They retire to the penthouse suite after a few more drinks but don't go to bed. Not right away.
Instead she has him draw her a bath in the room's spacious jacuzzi while she undresses in the other room, out of his sight. She hadn't let on to him but the aviation conference job had required considerable legwork. And, well, she already spends her days trading favors for the powerful and privileged; she wouldn't trade her work for a window office and a 401k but it does feel so, so good to have someone do a favor for her, for a change.
She bathes, and lets the hot water work into her muscles. He sits beside the bath, still dressed except for his jacket and shoes, and waits for her requests - for a book, for a quick neck rub, for a top-up of her glass of champagne.
Oh yes, there's champagne. He didn't even call for it; the bottle was already chilled when they arrived. Either it came with the room or Harold took a little initiative on John's behalf.
He glances at her, every so often, but doesn't touch unless he's told to. He wants to - rather badly, it seems - when he massages her neck she leans into his hands and murmurs with pleasure, and she catches him swallowing hard. But he is patient. Obedient. He waits.
When the bath and the champagne have worked their magic she stands, and lets him dry her off. She catches his gaze, reminding him, and his hands never stray to her bare skin. His restraint - the absence of his touch - sets her prickling and hot. Just one more thing, she tells him, and then - good behavior deserves a reward.
She has him dress her - nothing underneath, just the shell of her dress, cold on her body, sending a little thrill up her back as he zips it shut. He lingers at the top of the zipper, lets his fingertips brush at the back of her neck for an instant as he fastens the hook at the top. But as soon as she turns her head to correct him there's nothing. Just the negative space of perfect, longing obedience.
After that she has him shed his own clothes, and be still for her to use, and she teases him till he whimpers with need. But it's not that that she thinks of, days or weeks later, when she passes him by on a side street at midnight with a conspiratorial smile.
Anybody can touch you. Someone who won't - not till you let him - that's a little bit rarer.