He noticed her as soon as she entered the small bookshop. In truth, she was hard to miss. Blonde. A trim business suit that showed her curves to perfection. Shapely calves perched on low heels.
She crossed the store to shelves near where he was standing and stood with her back to him as she studied a section of literature. He casually moved closer for a better view. Her suit was expensive looking silk. Her hair, cut above her shoulders, shimmered even under the store's fluorescent light. Instinctively, he looked at her left hand. No ring.
He once had been accused of savoring the sight of a pretty woman as a wine connoisseur appreciated wine. It wasn't true. He was indifferent to women whom most men found attractive: The ones with big tits, empty heads and revealing clothes. Especially empty heads.
It mattered to him that she was in a bookstore, appearing to browse Charlotte Bronte titles. This woman looked intelligent and confident. She also had a magnificent backside, swathed in a skirt that was bit too tight for business.
As she moved from section to section in the store, he discretely followed her, keeping a comfortable distance, sometimes pretending to read, masking his glances over the top of the page. She seemed not to notice.
After a few minutes, she glided to the self-help section of the stacks. He could not see which titles she was browsing. Either that or he was so startled when she crouched to reach a lower shelf that he failed to notice. As she settled on her haunches, the hem line of her skirt rode up her thigh, unmistakably revealing a flash of porcelain skin over a brown stocking top. His stomach churned and he felt the stirrings of an erection.
She stood in a minute and smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt. Casually, she swept one hand over the back of her thigh. As she flattened the fabric of her skirt, he saw the trace of a garter strap and suspender bump.
Apparently finding the title she wanted, the woman went to the checkout. Her purchase completed, she stepped out onto a downtown sidewalk bustling with people leaving work for the day. The crush of people made it easier for him to follow the woman at a discrete distance.
Her hips swayed in a natural unpracticed way, and she seemed to be in no particular hurry. After a block and a half, she ducked into a tiny gift store. The shop was so small and his presence in it would have been so incongruous that he dared not follow her.
When she lingered in the shop, he decided that the pursuit was over. Sighing wistfully, he moved on to his own errands, which included a stop in a cigar shop near his hotel. He was stuck in town overnight and intended to enjoy a pricey stick and a glass of brandy in the hotel's cigar bar before dinner.
In the store's walk in humidor, open cedar boxes displayed a small brown army of cigars in all shapes and shades. The room was pleasantly warm and aromatic, a sensual pleasure that he had long ago learned to savor. As he scanned the seemingly endless rows of cigars, his thoughts drifted back to the woman. It was an entirely pleasant mixture of sensations.
Before he had settled on a selection, he was startled to see the woman enter the shop and ask for assistance. In a moment she and a clerk were standing within feet of him.
"What exactly do you have in mind?" the clerk asked her.
"I am not sure," she said. "It's for a special occasion."
His heart sank a bit. She was obviously attached in some way, buying a cigar for a man planning on celebrating something. With her. Suddenly he felt silly, jealous over a woman he didn't know. He moved to a corner of the humidor, forcing himself to concentrate on expensive Dominicans.
"Let's start with the strength. Mild, medium, bold? Next would be the shape and ring gauge," the clerk said helpfully.
"Bold, I think. And something that lasts for a long time. What do you mean by ring gauge?"
"The thickness of the cigar. Its number is expressed in 64ths of an inch. A cigar with a 48 ring gauge is three quarters of an inch thick."
She smiled slyly. "So, show me some the 64 gauge bold cigars."
The clerk was silent for a moment, considering the problem. "That's a very large cigar." The woman continued to smile.
"Probably a Gordo," the clerk continued. "Here is a very nice 60 gauge Perdomo. It's Nicaraguan, which can be an acquired taste, but it's a fine cigar, a 92 in last year's rating. I am afraid that is the largest we carry."
The clerk continued, "It's a long cigar—almost seven inches—so it should last well over an hour."
Turning away from the clerk, she regarded the man directly for the first time. Staring into his eyes, she cooed, "Size does matter, I suppose."
With that, she pivoted on a heel and left the walk-in, leaving him breathless. Perdomo in hand, she swiveled to the checkout counter, giving her ass an extra twitch.
He was stunned, still collecting himself when she left the store. As he was paying for his own cigar, the clerk smiled conspiratorially, and said, "Quite a woman. She said you have been staring at her for an hour."
He could only shake his head. In any event, there was no point denying the truth.
When he exited the store, she was nowhere to be seen.
With another wistful sigh, he headed back to his hotel. The place was a downtown fixture. Old and elegant, the hotel prided itself on pampering guests. Recently, it had devoted a section of its lobby bar to cigar smoking.
It was separate from the rest of the bar, with a ventilation system that kept things pleasant for everyone. Dark paneling and leather furniture completed the effect. The place might have been lifted straight from London's West End. Even the bar's name was a nod to those male club preserves: "The New Saville."
Attentive and well turned out waiters kept the drinks flowing to patrons ensconced in leather club chairs. A visit there was always the highlight of his trip and tonight he welcomed the bar's quiet solitude.
Brandy in hand, he went through the ritual of trimming the end of his cigar, piercing it for the right draw and toasting the end before drawing the first satisfying puffs. He loved the ritual almost as much the cigar itself. It was a contemplative exercise that helped him think. And tonight, all he could think of was the trim blonde and her tight ass swathed in garters and stockings.
And, of course, there was the question of whether the garter flash had been intentional. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps she might even had been following him.
For the thousandth time his cursed his reticence with woman whom he did not know. Pickups were just not in his nature. This woman though seemed to have substance and complexity, exactly the things that he found attractive.
Not to mention her stunning looks.
He told himself that he had missed his chance in the humidor. He was so surprised, however, that he hadn't had an opportunity to speak to her, even if he could have managed some lame line or two.
Lighting his cigar, he concluded that she simply had been putting him in his place for leering at her. He didn't regret staring though. Interesting and beautiful women were too rare not to notice. His mistake had been letting his stares linger so long that she obviously had felt them.
