"It's too short," You say, pulling at the hem of a little black skirt. It clings to your hips, so I, and seemingly the entire world, can see the shape of you, the perfect curve at the small of your back, as its downward approach reaches your ass and circumnavigates it like a ship lost at sea, slipping over the horizon less than an inch from your pussy.
It's my favorite and you're wearing it for me. No bra. No panties. I don't know what miraculous material it's made out of, but even in the low light of the bar, the shape of your nipples reveal themselves under your top when I pull you close and smell the perfume behind your ear. Mimosa, jasmine, Turkish rose, white musk. More favorites.
Out of sight, the bartender, John, a tall, British guy I've come to know well from my frequent visits to the bar evenings with colleagues and friends, gestures with an empty cocktail glass. He points to it, as if to say, "Another?" I lift a finger as if to say, "One more" and then, the gesture for the check.
My hand runs over your bare pussy under the table. "Stop," you say, not at all meaning it.
As you slump in the booth, your hair falls in front of your face. Your legs are freely open now, you couldn't care less who sees you at this point and, in a certain way, you hope they do.
