The Chosen

She let herself feel the fantasy. The hands opened around her ankles, then began to slide up her legs in excruciating slowness. They felt soft, intent, firmly clasped. Vera’s feet flexed, her body went rigid. The hands proceeded in their slow journey up the smooth terrain of her legs, over the tightened calves, the insides of her knees, then widened, still slowly rising…

Vera was biting into her pillow. Her nipples hardened to pebbles against the mattress, and her moisture welled. The next impulse could not be resisted. Her own hand squeezed between her belly and the sheets, working its way down. She gently stroked the apex of her sex as the hands of the fantasy rose ever steadily, tenderly squeezing her thighs, then rising still to caress the tensed orbs of her buttocks.

Soon she was gushing. The rapt ministration of her finger, along with the fantasy’s sensation, had her panting on the verge of climax in minutes. But she didn’t want to come that way—the fantasy must be more complete, more sustaining.

And as if on the command of her desire, the hands, now slick with her sweat, slid down her hips, joined at her prickling sex, and then lifted her buttocks up until she was on her knees.

— | — | —

GRAND OPENING

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER THIRTEEN}

“Jesus,” Vera muttered under her breath. She stood in wait at the hostess station, but there seemed little to wait for. Opening night was halfway over, and they’d served a grand total of nine dinners.

The Carriage House glimmered in candlelight. Beyond the east wing’s opulent bay windows, the winter sky winked with stars and a high, bright moon. From hidden speakers, Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 15 threatened to put her to sleep in its lilting, quiet strains.

Damn good thing Feldspar turned down my request for a waitress, she thought, looking around. Packing them in like this, Donna waited all the stations, ran the service bar, and still had time to stand around. Vera’d nearly thrown a fit when Feldspar had buried her suggestion of running an advertisement in the local newspaper, The Waynesville Sentinel. “Oh, I don’t see any necessity in that,” he’d told her. “We’re booked solid.” No, The Inn’s booked solid, she’d wanted to counter. But my goddamn restaurant’s only got two reservations for the first weekend!

The previous weeks had been hard and fast. Setting up deals with decent suppliers had been like pulling teeth, but eventually Vera had managed to stock a quality inventory. The liquor order had come in yesterday, and half of their posted wine list remained to be seen. You don’t post Kruge, Perrier-Jouet, Dom Perignon and then reveal to customers on opening night “I’m sorry, sir, our champagne shipment didn’t come in, but we have a delightful, zesty little local wine called Squashed Grapes Red, and it’s only $5.95 per bottle.” No, seekers of fine dining did not want to hear that. Vera had had no choice but to pull all the wine lists.

The sleek, leather-bound menus looked good. She’d copied the biggest draws from The Emerald Room and used some of Dan B.’s own culinary inventions such as Crown Roast of Pork with Cajun Mustard and Sweet Potato Puree, Spiced Crepes Julienne, and Angel Hair Pasta Lobster Cakes in Lemon Butter. He was back there right now, probably leaning against a Cress-Cor prep rack, trading cuts with Lee and wondering when his next order was coming in.

“Don’t look so discouraged,” Donna prompted, stopping on her way to the only four-top they’d filled tonight. She was carrying smoked scallop salads and more drinks. “It’s opening night. Nobody knows about us yet.”

“I know,” Vera replied. “I just hoped the turnout’d be a little better than this.”

“Once word gets around, you’ll see. And who knows, maybe we’ll get a bunch of late diners from the room reservations. Mr. Feldspar told me all the rooms