Even while we still sit in the bar tonight, when we have only just started on our second drinks, I am almost painfully aware of every detail. Each slow blink, each time you wet your lips, the slightest movement of the muscles in your forearms. I think I can feel the static sparking back and forth between us, and occasionally need to breathe deeply to steady my heartbeat. I've abandoned my usual strict self-monitoring, because I can feel your eyes like fingertips along the deep vee of my shirt, over the curve of one pale breast, and then the other. I love it. I shift around every now and then, drawing your eyes back to the shadow between my breasts when I think you've looked elsewhere too long. I'm sure the images flashing in my mind are just as frequent a distraction for you, yet we both continue to smile, and chat pleasantly. We both continue to act as if the erotic current flowing across the hi-top isn't affecting either of us.
When you order the third round, you raise your right arm to get the waitress' attention. I can see the sinew curving from your bicep to your wrist, and your shirt collar slips aside to show your pulse at the base of your throat. Inhaling sharply through my nose (which only compounds the issue when my lungs fill with your cologne, and your skin, and something else that belongs entirely to you), I excuse myself for a moment.
I lock the bathroom door and lean back against it, trying to catch my breath. I turn my head the the left, examining my reflection in the tarnished mirror above the sink. I am flushed, pupils dilated, lips red and swollen from biting them lightly to keep myself focused -- and to call attention to my mouth. I want to keep you thinking about my mouth.
I can see the lace edge of my bra where the neckline of my shirt has slipped, and I lift one hand -- intending to fix it. Instead, I stroke my fingers lightly over the top of my breast. Then lower, dipping under the edge of the lace, trailing almost tenderly across each. Impulsively, I tug both shirt and bra aside, exposing my left breast fully in the mirror, and I cannot help but tweak my firming nipple. The sensation is sudden and almost unbelievable, and I slide my other hand into the waistband of my pants, into my underwear, where I press my clit firmly between my first and second fingers.
I am already wetter than I thought possible. Staring into the mirror, into my own eyes, mouth open and breathing rapidly, I begin to stroke the slickness between my thighs. I squeeze my nipple gently, regularly in time with pressing my clit. I thought I could hold out tonight; but, here I am, fingering myself in the bathroom at the bar. The pressure builds, and I throw my head back against the door, my eyes fluttering closed. Small, animal mewling sounds are coming from my throat, and I can't be bothered to quiet them.
Someone knocks on the door, startling me away from it and my hands away from their wonderful activity. "Just a minute," I call, and wash my hands and straighten my clothes. My walk back to the table is in a daze, since I'm consumed with how I'm supposed to control myself at this point.
I do, though, and we spend two more drinks dancing with one another in our minds. The lights go up, and you smile at me, telling me to come on outside when I'm ready, that you'll take care of getting the cab. I gather my things as slowly as I can without looking strange, preparing for the close contact the backseat of the taxi. It doesn't do much good; nothing prepares me for the close contact I can have with you.
The fifteen minute cab ride is a test of willpower. Mere inches between us on the seat let me feel the warmth of your thigh through your jeans, and you drape an arm lightly over my shoulder. I lean over against you, hyper-aware of your hand against my collarbone. I slide my cheek along your shoulder, inhaling your smell, watching your pulse speed up to a frantic pace. I press open lips to the vein, flicking the tip of my tongue lightly along it. Your response is immediate and gratifying. Sucking air through your teeth, you tighten the hand resting on your leg convulsively, and the hand on my shoulder slides deftly lower to cup my breast. Lightly, rhythmically, you stroke my nipple through my clothes with your thumb. I lick and nip the skin of your neck, and watch with a smile as the front of your jeans rises and tightens. I slip my hand under the edge of your shirt and start to slide your belt free from its buckle.
The cab driver clears his throat loudly, indignant, and all hands in the backseat settle back into proper places. It's only a few more minutes, but I haven't done myself any favors by buckling to every impulse all night. I all but vanish from the taxi as it pulls up to the door; I'd rather not look the driver in the eye and I'm sure I look at least half-crazed. It takes hours, days, for you to get to the door behind me and unlock it. The living room is dark, lit only by the glow of the streetlight through the blinds.
