The first food brought to our table was a seafood tower. It was four towers of white meat, almost four feet tall. Crystal clear ice chips with colossal shrimp, oysters, clams, crab legs, and lobster stacked its silver shelves. The minute it landed on our table, brought by two black-clad waiters, Brad rubbed his hands together in glee and pounced on it. The white china plates set in front of us were both filled by Brad, him plucking succulent items from each level and stacking both my plate and his full. I waved him off but he ignored me, piling my plate high. I stared, aghast, at my plate.

I did not eat seafood. Not that I didn't "eat" seafood, but I didn't really like seafood. I had a very limited palate. I grew up eating chicken, rice, and vegetables. The chicken was prepared in different manners, but the rice was always brown, and the vegetables always overcooked. The only seafood I had experienced was imitation crabmeat that smelled disgusting and often occupied a portion of our fridge. I have no idea what my mom did with the crab but think she ate it straight out of the package. Yuck. I had tried shrimp before, and didn't mind it - but it wasn't anything that rocked my world.

I stared at my heaped plate with a mixture of digest and dread. The waiter was busy affixing a white bib around Brad's neck, a second waiter headed towards me with the same intent. I held up a newly manicured (damn those looked good!) hand to ward him off. He halted with surprise.

"Ma'am - your dress." He held up the bib like it was a burnt offering. This exchange drew Brad's attention, and he stopped, mid-crack, his head coming up and peering at me over his bib causing a unladylike giggle to start to rise. I swallowed it down and looked at Brad.

"I, err… don't like seafood."

"Lobster?? King Crab?" His face twisted into an unbelieving scowl.

"Well, we didn't eat a lot of seafood growing up and..."

"Have you ever had it before? Lobsters, crab, oyster?" Cinderella was about to be exposed.

"Well, no. I've had crab before, and didn't like it." Imitation crab, but crab's crab.

He beamed and reached across, pushing my plate closer to me and waving the bib-carrying waiter forward. "I--err - no really..." I said feebly, as the waiter affixed the ridiculous bib around my neck.

Brad pushed a ceramic bowl with a candle that heated melted butter towards me. "Dunk the pieces into the butter, and then eat," he urged, his heads already covered with dripping butter. “You’ll love it.” I hesitantly pulled a piece of the soft meat out of the pre-cut lobster shells and dipped it in the butter. His eyes never leaving me, he followed the meat to my mouth to be sure that I ate it. I tentatively put the meat on my tongue and gently chewed. The feathery consistency didn't sit well with me, and all I tasted was butter and bland meat. I swallowed, the blob of buttery meat slipping down my throat with a thick glug. Ewww. I fought a grimace and smiled in my best ladylike manner. "Hmmmm…" I said.

"That's the best lobster in town," Brad beamed, beside himself with glee. "Go on! Try the crab!" His dug into his pile with reckless abandonment, and the waiter came and refilled our champagne glasses. I took a generous sip of champagne and faced the plate again. Looking past the ridiculous plate, I looked with despair at the tower - made for four and towering on the table in between Brad and I. I practically had to look around it to see him. The bottom rung of the silver tower was empty when they had delivered it, but was now being filled with the empty lobster and crab claw shells.

Light bulb.

Fifteen minutes later, Brad sat back with a satisfied groan. "I have been dreaming of those claws for weeks." He met my eyes with a Cheshire grin. "Well? Was I right or what?" I smiled at him over my champagne and empty plate.

"It was very good Brad. Thank you."

"I don't know how you look so put together. I always feel like I need a bath after eating this stuff." He wiped his face with his napkin and pulled at his bib, breaking the plastic tie. "Should we get another or do you want to go ahead and order dinner?"

"Dinner please," I said quickly. Brad's eyes looked at me for a moment, then he shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

The waiter appeared, and began pulling the silver trays off of the tower, starting with the top tray. Uh-oh. I had anticipated them taking the entire tower at one time, as they had brought it to us. My mind raced with something to distract Brad with. Shrimp platter gone.

"I was thinking Brad…"

Clams and oysters level gone.

"maybe tonight, after the show…"

Lobster level taken.

"we could, ahhh." Don't look down!!

The large silver platter that had housed the tangled pile of Snow and King Crab legs was lifted, exposing the plate of empty shells. Empty shells and expensive meat. The big hunks of crab and lobster meat I had carefully hidden, under the guise of placing my shells in the plate. The meat, which had been strategically hidden from the side view, was now in full exposed glory; crab and lobster stretched out like bathing beauties on South Beach. Brad completely ignored my sentence - not that it was going anywhere - and stared at the shell plate in bewilderment. The waiter leaned over and examined it, puzzled.

The light bulb clicked in both of their heads at the same time and they turned in unison to stare at me. Eyes wide, frozen in my seat, my hands twisted in my lap as I tried to think of something to say. Brad broke the silence before my head found a solution.

"You hid that?" he asked, his head tilted to the side, his eyes unreadable.

"I didn't really like it," I lamely responded. "You seemed so excited and my plate was so full…" I trailed off.

"Jesus woman!" he quietly and happily thundered. Happily? I was confused. He grabbed his bread plate and quietly scooped up the offensive pieces, plopping them onto his plate. He grabbed the still-lit butter stand and moved it back in front of him. A second waiter appeared with a replacement bib and Brad sat up so that he could tie it on. Once the trash plate had been rummaged through, by both Brad and the server, who shot me a look of sophisticated disdain, it was carried away and Brad and I were left alone. Just us, my leftover seafood, and the glow of drawn butter. Brad was beside himself with amusement.

"Why didn't you just say you didn't like it? I would have been more than happy to eat it all myself Julia."

"I did say I didn't like it. You were so pushy about me eating it, and so enthusiastic about it. I didn't want to disappoint you." I sounded like a freakin' child, but it had come out of my mouth, no point in trying to put it back in.

"I'm not your father, Julia." His grin faded slightly but he kept his tone light. "You don't have to do as I tell you."

I set my chin and stared at him. "I know Brad. I don't do everything you say." But I doubted my own words. I had let him talk me into a lot.

"Does our age difference bother you?" His face serious, I tried to keep the grin off my face but his intent face, peering at me over his plastic bib, with butter dripping off his fingers - my grin broke through.

"What?"

"Nothing. No, our age range doesn't bother me. It did, before I met you. I envisioned you old, wrinkly, with grey pubic hair…" I grinned wickedly at him.

"How do you know I don't have grey hair down there? I could have a whole forest."

I wrinkled my nose and tossed a piece of bread at him. "Gross! Besides, I sneaked a peek last night, while you were drooling in your sleep." He laughed and grabbed my hand, bringing it to his mouth for a quick kiss.

"I can't keep my mouth off of you," he murmured. A stream of deliciousness shot through my body. I took another sip of champagne and met his sexy eyes across the table. God, this man is tempting.

"Another bottle of Dom, Mr. De Luca?"

Another? What happened to the first? I looked at my now empty glass.

"Yes. Are you ready to order Julia?"

"You go ahead. I'll know in just a moment." I quickly scanned the menu. The prices made my eyes widen. The seafood tower Brad had just demolished was three hundred and fifty dollars! I tried to find something relatively inexpensive, but gave up on that mission. I finally settled on a filet, which was something I at least knew I liked. Most of the items on the menu I didn't even recognize. I heard Brad order a prime rib and about four side items, then the critical waiter's eyes were on me.

"Filet please, medium rare." I smiled sweetly and handed him my menu. He nodded primly and left. I leaned forward and whispered. "This place is ridiculously expensive! Do you know how much that lobster I was throwing away costs?" His eyebrows rose at my indignation and he smiled.

"Julia, it's all comped. All this," he gestured around, "is on the casino. Their focus is on gambling, and I pay them royally for it. This is your first time in Vegas, and I want you to have a good time." He smiled good-naturedly at me. "But I appreciate your concern about my wallet." He raised his glass for a toast. "To bigger and better, may you enjoy this weekend." I raised my glass and clinked it to him.

My eyes floated through the room. We were tucked in a beautiful little corner, and had a nice view of the other tables. My eyes froze on a couple by the window. "Brad - that's George Clooney!"

Brad glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. "You'll see a lot of celebrities this week. Vegas is their playground, especially the Bellagio." I saw George Clooney reach across the table and rub his date’s hand, a platinum blond with a blue dress. I tried not to bounce in my seat with excitement and forced my eyes away from the actor. Becca would never believe this. I wondered if I could sneak a photo with my iPhone, but dismissed the thought. Brad was watching me, a smirk on his handsome features.

Our food came, sizzling steaks on white china with melting butter on them. Brad had ordered creamed corn, mashed potatoes, and mushrooms, and a group of waiters brought out the plated dishes. Brad's eyes lit up and we both dug in. Other than occasional moans, there was silence for the next few minutes. I finally took a break, and sat back with my champagne. I blissfully closed my eyes and let the food settle a bit in my stomach.

"Enjoying yourself?"

I nodded without opening my eyes. "Immensely."

I felt his hand underneath the narrow table, caressing my knee. My eyes opened and I moved my knee out of his reach. His eyes turned playfully mournful.

"I haven't decided whether I'm going to let you have that. I'm trying to be a good girl."

"Good girl?" he swallowed a swig of champagne. "I haven't seen that side yet."

I harumped and leaned forward on my elbows, staring at him. "I'll have you know I am a VERY good girl, even if I have had weak resolve lately around you. I plan to go back to my prudish ways, starting tonight." Maybe.

He leaned back in his chair, his hand on his chin, rubbing appraisingly. "Is it for religious reasons, this attempt to abstain?"

I shrugged. "Not really. I have a healthy relationship with God, and I don't particularly think he cares if I choose to express my love in a sexual manner. But that's what I feel I am doing with sex, expressing my love. What you do is fuck. And I'm not used to that, or don't know if I feel okay about that - not for religious reasons, just for my own. I hear about women who feel used or guilty after sex, and I’ve never felt that, and don't want to start."

"I feel like most of the women who feel that way are ha**g s*x in order to accomplish something - win a man's affection, impress him, gain financial security…" he waved a hand generically. "The man they are sleeping with is "fucking" them for one reason - pleasure. Not because he loves them, or wants to love them, or wants to pay their light bill, but because he wants to get off, and they are conveniently around. After sex, his feelings haven't changed at all, and they all of a sudden have a boatload of expectations, and get their feelings hurt when nothing has changed. Women think sex is this magic act, when in fact it isn't. There are too many women ready to hand it over too easily."

I glared at him. "You make us out to be so… pathetic. Is that how you view women, as disposable receptacles to stick your dick into?"

He rubbed his head exasperatedly. "Julia, I am being honest about sex. Your college boys probably don't know enough about sex or how they are feeling yet. I am a mature man trying to explain to you how we, as men, work. It's a point of view that most women never know."

"So that is why you sleep with your clients? To get a sexual release? Don't you think that you risk too much for something you can get from all of the wanton women laying around waiting for you to f**k them!?" My voice had risen a little too high, and Brad glanced around before answering.

"Julia, the clients I do f**k are adult women, most of them mature, who realize what we are doing, and what our roles are in it."

"What are your roles?" I asked, my tone sharp.

"Julia, I don't need you to attack me just because you don't believe in my lifestyle choices. I have absolute confidence in my sexual relationships and don't need to explain them to anyone. I am choosing to explain them to you because I hope to f**k you in the future (he placed careful emphasis on the word "fuck") and I don't want to do it with any misplaced expectations on your part."

I ate a mushroom and chewed slowly, putting off a response. Damn man.

His voice, taking on a gentler tone, continued. "Our roles, when I am with a client, are pretty defined and simple. We don't screw at the office. I come to her house, she is never in mine. When I take my clients on business dinners it is for just that, business. If she is interested in sex, and I am sexual attracted to her, then we meet later, have sex, and I go home."