I've never really thought of myself as a cocktail. And I should probably question the whole objectifying nature of it, but I love the idea of Patrick drinking every drop of me too.
"Put down your drink." His voice shifts to another tone. A deeper one. More commanding.
I do.
"Show me."
"Already?"
"Yes."
I glance around the room. No one is watching. And his body is blocking me, for the most part.
I bring my hand to the neckline of my dress. Slowly, I pull the fabric aside, revealing my breast.
His eyes glue to my skin. "Perfect."
"Really? Not too small?"
"We talked about this."
"I know. It's just… the women who are presented as sexy are always—"
"Blondes with fake tits?"
"Yeah," I say.
"It's not the size." He cups my breast with his palm. Rolls his thumb over my nipple.
A groan falls from my lips.
"It's that. The way you react to me." He does it again, only softer, so softly I can barely feel it.
"Patrick—"
"Yeah, baby?" He does it again. Again.
"Please."
"Please…"
"I need to touch you."
"Is that part of it?" He runs his fingers over the over side of my dress, tracing the neckline up and down. "Do you want to touch me in public?"
"Yes."
"Fuck me in public?"
"One day."
"Now?"
"This."
"This," he agrees.
Patrick traces the neckline of my dress again and again. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.