As far as crème brûlée goes, it was quite nice. A petite serving, it was probably intended for a single diner, but it was the ideal choice for sharing. The top was perfectly done, thin and wafery, sitting atop a thin custard that was smooth and delicious. Very smooth. Very delicious.
As we finish the crème brûlée, I become, again, acutely aware of our proximity. We are sitting on a bench seat with our backs to a wall. She is comfortably pressed against me, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. At times I put my arm behind her to lean forward. She has a laptop out and is marking shots she likes from earlier in the day. There are a lot she likes, and I am pleased.
Yes, I am like every other photographer who extends approval of their images to suggest approval of me. She sits against me, comfortably, like its where she wants to be.
She is petite, and she pushes against me ever so slightly as we sit together. I am ... not petite, and I must lean over to hear her clearly in the noisy café. It's a natural reason for me to put my arm on the seat behind her.
Then, when I sit up, I let my arm fall to her waist. I am like a teenager again, trying to get my arm around this amazing girl without having her pull away. But I am not a teen, and this amazing woman doesn't pull away. I am elated.
I don't want to move for fear that this moment will pass. The server returns to the table and offers to take our picture. As the camera is lined up, and we lean into each other even more, my hand falls from her back to her hip.
I want to make her smile - that smile that stole my heart just hours before. Again, the school boy runs the bases: I moved my hand, reaching for her. Her minidress is short and has ridden up on her deliciously. As my hand slides down, my palm conforms to the curve of her hip.
My hand is large, and my fingertips reach the elevated hem of her dress and the silk of her thigh. No reaction, at all, no protestation to halt my advance, so I do no halt. The feel of her thigh is exquisite and electric.
As my hand moves it comes in contact with more of her, until my entire hand rests directly on the bare skin of her leg. I let my hand rest there for the moment. She is cool, no sign of acknowledgement, or of protest. We converse lightly, and smile for the camera as if we are not conscious of what's happening under the table. But we are both very aware. The shot taken, the server gone, my hand begins to move.
My fingertips drag across her thigh, pulling the hem of her dress higher. I slide my hand down her leg again, and again, each time pulling the hem higher. Now as I pull, my hand moves to brush her inner thigh. She doesn't move as I lightly run my fingertips up and down the impossible smoothness of her inner thigh. I glance her other thigh, my fingertips now tracing slowly up both legs
My pulse is picking up, and my respiration increasing, but she is cool, neither encouraging nor protesting. She knows what I am doing under the table, and can easily guess my intentions. I make no pretense now. As I move my hand on the next stroke of her thighs, my fingertips press gently to make a space where there was none moments before. Slowly I slide my hand up, my fingertips tracing the her legs. This time I don't stop - I let my fingertips continue their light touch as two thighs become one body.
A reaction from her now, very slight, but I am waiting for it. My hand slides down again to make another pass, this time pressing slightly as I drag my fingertips up and across her freshly shaven skin. She reacts again: she takes an involuntary breath, and her head tilts back slightly as her lips part ever so slightly.
Again, my fingertips caress her thigh as my hand slides down. She feels my light touch as my fingertips linger for a moment. She quickly glances at me, the only sign of encouragement I'll get, and need. As I stroke her inner thigh again, she closes her eyes and lets out a nearly inaudible sound of acquiescence.
She is breathing now, heavily, and I can feel the change in her body. I become aware of a pronounced change in my body as well, but I keep my focus on the tips of my fingers gently stroking her inner thighs, high and higher on her leg. I feel her shifting now on the bench seat. She arches her back ever so slightly, turns her hips to her right just a bit, and leans back against me. My arm is long, long enough to easily reach what I want. As my hand slides up her inner right thigh, I pull it gently away from her left. It is pressure enough; she moves her leg easily.
I start at the knee now, and my fingertips now graze her inner thigh fully. She bends her back just a bit more, and I feel the weight of her left leg settle across my right. Her flexibility is remarkable, and enticing. I wonder just how flexible she is, and make a mental note to look into that further. My fingertips slow as they near her warmth, but now she presses her back against me, and rotates her hips to narrow the frustrating margin.
Her lips part slightly. I can see the glare of our table light as it reflects off her glossy red lips, and between them, the tip of her tongue. She presses her hips up and lets out a barely audible whimper as she feels my fingertips closer now. Her hands rest on the table. She wants to let them fly beneath the table, pulling my hand to meet her, but she knows not to move them. She relishes the delicious torture for the moment, letting the tension build, gifting me the pleasure of releasing it when I am ready.
As much as she aches for my touch to set her free, she knows I too am suffering in sweet anticipation, and she likes it. She breathes deeply through her open mouth, but now her lips show a hint of a smile, and her beautiful eyes now have a gleam in them. She wants, but it is not her way to say so. Not yet. She will wait me out, enduring the sweet anticipation as she knows I will not delay much longer. She is right. My hunger is growing quickly now, and my resolve is eroding.
My left hand comes down off the table now, brushes her left leg, then lands on her left rib cage. It does not linger long, but instead moves up to find her breast. I lift and gently squeeze, with my fingers finding her hard nipple. She lets out a sharp breath that turns into a quiet moan.
