A Night in a Year: 18. Grasping

She leaves the bathroom, and the man with the shaggy hair is standing inches from her, eyes still bright, his mouth now parted, determined, and fixed on her. Possibilities widen under his thick curly hair.

“Can I help you?” She lets the words roll out, beckoning for a reaction.

He steps forward, eyes unchanging and she backs up, urges herself away from the Ladies door and into a corner. She’s not afraid, but compelled, intrigued by what he’s doing.

He leans against the wall, hand next to but still some distance from the side of her head. “Think you can give me an eye like that and expect to walk away?”

She gives him a sideways look. “Careful. Next you’ll be telling the cops ‘she had it coming.’ ”

He shakes his head. “It isn’t much fun if they’re not keen.” He serious about that too.

That relaxes her, enough to not be thinking about just how sharp her heels are.

“And you think I’m keen?”

“I think you’re up for just about” – and with his free hand, and takes hold one of her breasts – “anything…”

As he cups it, not squeezing, she is made aware of how her nipples are straining, that they are hard, and would show through her dress if the material were thinner. How long have they been pointed, ready, wanting? That thought doesn’t matter as his fingers fall onto the skin of her cleavage. He marks the shape of her, the roundness, still not gripping her, now just teasing with the promise of pressure. He isn’t so good at hiding his response; she can hear his breathing, practically see the slow releases of air from his lips, but it makes it that much hotter when he presses himself to her, knee between hers, and at last, grasps her whole tit in his hand.

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Next: 19. Desertion

Image found on flickr, by Marlon Hammes, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.