Author note: If you are familiar with my previous submissions, you should know that I tend to leave a lot to the imagination in my stories. This one is no exception. Big thanks to GaiusPetronius for the edits, comments, and eagle eyes.
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"Redhead by the bar," I nudged Michael. He raised his eyes, found her, then winced. "Too sexy for me?"
He nodded, "Too sexy for you," then slowly sipped his soda.
"I thought so." She looked again in my direction. I froze, caught staring for the umpteenth time.
The first time I noticed her was earlier that night. I was sweeping the pub with my eyes when they landed straight on hers. She smiled, nodded discreetly, and turned away, leaving me confused and embarrassed, as if I had been the one snooping.
Try as I might, for the next half hour, I couldn't keep my eyes away from her. I'd force them to look in a different direction; then, the moment I let go of my conscious control, I would find myself doing the very thing I wanted to avoid. The harder I tried, the faster I failed, and she seemed to derive a weird pleasure from it.
Every time my eyes landed on hers, I found her looking at me too, with an amused smirk. She wasn't trying to hide it while I was struggling to be as subtle as possible. In our twisted game of stares, she had found a way to remove the element of surprise and operate with an obvious home-field advantage. And each one of her looks felt like a dare not to come back, a dare she knew I would lose sooner than later, and repeatedly.
But how could I possibly win? How could I forbid my eyes the pleasure of watching her? Everything, every single thing about her was tempting yet oddly innocent. She kept tilting her head cutely but at just the right angle to make her short red hair shimmer under the pub's few lights. And her bar stool had no back support so she alternated between leaning slightly forward or back, the first position making me feel like I owned the world because she would focus on me, the second accentuating her chest and superiority. She was also swaying her legs or hooking them back under the stool, all while showing a lot of tanned skin through her mid-thigh shorts, but not enough, not nearly enough to appease my hungry eyes.
Yet despite everything nonchalantly feminine about her, there was something boyish in her looks and demeanor that I couldn't pinpoint. It was that particular androgynous mix that took my breath away every time I looked at her.
I wanted to be the one she seduced and the one she succumbed to, the one she led and the one she followed, the one she pinned down and the one peering down at her. I wanted to possess the 100% woman in her and be swept off my feet by the 60% man.
"But then again, tonight is all about getting you out of your comfort zone." I felt something tugging at my wrist, pulling me up. Michael stood in front of me, encouraging. With my hand in tow, he started walking.
It was only then, when I looked at her and noticed the distance between us getting shorter, that I understood that he was guiding me toward her. Her smile quickly transformed into a grin, her eyes darted once to see Michael's hand pulling mine then returned to me bemusedly, and her fingers tapped excitedly on the scotch glass she was holding.
I would have frozen in place, were I given the chance, but Michael's pull was tight and determined. I lowered my eyes, willed the ground to crumble beneath my feet and swallow me whole, and prayed that there was another redhead at the bar whom he was taking me to.
Michael stopped and I almost bumped into him, mesmerized as I was by the toned and tanned calves that had now entered my field of vision.
Ah, calves! There is something unassumingly sexy about those back leg muscles that always tickles my imagination. The way they so visibly contract and relax, the sheer power they carry by holding and propelling an entire body forward while it walks, runs, or climbs stairs, and the forgotten delicacy of their form and tone.
While others would stare at asses, abs, thighs, or chests, I can get transfixed by the sight of a woman's bare or pantyhose-clad calves, imagining what it would feel like to caress them, stretch them, and slowly tickle every single erogenous zone on them, especially the folding juncture on the back of the knee.
"Haaaaaave you met Red?"
Despite all my embarrassment and cluelessness, Michael's pale attempt at being a wingman caught me off-guard. The difference between my expectations and struggles and his feeble attempt at humor was too absurd not to laugh at. I finally raised my head and eyebrows simultaneously, and asked him while giggling, "Seriously? That's the line you've settled on?"
"You know I've been on a How I Met Your Mother binge!" He shrugged at me. "Kidding aside, you have red hair," he pointed at her, "her name is Red," he pointed at me, "you two should totally hit it off."
I was about to smile at his unfailing logic when I heard a throaty laugh. I turned in her direction and felt the ground beneath me shake. She had thrown her head back and was chuckling heartily, her neck expanding and vibrating, her chest rising and falling, her teeth and lipstick glowing with the same intensity.
I gulped and willed my body to stay steady, forcing my knees to hold me up and my hands to remain by my side.
"Excellent," Michael grinned. "The ice has been broken and although I need some with my soda refill, I will go ask the bartender for it." He seemed too happy with his joke that he didn't wait for our reaction, laughed by himself, and walked away.
I glared at him, angry at his shenanigans, partly thankful for his prompt retreat, and mostly terrified to be left alone with her. He leaned at the bar a few feet away, gestured to her, me, his hair, and then encouraged us to talk before turning back to the bartender.
"Worst. Wingman. Ever." I finally said, bringing my eyes back to her.
"Oh no, he totally sold me on you," she smiled.
I tried not to let her husky tone impress me, erase my words, or steal my wits. "You have red hair, my name is Red. What better reason could there be for you to talk to me?" I chuckled and applauded myself internally for remaining cool and casual.
"Well, there's the fact that you are gorgeous," came the immediate reply, followed by a suggestive stare.
Cool and casual? Right. My breath caught in my chest and I felt my lips transform into an O. No sound came out.
"You must have noticed that I've been looking at you all night, and honestly, I was about to go talk to you. You just saved me the walk," she paused and pointed to Michael, "and the embarrassment of not having a wingman as awesome as yours."
"Really?" I could barely believe her admission.
"Oh yes. Us redheads, we never lie," she winked then leaned forward a bit, focused her eyes on mine, and shifted to a more serious tone and expression. "Except about our hair. I'll let you in on a secret, it's almost never naturally red," she continued then leaned further, this time brushing her chest against my arm, stopping her head next to mine, with an uncanny mix of solemnity and playfulness in her eyes. I stood motionless, glancing at her hair and cheek, and heard her whisper in my right ear, "and I have a very small dark patch of hair that would attest to that."
My breath caught again in my throat, the air finding it impossible to pass through the dryness of my mouth and lungs. My mind wandered to the vision she had created, one of her small patch of dark hair and all the things I would give up for the privilege of seeing it, touching it, smelling it, and tasting it.
I finally let out a loud sigh, which suddenly made her realize what she had just said. She straightened quickly, widened her eyes, and slapped her palms over her mouth, equally embarrassed and bemused. I couldn't but laugh.
"Too much information for the first minutes of a chat with a stranger?" She asked, after letting her hands fall.
