This story follows on from "Falling Water." You can read it as a stand-alone, but you'll get a little more background if you read that story first.

Jordan came out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips. Rachel could see that he had dried his torso, but his hair was still wet. She had wrapped herself in a terrycloth robe while he finished in the bathroom, and suddenly felt like a bad hostess for not giving it to him. He smiled at her, and she found her own face breaking out in a broad smile of her own.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I should have saved the robe for you, since I have dry clothes and you don't. In fact..." she added, and dropped the robe from her shoulders. Jordan's eyes went wide briefly as her body came into view, then he laughed as she draped the robe over him. She kissed him impulsively as she slipped past him, heading for her bedroom, and he turned to watch her cheeks twinkling above her legs as she darted through the door.

He stood slightly stunned for a moment, replaying that image in his mind. At least, he thought it was only a moment, but he was still in the same place when she came back out of her bedroom in sweats. She smiled at him again and said, "Look, let me get your clothes dried off. Have some more coffee." She scooped up his clothes except for the ruined dress jacket, and disappeared down the hall to a room across from the bathroom. He heard clunking noises as he made two cups of coffee, then the whir of a clothes dryer. He was glad he hadn't worn the wool pants that day, or they'd have had to wait for the fabric to air dry. Actually, he reflected, an excuse to stay in her apartment longer wouldn't be that bad a thing. He decided he would indeed ask her to dinner.

Rachel came back out and saw him sitting there with two cups of coffee. "A gentleman," she thought, picking up the second cup. "Thanks," she said, looking over the top of the cup at him. He inclined his head in response, and sipped his own coffee. There was a brief awkward moment before she turned and led him to the couch. She curled up on one end of it, and Jordan dropped onto the other. Another silence followed and, for a brief moment, Rachel's mind leapt back to the shower. She shook herself mentally and thought "time to review that memory later." She opened her mouth, not sure what kind of small talk was going to come out of it, and was saved by Jordan blurting out, "Can I take you to dinner?"

"Someone should take someone to dinner," she replied with a laugh, "or something. But yes, let's have dinner, by all means." She wasn't sure if this was going to go anywhere, but he was civilized, polite, clean (she chuckled internally), respectful, and not unattractive. "And a pretty good lay, too," she added to herself in a moment of blunt honesty. She'd kick herself if she didn't at least give this a chance to go somewhere.

"Great," he said. "Where's good around here? I work near here, but I live a forty-minute ride away, so I don't know the area." He named a neighborhood that she knew. It seemed suited to him, or he to it; moderately affluent, but not pretentious. "Yeah," she said, "that's a bit of a hike. I'm not thrilled about living in the city, but this place is reasonable and I can walk to work."

"Where do you work?" he asked.

"The Stowell Tower," she said, "about three blocks that way," and waved vaguely behind her.

"Really?" he said in surprise. "Me too!"

"You're joking," said Rachel, suddenly wary. This seemed awfully convenient; had he set this whole thing up? No, impossible. And yet...

"No, I'm serious," said Jordan. He reached into his soggy, ruined jacket and pulled out a corporate ID. "Jordan Grey, Team Lead, Corporate Communications, at your service," he said, holding it out with a smile.

Rachel sat back in her chair. She looked at him oddly for a moment, then stood up and wordlessly walked into her bedroom. Jordan sat still, suddenly unsure of what was going on. He put the ID back in his jacket, and wondered if he had managed to offend her somehow.

Rachel returned, and held out a card in her hand. Jordan looked down as she held it out to him and saw "Rachel Jordan, Associate Director of Strategic Planning." His eye fell on the company logo. "AntroCo? Seriously?" he said.

"AntroCo. Seriously," she replied. They looked at each other for a moment, stunned at the level of coincidence that they should work for the same company. Admittedly, it was a large company, with over 1,200 people in the Stowell Tower alone, but even so...

"Clearly, the fates have been working overtime," said Rachel.

"Yeahhh..." said Jordan, speculatively.

"What does this change?" said Rachel.

"Good question. I don't know. I guess part of it depends on where we're going from here. If I recall correctly, your team reports up under Dennis Praed, and we're under Helen Scholl, so it's not like there's any kind of improper influence possible. Whether this is a one-off or if we see each other again, I think we're good."

He looked at her. "Are we going to see one another again?" he asked, cautiously.

"Well," Rachel smiled, "we were going to have dinner."

"True," said Jordan, returning her smile with, she thought warmly, a hint of relief.

"Your clothes should be dry shortly," she responded. "What kind of food are you in the mood for?"

"What'ch'a got?"

"Well, there's Thai Me Up, over on Aiden, or Giulio's on 19th, for a start."

"Giulio's? Italian?"

"Yup. They really pride themselves on their authentic Italian food. Their puttanesca sauce is to die for; conversely, they will literally charge $150 if you order spaghetti and meatballs."

Jordan laughed. "Thai Me Up is clever, but let's do Giulio's. Once my clothes are dry, that is."

"Yeah, lemme check on them," said Rachel. "I have the Drier Of The Gods, so they're probably good."

Jordan laughed at the capitals he could hear in her voice, then sat back in the robe and watched her hips sway as she walked down the hallway. He wondered if she was emphasizing her hip movements on purpose, or if that was just her natural walk.

"Not too much sway, there, missy," Rachel admonished herself. "Don't overdo it." It was hard, though; she liked him, and there was a reflex temptation to ratchet up her sensuality. She thought he liked her too; he had been a considerate lover in the shower, and his demeanor was that of a man comfortable in his own skin without pretension. This had some promise.

Rachel returned to the living room with Jordan's clothes over her arm. He stood and took them from her, then looked around, reflexively.

"You can change here," said Rachel with a grin. "It's not like there's anything I haven't seen," she added. Jordan chuckled, and put down the clothes on the couch, sorting for underwear. As he did, Rachel walked back toward her bedroom. "Give me a minute to put on something a bit less disreputable than these sweats, and I'll join you," she said over her shoulder.

It was closer to ten minutes before they were both ready to go out. Jordan was in his work clothes, minus the catastrophized jacket. He had rolled up his sleeves so the corresponding destruction of his shirt sleeve was not so obvious. He took his wallet out of the jacket and put it in his front pocket, then distributed his other accoutrements among his other pockets. His shirt was not the crisply ironed article he had put on that morning, but it was clean and relatively wrinkle-free. Rachel wore a dark blue skirt that fell to slightly above her knees; it had a pattern worked into the weave in the same color, giving the impression of swirling with the slightest movement. Above that she had put on a pale blue blouse, small gold earrings, and a hint of makeup. Her shoes were black with just a little heel, and Jordan noticed her legs were encased in hose. He wondered what her preference was in hosiery, but decided not to ask. After all, he might get to find out if things went well...

"After you," she said, taking a light jacket from a hook by the door. She scooped up her keys and followed him out the door. They walked to the elevator in companionable silence, and rode down also without talking. They stood closer to one another than one would with a stranger or even most friends, and the silence was comfortable rather than awkward.

The rain had stopped some time ago, but the wet pavement still shone in the streetlights. As they walked to the restaurant, neither of them was sure who had reached for the other's hand, but the gesture seemed natural, almost reflexive, as if they had done this many times before. They chatted quietly as they walked, talking of work and colleagues. They were both still a bit bemused that they should find they worked for the same company, but anecdotes and corporate gossip segued into personal histories. Jordan had worked in radio, which had led to an Associate's degree in Communications Studies, which had led to some PR work, and thence to corporate communications. His lack of a bachelor's degree had not seemed to interfere with his progress after being hired by AntroCo, either; his work had been reliable and of good quality, and his managers had always supported his career, if for no other reason than that he made them look good.

Rachel, on the other hand, had a bachelor's in business and was working on a combined master's in business administration and strategic planning. She had always liked the idea of being part of guiding a large corporation into the future; anticipating pitfalls and seeing profitable trends. She had experienced resistance and roadblocks because of her gender, and had at times had to be more ruthless than she might have liked in order to clear away obstacles, but she had never broken a law or her personal code of ethics.

At the restaurant, Jordan was amused to find that the bottom of the menu did, indeed, say "Spaghetti and Meatballs ... $150." He wondered if they would follow through if he actually ordered it, but chose instead to follow her recommendation and have rigatoni with the puttanesca. Rachel ordered chicken francese, and through the meal they enjoyed sharing tastes from one another's plates. By the time they came to the end of the main dish, they were each outside of more than one glass of wine, and were feeling relaxed and comfortable in one another's company. When Jordan went to the men's room, he came back to find that Rachel had moved from the seat across from his to the one next to him. They leaned their heads together and talked more softly than they could do across the table, discussing families and ambitions, tastes in food and film; all the things people discuss as they get to know one another.

"The cannolis here are really second-rate, and don't even bother with the tiramisu," whispered Rachel, seeing the server approach, "but they get their gelato from a local place that makes small batches. It is the most unbelievable dessert I've ever had."

"I will be guided by you in this," said Jordan, mock-pompously. Rachel ordered for them both, and as the server cleared away their plates Jordan was startled -- pleasantly, delightfully, but startled nevertheless -- to feel Rachel's hand on his upper thigh. She said nothing untoward, made no other movement, nothing that might be noticed by onlookers, but her fingertips lightly stroked the inside of his thigh. Jordan suddenly had to shift to relieve an unexpected pressure, and as he moved his legs to rearrange himself she clamped down on his thigh briefly before resuming her gentle touching. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he really didn't care; this was going somewhere and he liked what the road ahead looked like.

Rachel leaned over and whispered in his ear, "I should have chosen a slightly more upscale place. One with a tablecloth, so I could drop my napkin and go looking for it. Ever been blown in a restaurant?"

Jordan's vision literally glazed briefly. The romantically-dim restaurant became almost dark for a second as his brain overloaded with the mental image of this lovely woman sucking him under the table while patrons and servers went about their business, all unawares. He came back to himself in time to say, "No, I really haven't. You do have an interesting way of derailing a man's thought processes, though, Ms. Jordan."

Rachel laughed, perhaps a little more loudly than if she had not had wine with dinner, and leaned in again. She moved to whisper in his ear, but when Jordan inclined his head closer in anticipation of whatever she had to say next, she licked the upper arch of his ear and gave the lobe a quick nip. He was not a fan of pain as pleasure, but there was something about the way she was so blatantly trying to arouse him in the restaurant that made him wish she would do it again.

Feeling emboldened by her, he rested his hand on her thigh, a little lower down that hers had landed on his; sitting just at the hem of her skirt. She leaned over and whispered, "Took you long enough," with a grin. Before he could respond, her hand grasped his wrist firmly and pulled it up under her skirt, sliding to the top of her thigh. He felt her stocking tops end and smooth bare flesh above, and then his hand could rise no more; the side of it was pressed firmly against her vulva. He felt the heat of her, and moisture against his finger. He turned to look at her, and she was staring at him boldly. Her eyes tracked down for a moment, in the direction of his hand, then rose to look at him, her expression a mixture of humor and ferocity. She shifted her hips, pushing herself against him, and suddenly he saw how this evening would proceed, as though there was a script in front of him. He pushed his hand against her, and rocked his wrist, parting her lips slightly.

Rachel felt the side of his finger slide between her lips, and smiled that he had followed her lead. She hadn't been sure if he would; some men were suddenly stuffy at the oddest moments, but she was delighted to feel him start to rub her under the table. His little finger was resting fully between her labia now, and he was starting to slide it up and down gently.

Jordan saw the server approaching with their gelato before Rachel did. He turned his hand quickly and slipped his index finger into her wetness, then pulled away. Rachel looked at him in surprise, wondering if he had changed his mind, then saw the server approaching. She had been coming to this restaurant for years, and was glad Jordan had the discretion to ensure she would not get thrown out. As the server set down their plates, he put his finger into his gelato and sucked it clean. He looked up at the server and said, "Old family tradition. The first bite of gelato is taken with the finger. I don't know why, but I'd hate to disappoint my ancestors."

The server said, "Of course not, sir," politely, while doubtless wondering what kind of ridiculous family this guy came from, and turned away. As he did, Rachel's hand rose from where she had slipped it under the table. One finger glistened as she dipped it into her gelato, then held the confection out to Jordan. He took her wrist, holding it perhaps a little more firmly than necessary, and guided it to his mouth. Their eyes locked as he took the finger into his mouth and carefully, slowly, sensuously sucked off every taste he could. To an observer, it would appear just another couple playing teasing erotic games with one another; no one else could know the tangy undertone that teased Jordan's taste buds.

Jordan let Rachel's hand go and picked up his spoon, but his other hand disappeared under the table again. Rachel felt his palm land on her knee, then start to move steadily up her thigh until it was firmly set where it had been before. Again, his finger dipped between her labia. Made slick with her juices in seconds, it rode up against her clit, rubbing slowly and steadily. Their eyes did not meet as they savored their gelato, but they were both intensely aware of what was happening beneath the table. Rachel tried not to be distracted by the pressure of his finger against her clit, not wanting to miss the exquisite smoothness and cold sweetness of the gelato, but as the steady friction of his moving fingers continued she found herself less and less able to concentrate on the sensation in her mouth. Instead, she had to concentrate on sitting still and not betraying the sensations coiling up from between her legs. She wanted to squirm, to grab his wrist and pull his hand against her, to fuck his hand, to gasp and scream, but instead she had to sit still and regulate her breathing. She knew she could stop him any time she wanted, but she didn't want.

Pressure built inside her; pulsing like distant fireworks coming closer, and she felt her orgasm start to overwhelm her. Her almost-closed eyes widened, and she was glad there were no other servers or patrons nearby, because her whisper of "oh, fuck, I'm coming" was more "stage" and less "whisper." The storm of sensation filled her, washing outward to her fingers and toes, and she snapped her thighs together to hold Jordan's hand in place. Even held tightly, he was able to tease her and elicit one or two more shocks from her clit before he relented. As she took a deep breath, Jordan's spoon arrived at her mouth with a wash of deliciously creamy coldness. She settled back in her chair and shivered slightly, looking down at her own bowl, which held far more gelato than she expected. Apparently, getting stroked off in a restaurant warped her sense of time...

Savoring another bite of her gelato, Rachel heard Jordan say, "Excuse me; can we get the check, please?"