place.
    Being a virgin didn’t mean I’d never experienced an orgasm but this one was head to toe. There were more alternatives to intercourse that would take the edge off for both of us. I was confident I could please Roosevelt sexually but I wanted to be reassured he was the one. I’d hate to have waited until I was thirty to let a man cross my hymen threshold then have regrets.
    Roosevelt pressed his brother’s buzzer. Shortly afterward, Chaz opened the door.
    â€œGood to see two beautiful people together. Numbiya is here. Come in.”
    â€œI just wanted to say thanks and you were right.” Roosevelt nodded, then added, “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.” He interlocked his fingers with mine, then kissed the back of my hand.
    Raising my brows, I smiled. “Hi, Chaz. Bye, Chaz.” Based on his actions, I was certain Roosevelt’s statement was in my favor.
    Although I lived in a River Oaks mansion designed by John F. Staub in the 1930s, I was tired of living in ten thousand square feet of space alone. A real man didn’t ask a woman’s ring size to get her a token of his appreciation.
    I saw myself moving in with Roosevelt after he’d proposed. From