"Honey?" I implore. Pete is still sitting next to me at the dinner table. His hand is firmly grasping my left thigh, well past the knee, but not in the "danger zone" yet. My husband has retired to a lounge chair a few metres away, hands folded in a superior triangle as he and Pete natter on about the company operations.
Pete's not oblivious to what he's doing, but I'm sure my husband Andre is. They've had a bottle of Bombay Sapphire each and are moving onto whisky. Andre ignores my imploration, and keeps chatting. Pete's hand creeps higher.
Why am I letting him do this? My conscience screams. It's not that Pete isn't attractive, or even that I don't want to, goodness, it is a little exciting, he's American and has all sorts of crazy stories I find sexy- its that I just know that if anything does happen, it will be me with the swollen eyes- from crying alone I hope- after Andre's steaming abuse, in the morning.
I can get up, clear the dishes- yes that's what I'll do. But I feel glued to the seat as Pete's hand creeps even higher to brush my crotch... only to discover I'm not wearing any panties. His fingers meet my sweet soft love hair and he breathes in sharply, halfway mid-sentence. At this, Andre snaps out of his zone. "Wifey?? What's going on there?"
I turn to Pete immediately, who throws both hands in the air, "Sorry buddy, ah just couldn't help but touch your wife's pretty legs..." Andre scowls and I get up, clearing the dishes, and stacking them in the dishwasher.
I don't want to know anymore. I hear Pete get up and move to the drinks cabinet. The sound of ice chinking and their chuckles helps me breathe again.
It is true that I do make myself especially hot when I know Andre's work buddies are coming over. And I know many of them do come over especially to have a hit of Pretty Woman about- just to look at, I mean. Some of these guys live here in the desert without their wives for six months at a time, I figure it's the least I can do to lean over in a little top, with my permanently stiff, sweet raspberry nipples almost in their mouth, crack them a beer, and even, if they are over fifty, sit on their knee with my tiny shorts on and teasingly call them grandpa- it might save them from the local prostitutes, maybe, I figure. Andre enjoys the show, depending on his mood; he likes to have a hot wife. Hell, I couldn't stand anyone of those grubby engineers' hands on me in real life! But I still do get in trouble from him when they leave, even if it is all innocence.
Pete's different. Pete's smooth. Has the same job as Andre. And very cagey, it seems. He's not content with a glimpse of my tit or smack to my bootie. I feel he wants to take, possess... and torment my husband with that knowledge. I better stay away.
When the dishwasher has run its course and I'm almost done packing away, Pete walks unsteadily into the kitchen. "Ah think yer husband needs a hand," he says. Though I'm pretty astute at the bar I work in, I can't tell if Pete's faking drunk or actually is. I dry my hands quickly on a dishcloth and head to the dining room.
